Brew Burn Repeat

This poem is written by Shubham Thakare (BA LLB 2028), and the Illustration has been made by Tvisha Vasudevan (BA LLB 2027).

It always begins with something simple, just a cup of coffee, black and bitter.

Steaming in the dim glow of a flickering desk lamp, fuelling the hands that scribble,

The eyes that refuse to close,

And the mind that races against the merciless ticking of the deadline’s clock.

A sip, a page, a shot, a line--

The caffeine hums in veins like a second heartbeat,

Fingers tremble over keyboards, chasing thoughts before they slip away,

Pens scratch in haste, ink bleeding into paper as if urgency alone could buy more time,

And as the words flow, so does the need for more.

By the fifth cup, the world outside is nothing but a blur of forgotten lectures and half-heard conversations.

Drowned out by the static inside a skull that no longer belongs to sleep,

But to the ever-mounting weight of unfinished work and time that sprints ahead, uncaring.

And so, what’s another night of chasing sunrise through bleary eyes?

What’s another cigarette, another borrowed lighter flickering in the cold?

Just one break, just one breath, just one moment stolen from the night--

Because who can afford to stop, when the work keeps piling, and the clock never waits.

The nights stretch into weeks, the weeks dissolve into years,

The body is dragged by the mind, a husk unable to bear its own weight.

The hostel walls bear witness to the ritual of smoke-stained fingers,

And lungs clothed in layers of tar and sleepless hues.

Yet no one pauses. No one dares. No one risks being left behind.

Then comes the whisper of something stronger, something that promises stillness in the storm--

"Just one dose," it murmurs, slipping between trembling fingers like an unspoken pact.

The body shudders, the world steadies, and time itself seems to hold its breath.

The campus director knows your name now, the admin emails slip into your inbox quicker than sleep,

Yet no one asks, because here, it’s just another late submission, another warning, another quiet nod in the corridor,

Footsteps fade into empty hallways, with a silence so heavy it swallows every unspoken word.

Leaving only the echo of something lost before it could be found

And when one of us finally buckles under the weight that has been pressing down for far too long,

When the strain becomes unbearable, when someone falters, when someone fades into absence,

We exchange weary glances, we murmur quiet condolences, we offer solemn nods of understanding--

"The pressure kills," we say, as if it were an immutable truth.

Drawing in the smoke, swallowing the bitterness, numbing the ache,

Brewing, burning, repeating, until we fade like the rest.