On the beautiful veil of our Bharat Mata,
Now stained in red—
Children lost their parents,
Wives lost their husbands,
Mothers lost their children.
And...

Demons showed their devilness.
At gunpoint, they asked about their faith,
But they forgot...

For every martyr,
A billion voices rise,
A billion revenges awake—
Not just in anger,
But in unbreakable spirit they can’t shake.

Jai Hind!
We'll rise, we’ll roar, we’ll tear them apart—
With unity in hand and fire in heart.

One day,
we’ll taste our favorite meal—
not knowing it's the last.

One day,
we’ll speak a word—
and never speak again.

One day,
we’ll laugh with friends—
unaware it’s the final time.

One day,
we’ll take a breath—
and not exhale.

Chairs were made in many forms,
for different hands, for different norms.
But one was placed for all to try,
too high, too low, too stiff, too dry.

It scratched their skin, it bruised their pride,
yet still they sat, and tried to hide.
Until it broke, with quiet despair,
not them, my friend but the unfit chair.

In the era of demons, who loves God?
In the era of lies, who follows truth?
In the era of body counts, who loves the soul?
In the era of Kaliyuga, who is human?

In the era of pretenders, who is trustful?
In the era of rapes, who is respectful?
In the era of killings, who makes sacrifices?
In the era of Kaliyuga, who follows dharma?