ABOUT THE POEM: A raw, unapologetic Hindi-English rant-poem born in the neon gutters of Delhi’s late-night WhatsApp forwards and Instagram Reels poetry circles, “Bhaang Bhosda” is weaponised street nihilism disguised as verse. “Bhaang” – the cannabis-laced drink gulped down on Holi, symbol of divine intoxication, spiritual high, and sanctioned madness – is slammed against “Bhosda,” the crudest North Indian slang for female genitalia, a word spat as ultimate insult or reclaimed as battle-cry. Together they form a deliberate blasphemy: sacred altered state meets profane flesh-trade reality. The poem drags Lord Shiva – the original bhaang-drinking ascetic who contains galaxies in his throat – into the same frame as the roadside sex worker who survives by swallowing men instead of enlightenment. It screams that in today’s India, spiritual grandeur and self-help platitudes (“know thyself,” “big heart,” “vast mind”) are worthless currency next to the immediate, brutal exchange of body for cash. Ronie Dinosaur is everyman: the lonely guy who thought merit and “good heart” would buy love, only to end up another anonymous customer. The whore, meanwhile, eats well and laughs last, dignity be damned. Written in the voice of a broken man high on cheap bhaang and cheaper truth, the piece is equal parts despair, misogyny, self-loathing, and dark laughter – a middle-finger to both sanctimonious gurus and moralising society. It’s the sound of 3 a.m. existential rage after the brothel lights dim and the temple bells feel like mockery.Hey lady,
it’s not the size of the heart
nor the reach of the mind-
people clock the curve of your ass
and the snap of skin before anything deeper.
So what did Ronie Dinosaur ever win?
A cold life, no love,
hunting warmth he thought he’d earned,
then watching it vanish
the instant he slid cash across the table.
Even Shiva, awake to the last atom of himself,
discovers perfect knowing
won’t buy a cigarette,
while the whore eats well,
never once needing to spell “dignity.”
This flesh, this body-
what’s left to do with it?
Stick it in a pot of dirt
and beg it to photosynthesize.
The addict craves more,
can’t swallow the bottle,
but the whore swallows the man.
And down that road
she reads every mile marker
exactly the way they claim a cheap woman does-
exactly the way her heart always knew
what she was doing,
and what she wasn’t.
