ABOUT THE POEM: “Randi Culture” is a savage, sweeping critique of modern society, positing that a transactional and exploitative culture—dubbed "Randi Culture"—has replaced genuine human values. Driven by feelings of profound rejection and injustice, the narrator pours out his godless solitude, contrasting the perceived hypocrisy of the world's "nice people" with his own unrewarded character. The poem ultimately internalizes the blame, concluding that his empty pockets and lack of material power are the true source of his isolation and unending bad luck.A horse was teased by an eagle for running.
A bird was blamed for flying too high,
while the fish swims, eats plenty, and rules the water like a queen.
You cannot do a thing; you are useless.
But it is what it is.
You either face your demons,
or they raise your children.
Not agriculture or horticulture-
today, gentlemen, randi culture.
The bitches get love, attention, time, dick, food, ecstasy, money-everything-
and still demand more, as if character has a substitute.
In randi culture, such a woman is a Sati-Savitri and you are Sudama.
Aisi Sati ki jai ho!!!
I’ve only known bitches and whores-
what do I even know of a woman?
My mother was greedy,
my sister a lusty cow.
There’s a reaction to every action.
After all this insult,
is anything left of me?
Girls can at least bitch and play the bastard;
I can’t ignore the bad luck
or object to circumstances.
No one to complain to.
And I fear-my dog, how I fear-that if this streak of bad luck ends,
what remains of me?
My whole base would crumble.
Only a heart of the highest caliber feels this.
These formulas must be true-
no one could imagine them otherwise.
Not the work of an exceptional mathematician,
but of truth, pain, and injustice.
Truth isn’t what people see or what books claim.
There’s no my truth or your truth.
Your experiences aren’t mine.
If it doesn’t rain in the Sahara,
doesn’t that show the gods are biased?
Not misogyny-truth.
Keep your gods, lick them,
offer them your ass.
When a heart cries, it craves an audience,
not the rituals of high society
where woman is god
and hands out sweet little things.
I don’t care about you or your woman.
Keep them on your god’s head.
If no one knows what’s in my heart,
how do I calm these wasted years?
Your mother, your horny sister, your private whore,
your bhabhi, mistress, chachi, shameless cousin,
that nice aurat from the next street-
all good women, so you’re nice people too.
But that grace isn’t happening in my life.
I’m not demanding grace or justice.
Time has passed; outside that, everything is meaningless.
But I’m alive. What do I do with this?
And they blamed me
and sentenced me to death
for my own murder.
As for the equal and opposite reaction-
it’s still coming.
If I’m always wrong,
then I’m god in my wrongness.
A crying baby isn’t rejecting the milk revolution
or that women aren’t dancing naked in the streets-though they are.
He’s just hungry: where is his mommy?
I would have stayed calm with even “Khushi” or “Muskan,”
but I don’t have money for that.
I am a gareeb aadmi.
No pet, no wife, no kids, no mother, no sister, no friend.
No girlfriend, no mistress, no girl at all.
Godless, fatherless, brand ambassador of bad luck-
Ronie Dinosaur talks to the wall.
Why was I sent here?
I never signed up.
They’re playing God with my life,
singing their own praises
and bowing to themselves.
Later they’ll ask
if I’ll go to rehab again.
What rotten luck.
People never beg a sex worker;
they offer themselves at traffic lights.
But I poured my soul into asking-
on her terms, her whim-
and she said NO.
Another one, back then,
would sit on my lap, tease, tangle,
but never be my girlfriend.
And a friend
who didn’t know when to stop-
a delight, too naïve to fight.
It’s not the job that makes a whore-
it’s the character.
Even desire is part of the treatment,
a detox from illusion.
Lust is the most powerful emotion.
Love is for kids.
And money buys you lust,
whether you are a man or a woman.
The world is not like this, nor is it like that.
I am the only one at fault and filthy.
I didn’t get anything,
and because my pockets are empty.
I know this, and you are right.
The use of offensive and misogynistic language is deliberate. It is not an endorsement of these views but a literary device to convey the depth of the speaker’s bitterness and brokenness. It is the language of someone who feels so wounded that he must lash out in the most hurtful way he knows.The writer will keep venting like this until he keeps meeting women like this. And he will only find such, if any, because he has bad luck.