ABOUT THE POEM: Set in the neon-drenched underbelly of a sprawling Indian metropolis like Mumbai or Delhi, this monologue takes place in a claustrophobic hotel room. The speaker, a man consumed by existential exhaustion, addresses a woman performing a role—feigning either innocence or intimacy for money. He brutally dismantles the charade, rejecting her affection as a lie. The piece contrasts the sacred symbols of marriage with the profane reality of their exchange, exposing the deep, hollow despair beneath his aggression.Your pussy’s still factory-sealed, virgin.
That tight little asshole has never known traffic-
nothing out, nothing in.
So don’t call me babu, don’t call me yaar.
You’re no whore, and I’m no roadside dhaba, no cheap bar.
Drop the act for cash;
rupees can’t leash a single breath.
My sky is gutted of stars-
just cold, hollow, arctic dark
where desire curdles into guilt
and truth grinds the self to dust.
Don’t lie to my face, doll.
Whoever has somewhere to go
doesn’t wait for signals.
They’re already gone.
Just like bindi and sindoor-
crowns of crimson on the brow
while the real defloration
bleeds silent below the belt.
Your smile is stitched together
with someone else’s thread,
and your innocence a costume rented by the hour.
