Whenever the Chasmey Poet posted his creations on Facebook, speculation brewed in Deshbhumi. The general public would applaud how the poet had stabbed the leaders with his sharp and witty words. Leaders and their loyalists would scrunch their noses in utter disgust. For a day or two, the poem overtook the political gossip in teashops and chautaris.

“He has always been vocal when it comes to pointing out the ills.”

“He is born to write.”

“If he corrects his ways and writes in a milder tone, the state will recognise his talent. Might even get the title of ‘Thulo Kabi’ someday.”

Among these commentators, some frustrated men would astound the circle with their eccentric logic.

“Imagine such a young man in politics. He knows where the problem lies. Wouldn’t it be amazing to have him as our PM?”

Soon, people around would take their time to imagine Chasmey Poet sitting in the PM’s chair, sober, restless, and dedicated to serving Deshbhumi’s citizenry.

On the top floor of his house, in his crammed room, Chasmey Poet sat on the bed and readied himself for another striking poem. From the window of his room, Kathland—the capital of Deshbhumi—looked hazy, its hustle and bustle getting to the poet, who quietly chronicled it and its operators.

As he got up from the bed to look for an ashtray, he checked himself in the mirror and, smiling, took off his dark shades. Had he slept with his shades on? Over the years, the dark glasses had become his signature style, and without even realising it, he wore them everywhere.

He liked that young people in Kathland had started buying shades to imitate his style. What was once a trick to shield his bloodshot eyes, he recalled, had become an iconic style among Deshbhumi’s youth.

Now, as he gained popularity, he was less worried about his parents finding out about his smoking habit. What did it matter as long as he could compose poems that rattled the powerful chairs in Deshbhumi? The more the Sarkar missed the mark, the more the Chasmey Poet gained—fame, name, and money. It was as if all the Chasmey Poet did was wait for the Sarkar to falter.

After snuffing out the cigarette, he sat at his desk, where papers were strewn about. A minute or two passed in fruitless imagination. In the last few days, he hadn’t paid much attention to political matters. After posting on his Facebook wall a few days ago, he hadn’t opened the apps, not even once.

Now, as he struggled with words, he realised that he should stop binge-watching web series and focus more on Facebook—where political updates were frequent, and leaders made important announcements. And what about his all-knowing friends? Why hadn’t they come to his house or invited him over for a quick tea chat? He should plan a meeting at Chiya Ghar, where his friends often congregated, with politics always at the center of attention.

As he impatiently waited for the evening, he smoked more and scrolled through his old posts—blatant accusations of the Sarkar’s wrongdoings. His latest post—a sharp poem accusing the Sarkar of turning a deaf ear to the farmers’ plight—had garnered thousands of likes, with some of his die-hard fans even commenting, “Gajendra aau, desh bachau.”

Accustomed to hearing “Chasmey Poet,” he felt like a different person when people called him Gajendra. The Sarkar—as ruthless as it could get—had repeatedly delayed the payment to sugarcane farmers from the southern plains. As if reciting the old poem would inspire a new one, the poet read out the last lines:

“They have given loads of sugar,
And in exchange,
The Sarkar is robbing them of the salt.”

In the evening, at Chiya Ghar, the poet and his friends occupied a table in a far corner, where no one could overhear them. If someone caught a whiff of their conversation, it could be bad for their reputation, especially the poet’s.

Not only the poet but his friends—both of them—were also leveraging the internet to a great extent. In the country full of bumpkins, earning dollars through the internet was nothing short of pure brilliance.

“Have you gone through the comments on your last post?” Mr Gaudel asked and looked at Gajendra, who was already lighting a cigarette.

“Yeah, yeah, I did this morning. All that useless stuff about how I should lead Deshbhumi,” he coughed, unable to contain his laughter.

“People are so frustrated, I can see that,” Kunwar—the owner of a low-key meme page—said in a low voice.

“They keep making mistakes. Look at the count on my Facebook wall. And look at their pleas. People think I should replace them,” said the poet and snickered like it was the best joke of the evening.

“But I think we are underestimating ourselves, guys. I’m not talking about myself. I am also unsure about Gaudel, but Gajendra has a real chance in politics.” Kunwar was serious, his eyes darting between his friends.

Gajendra could dismiss this. It was not the first time Kunwar was trying to lure his poet friend into politics. What did he actually see in Gajendra? What did he know besides composing poems?

“Why don’t you join a party and start on your own, Kunwar?” the poet asked his friend, who, cupping his chin, said, “Because I’m not as popular as you are.”

“Hello, waiter? Get us three bottles of beer with three glasses,” Gaudel ordered, finding it important to keep the momentum going. There was no objection from the other end.

“If you look at the pattern in politics, it’s actually the opposite in our case. First the post, then popularity,” Kunwar looked at Gaudel and asked, “Isn’t it right?”

Gaudel nodded, adding, “The main thing is popularity, and people already like how you go against the Sarkar every time.”

“And what about us? You think we can’t influence people? People wait for my page’s posts to make sense of what’s happening every day,” Gaudel said, gauging the poet, who already looked submissive and deep in thought.

“Make me your secretary and watch how I supply you with the knowledge,” Kunwar winked, raising his glass for the toast.

“You guys are seriously pushing me into trouble,” the poet laughed, but solemnly, as if the anticipation already weighed on him.

The three of them enjoyed the beer in the cool evening as people flocked in and out of the restaurant. Although curtains were drawn from every side, they could hear the murmurs in the distance. As the three kept themselves busy with their talks, the murmurs in the distance grew into castigations.

Kunwar gathered it quickly and explained it to his friends. “See, this is about the minister’s statement. Today, one of the ministers in the cabinet called Deshbhumi’s youths useless and phone-addicted.”

Gaudel was aware of this, but the poet had no clue.

“The minister was even suggesting putting some sort of restriction on social media. Totally absurd,” Gaudel remarked.

Within a second, Kunwar exploded. “The youths on social media have announced that they are staging nationwide protests against the Sarkar. You know what? This is the right time for us.”

Drunk and furious, the poet thought of the minister and struggled to find the right words to start the poem. Kunwar—who was eyeing the poet all the while—was puzzled because the poet looked lost.

“Gajendra, I need your phone right now,” it was Kunwar.

“What for?”

“Okay, okay, I don’t need it. But write yourself.”

Now, the poet understood what Kunwar was implying, and for a split second, in his drunken state, he felt like calling him by this name: “The Mastermind Kunwar.”

“It’s hard to think of a poem now, especially in this drunken state,” Gajendra said, baffled as his friends watched him expectantly.

“Ah, see! We can’t wait for your brain to click with the poem,” Kunwar heaved a sigh.

“Just put up a status directly, or let me do it for you,” Gaudel was equally irritated now.

The urgency perplexed the poet. These friends, he thought, knew better about the internet, and perhaps even politics.

“Here, do whatever the hell you want,” Chasmey Poet pushed his phone towards Kunwar. The poet was on his seventh glass of beer.

It took only two minutes for Kunwar to think of and write the post on the poet’s wall. It read:

“We are governed by goons who think our youth are useless. I fully support your protest against the Sarkar. Go and teach them a lesson.”

That was it. People went berserk on Facebook, sharing the post, commenting on it, and cursing fiercely at the Sarkar. Everyone began to chant Gajendra’s name as he busied himself with more drinking.

But Mastermind Kunwar knew the intensity of the status and what it could do in Deshbhumi tomorrow. At worst, he knew, the Sarkar would buckle under the pressure of the protesting youths. Others had no clue, not even Gajendra. But Kunwar knew that this was only the beginning, and his orchestration would have to grow bolder as politics evolved in Deshbhumi.