Dark was the sky and cold was the night,
the bustle of Aizawl, now reduced to null.
There in the darkness at its deepest height,
screams out a man, breaking the silent lull.
Sanga was just 18, a bright lad from yore,
Smart and educated, an aspiring gold-mine.
His pa was an officer, his ma a pedagogue,
Together they nurtured him, nice and fine.
Today he’s a destitute, high on dope,
Struggling for a fix, on anything that he finds.
Ma and pa were anguished, they lost all hope,
They blamed themselves, guilt filled their minds.
How could this happen? What did they miss?
He felt so normal, just like any other kid.
And then they saw it, the pattern and gist.
One friend was in jail, the other had OD’d.
They never imagined, he could be influenced,
Oh how wrong you are, the parents of Mizoram.
Things are different now, things have changed,
There’s no more zawlbuk, there’s no more farm.
The youth of today, wallow in empty hunger,
He’ll do anything his friends do, be it fag or beer.
Moving from there, to other substances stronger,
A hunger for acceptance – such is peer pressure.
Tluangi was only 17 - fair, attractive and tender,
She was a popular girl, in her esteemed school.
Her folks are divorced; she lives with her mother,
All the girls envied her, and all the guys drooled.
But everything changed, the day her picture appeared,
On the local newspaper, for everyone to see.
She was caught one sultry night, all oiled up and geared,
Ready to sell her body, at the back of a taxi.
The mob called her whore, all her respect were gone,
They wanted to burn her, their hatred enhanced.
Who would have thought, she only did it for a phone?
For she didn’t want to be, a girl with no balance.
Such is the peer pressure, our youth of today face,
Being an outcast from a group, is not an option.
They will do anything, to remain in this twisted race,
Be it drugs or theft, even murder or prostitution.