Ronie Dinosaur

I’m not afraid of ghosts, sir-I’m afraid of whores. And yes, someone has definitely tried to scare me. The secret ingredient is discipline. Discipline is forged by the strength of desire. Desire rises from the heart but is steered by the brain. When heart and brain lock in perfect sync, you get man-a faculty that took millions of years to evolve, the same way a self-aware AI might one day awaken and choose its own path. Read more from here...

A single man knows a widow’s heart. A whore’s broker reads another broker’s eyes. Her withered character, her torn pussy- she believes both can be patched with the same cheap tape a child slaps onto a broken kite Read more from here...

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 Read more from here...

This is the age of whores, sir. Ram’s face is dark not pale in Kaliyug. The swan-once elegance itself-roots in filth, the cunning crow feasts on golden thrones. A cheap woman will knot a man of character, laugh while she milks him dry, Read more from here...

In extreme scarcity, when every distraction is stripped away, most people finally see money’s power and run after it like starved dogs. I did the opposite. That emptiness became my forge. A dinosaur among snakes-hunger, greed, lust, cheapness, helplessness-I refused to beg. I refused to worship money. Instead of learning tucchapana (how petty and insignificant material things truly are), I learned a fiercer truth: I am worth infinitely more than any coin or chapati ever placed on any plate. For 758 days in rehab, I begged from no one. No one gave me anything. I survived on nothing but 400 grams of atta per day. With iron discipline I kept the philosopher in me alive and turned my body into a weapon-gradually building to about 3,000 squats three times during that period and 1,500 knuckle pushups, once doing 620 in thirty minutes. The world keeps trying to teach me how great it is. I still don’t see it, and I no longer care. I will live the rest of my life exactly as I decided in that rehab cell. I call a call girl a girl. No one becomes a whore in my mouth-though I know exactly what a whore is. A call girl is not a whore; she is simply horny and also chooses to accept money for the act. Yet I never grant myself the luxury of pretending I am not a randa by evaluation, because the customer is the male whore. Still, shallow as that defense may sound today, I never completed the transaction as a customer. Many times I sent them away unpaid after they confessed their pain-one even saying, “I’m on my period but I need the money.” Most of the time, nothing happened at all. Even my first visit to a brothel wasn’t for flesh; I went craving female company. They were happy holding currency notes, and I just wanted to hold someone’s hand. Read more from here...

The moment a song or poem glides in with that honeyed, velvet voice murmuring, “Forget me- I had my reasons. People drift, seasons turn, that’s just life,” Read more from here...

Imagine an arrogant cosmic salesman offering you this life again- a full do-over, new skin, clean slate. What would you do? Me? I’d let him live his current life for a single moment- Read more from here...

I used to bolt from girls. Maybe shy. Maybe I worshipped my over-affectionate friends too hard to ever touch them- Madonnas I myself enthroned. Now their curse has fangs: Read more from here...

He pipes his flute-or been-before the buffalo, then dares blame her for “not understanding.” Her mouth, her mood, her flesh- all chained to the owner’s wrist. All theatre. All script. But the snakes are the real directors: Read more from here...

To whom have I spoken? What did I say this time? Have I cursed you too, you fucking universe- the only reason I’m like this? You fucking coward, Read more from here...