ABOUT THE POEM: “Verdict” is Ronie Dinosaur’s final, merciless judgment on the illusion of self-transformation, written December 2025. After four cycles of addiction, rehab, and resurrection, Ronie has stripped away every comforting lie. He declares that a person’s core—heart, desire, character—is not built, fixed, or upgraded. It is born. Revealed, never created. The poem dismantably dismantles the modern fantasy that money, therapy, protein shakes, spiritual babas, or sheer willpower can turn a “whore into Sati,” a weak man into Shiva, a mouse into a keyboard. They cannot. The rich still have flabby arms, the aunties still gossip, the keyboard stays a keyboard. He speaks directly to the woman who demands a “true man” while offering nothing real in return: settle for the male whore who matches your coin, because you were never capable of more. Stop haunting ghosts. This is not anger anymore. It is the calm of a judge who has seen every appeal, every excuse, every last-ditch gym selfie, and still pronounces the same eternal sentence: You are what you were born. The mask only falls. It never changes what’s underneath. Case closed. Ronie Dinosaur has left the courtroom.You reach what’s truly inside a heart
by his desire-
its heat, its honesty.
You weigh the desire
by the purity of its intent.
You test the intent
by the action finally taken.
And don’t worry-
no one hides forever.
Sooner or later
the toast slips,
the wine spills,
the mask cracks,
and the heart speaks out loud.
To become the mirror and the witness.
The whore keeps hunting a true man.
I say: go settle for a Randa-
a customer who’s a real whore
who matches your coin.
You’re not even a normal woman,
maybe never were.
All that pressure you heap on him, on yourself-
it’s not worth the weight.
One day rise,
become simply human,
then look for a man who is also human.
Because you are female,
and everyone here is real-
no one is loose, no one is spare.
A gentleman? Too soft, too ripe;
it feels like heaven to bleed him dry.
But Randa doesn’t flinch.
So she stays loyal
to the ghost of a true man
who never arrives.
She lives inside an old photograph of herself-
a woman who was,
but isn’t anymore.
Her naïve self still believes
character is a Google Maps route:
turn left here, right there.
No.
Character is born, not downloaded.
It rises from the Mann-
the molten alloy of heart and mind-
then proves itself
in the single direction
the action finally takes.
Ramu kaka never became Shiva
by thinking himself into godhood.
Shiva was Shiva all along-
the world just finally noticed.
A whore cannot become Sati-Savitri,
never was, never will be.
She was born a whore.
My mouse will never turn keyboard,
no matter the struggle-
and the keyboard won’t shrink to a mouse.
It is what it is.
That is the verdict.
Because if transformation were possible,
these people with money, Baba Bengali, and technology
would have done it already.
Just like aunties and bhabhis of the community
would have grown biceps the size of melons
just by taking protein powder.
