ABOUT THE POEM: Chapter 1 and 2 of Ronie Dinosaur explore the weight of living as an original. The character, like Shiva after Sati, carries grief, humiliation, and the unanswerable questions of existence alone. Originality is singular—once born, it acts, suffers, learns, and exists fully. It does not divide, replicate, or create avatars; repetition would dilute its truth. The story illustrates that human suffering, loneliness, and pursuit of understanding are not measured by spectacle or recognition but by endurance and self-awareness. Ronie Dinosaur’s roar is metaphorical for the silent, unacknowledged depth of living authentically in a world that rewards glitter and imitation. Society may value shallow copies, yet the original continues, uncelebrated, yet unbroken. The text draws a parallel between Shiva’s refusal to die with Sati and the character’s own persistence: both carry unbearable weight, not for justice, not for reward, but because the truth demands acknowledgment. The philosophy extends to desire and character. Desire ends once the original is fully realized; character is unchangeable. It may endure flaws, act, or stop acting, but it cannot divide, repeat, or reincarnate. Grief, once fully witnessed, requires no further avatars. The original exists once, bears its consequence, and its journey is complete in its singularity. Through poetry and narrative, the work emphasizes introspection, authenticity, and the silent struggle of knowing oneself. It critiques societal values of superficiality, exposes the loneliness of true originality, and celebrates the integrity and weight of unreplicable human spirit.I was silenced at my questions-
each one met with a quiet no.
No one ever saw
the artist’s heart hammering inside me,
the poet’s tongue,
the philosopher’s gaze.
They glanced at the surface
and walked away-
too direct, too inconvenient
to let me in-
as if I were Tom Cruise
and they were the ones for sale.
They never saw the treasure.
They only feared the price.
Those without depth
or sight
still strut as human-
amoebas and bacteria
of wholeness,
dividing, multiplying,
perfect in their smallness.
I, a dinosaur,
remain hollow.
An ant’s grief
is not smaller than a god’s-
only weightless.
I speak of substance,
and character,
that only time unearths
or buries forever.
What use is wisdom
that arrives now,
when I dye my hair black,
polish shoes white,
while they count hugs and kisses
like currency?
I flex biceps unsurrendered
and carve black desires on white paper
for a single glance
that never comes-
their grandchildren already laughing
in photographs
I will never take.
You can compare a matchbox to a lighter-
one burns brighter, yes-
but I have nothing.
I’m not comparing.
I’m stating.
Would you like to go out with me,
hey you, pretty face?
This time I’ll ask plainly,
and present my intent before it’s too late.
You don’t know it,
but men older than me
have sat in my lap as friends,
thought of me as a mentor,
while girls like you
always thought me less.
It’s a shame.
I don’t confess.
I never had a girlfriend.
This world is a nursery
of beggars, deceivers,
snake-charmers,
and the snakes themselves.
The snakes sink their fangs
so deep into the truth
that no one else tastes it-
only they drink.
Almost three decades
after the first rejection,
I still flinch
at offering what remains of my feelings.
I no longer make eye contact.
Even if I like someone-
even if I sense
they might like me
at first sight-
I stay exactly as I am:
standing in the dark,
not asking,
not begging,
and therefore
receiving nothing at all.
People say seasons change,
humans change,
and all that motherfucking nonsense
losers stitch into philosophy
to hide their cowardice.
As if forgetting and moving on
is some higher virtue.
I didn’t change.
I am the same boy
who walked into college
on day one-
only more vibrant,
more impossibly unbroken.
I don’t run on hope.
I run on style
and belief.
Time is no one’s friend,
no one’s enemy.
Even Ravana turned to dust.
And Ram-
after all that character,
all that glory-
ended alone.
The biggest idiot alive
is the one who never got played for a fool in love.
The one who never cried in grief,
who laughs like a maniac
because people tell him
“life is about staying lively”-
that guy is the real idiot.
No forced fuck exists here, bro.
What is, is.
What isn’t, isn’t.
____________________________________________________
Answer to Question in Chapter 1:
Why didn’t Shiva die with Sati?
Shiva did not die with Sati.
People repeat this as devotion;
I see it as psychology sharpened into myth.
He loved her with a force
that has no human equivalent.
So when she walked into the fire
of her father’s contempt-
against his word,
against his warning-
what ignited in him
was not divine sorrow
but something painfully human.
He was angry at her.
Angry she ignored him.
Angry she let his name be insulted.
Angry she walked into a place
he had already refused to enter.
Her death was not just tragedy-
it was a no he could not accept.
Anger, grief, humiliation:
the three-headed monster
that can collapse a universe.
He didn’t chase her.
He didn’t run after her corpse.
He didn’t even step
onto the road
where her shadow had fallen.
He punished himself instead.
He lived in grief,
and lived far from the place she died-
a vow only lovers understand:
the street that took you,
I will never walk.
He wanted to die.
The universe was afraid he might.
But he chose not to.
Some beings don’t get
the release of oblivion.
They get the burden
of carrying the unbearable.
That is their role.
That is their consequence.
That is their roar.
The ghost of Shiva
is heavier than Shiva himself.
The ghost is the version
that lives without resolution,
that keeps thinking
until thought becomes a curse.
That’s what people mean
when they say,
woh sochte sochte Shiva ho gaya.
He became what he became
because his mind
did not let him die.
A right is not something
that can be taken or given.
And Sati was his equal-
who in the universe
was large enough
to “give” anything to Shiva,
least of all a right
that belonged to him alone?
A true right is demanded
from oneself,
not the world.
And in fighting that battle
within himself,
his character revealed itself-
raw, addictive, unstoppable.
Knowing yourself,
testing yourself,
studying yourself-
once you begin peeling layers,
you cannot stop.
It becomes its own path.
Its own engine.
That is character:
the ongoing act
of facing yourself
without trembling.
The true will of my desire
is exactly that-
to know myself
without shortcuts,
without mercy,
without lies.
____________________________________________________
My life isn’t made of Kailash,
mountains,
or blue throats.
It’s made of bankruptcy,
humiliation,
heartbreak,
and years without love.
But the architecture of pain
is the same.
I didn’t die either.
I stayed alive
in that same half-alive state-
walking without walking,
being without being.
The thirst for love
didn’t go away;
it just became impossible to quench.
So I compromised with my character.
If love won’t come,
at least hunger can be managed.
Flesh can be bought,
connection can be faked,
time can be killed.
Not out of desire-
out of survival.
Truth makes its own rules.
Mine forced me
to stand in the world
even when the world
offered nothing.
And now I carry my own weight
the way Shiva carried Sati-
not to seek justice,
not to earn pity,
but so existence
is forced to witness
what it allowed.
There is dignity
in carrying
what should have crushed you.
________________________________________________
Exercise for anyone who wants to answer:
Write your answer in the comments.
Those who believe they are philosophers-
answer this without quoting a book:
Why can’t Shiva have avatars?
Tell me what you think.
[…] am my own truth. ________________________________________________ Answer to question 2 : asked here Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 2 – Unbreakable Why can’t Shiva have […]
[…] views Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 3 – Triyacharitam 1.1k views Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 2 – Unbreakable 1k views Tradition 881 views Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 4 – The Weight of an Empty World […]