As They Burned, Their Gods Watched

A train moved, not forward, but back in time.

Skeleton of steel and iron—its flesh bleeding saffron.

Royalty bleeds blue, they say. But true Hindus? They bleed saffron.

This train was more saffron than usual.

A moving relic, a victory march—

A temple, triumphant over a mosque,

A parade of foreskins sacrificed to the crescent moon.

A collection of middle fingers, raised to history,

Fingers that had gripped bricks, wielded hammers,

That had chanted the name of a god

Who set his wife on fire to prove her pure,

As if she were some adulterated alloy.

But a god nevertheless.

The idea of a temple, just the idea of it,

Made the very bones of a mosque tremble.

Four hundred and sixty-five years, crumbling overnight.

You see, those who cannot hide behind faith,

Need history, need facts.

But faith is a luxury,

A blank check to rewrite reality,

Because what is a god

If not a fairy tale spun by drunks

Selling dreams to grown-ups too scared of daylight truths?

The train reeked of Hindu piss on Muslim blood.

Because piss leaves the body.

Blood—blood is all of you.

And when the blood boils, fire follows.

And fire, fire is ritual.

So the Muslims made a ritual of their own—

A funeral pyre of Hindus aboard the train.

Fifty-nine Hindus, the price of erasing four centuries of Muslim pride.

The history denied in Ayodhya was rewritten in Godhra.

Burning a train was just the preface.

It took a decade for Muslims to claim vengeance.

It took Hindus less than a day.

Because democracy is about majority.

Hundreds of women raped first, burned later—

Because you must kill what lies beneath the skin

Before you kill the skin itself.

Thousands slaughtered like bleating goats

At a meat shop that never offered halal.

What began as a lesson became a blueprint.

What began as rage became routine.

What began as a war of gods

Became the socio-political order of the day.

And I know it will stay so.

Because if you strip away religion,

You wake up to facts, not faith.

No dogmas. No godmen. No bullshit.

And that—that is the real threat.

Because religion is opium for the ignorant.

And the ignorant? The ignorant are the greatest treasure of a rigged economy.

Free Speech, My Ass

The world's all for free speech

Until it begins to tighten their assholes and question their sensibilities

And then suddenly it's about clenched jaws and hurt feelings

And crying victim or screaming it, depending on who you're playing that day: the empowered victim or the helpless one

Actions don't come alone, holding hands like an insecured lover, comes consequences

If you say you advocate something, what you think is you are an advocate of the action, but what it really means is, you are an advocate of the entirety: the actions & it's consequences

If you like fucking without a condom, the child or the HIV that comes along, might or might not be to your liking, but they'll be there, and you taking offense at them, will neither undo nor fix the consequence at hand

Freedom of speech is no different; if you want free speech, you have signed up to the risk of being offended and once you've signed up, taking offense and outraging like it's something forced upon you is fucking audacious

To think you're above and beyond consequences, who the fuck do you think you are?

To think you can pick and choose episodes of life like it was your fucking screenplay, you think you can play God and the world will bend over, no consequences?

If you find this offensive, remember, I don't give a fuck

Word of advice: you shouldn't give a fuck either!

For God's Sake

God’s a start-up — a rather bad one, at that

The first one men ever made.

Founded by fear, scaled through manipulation,

Funded by desperation and generational stupidity.

God’s a start-up built on crowdfunding,

Selling the hope of a service that never was, and never will be.

A subscription model with no refunds,

A business plan so vague that even the venture capitalists could never quite decipher the nuances of it, because bullshit gets you to places, logic and reason never could

If you really come to think of it,

God’s not even a start-up —

It’s the world’s first Ponzi scheme

The only one that never got busted.

A pyramid scheme where the self-appointed favourites got riches, palaces, and power,

While the rest just knelt, waiting for returns on investment.

But then, you wonder — what if God was real?

What if God heard me say this?

What if he’s been sitting up there,

Just waiting to serve me his vengeance,

Dead and cold, like divine fine dining?

Well… years and years of praying, begging and bargaining, didn’t get me his attention.

And if one day of questioning him does

Who’s really winning?

Because something is better than nothing.

Something speaks of possibilities;

Nothing just shuts the door behind.

God’s not real.

You know how I know that?

If God was real,

And God made men,

He would be sick and tired of men selling him —

On the streets, and in the sheets

For money, for ballots, for sex, for power, and every pathetic in-between.

If God was real, I’d be one of the few on his side

Not because I believe in him,

But because I refuse to be the one selling his ass for profit.

If God was real, religion wouldn’t exist.

If God was real, the world would be atheist.

A User's Guide to Getting Fucked Over

The government isn’t a circus.

A circus at least has clowns with shreds of self-awareness

Clowns who admit they’re clowns.

This?

This is daylight robbery, with the national anthem for background music

A crime so smooth, Michael Jackson would be jealous

A thriller so well devised, you sing along as they take your wallet.

And when it’s all gone, you’ll still be waving the flag,

Because false vanity disguised as nationalism sells cheaper than first generation wealth.

The trick is simple —

Keep the chaos loud, the people dumb, and the news irrelevant enough for distraction.

Make them clap while you pick their pockets,

Then sell them their own money back at twice the price.

With interest.

Call it economic growth.

Call it patriotism.

Call it "development" — it doesn’t matter.

As long as you call it something, they’ll believe it.

Because that’s the trick, right? You can make people believe anything

As long as you lie with the confidence of truth 

"See that line going up? That’s progress!"

Never mind that line reflects inflation, unemployment, and a rapidly declining national IQ

Blindfold them in cooked up faiths, imagined divides, and monopolised history, and they are Gandhi's monkeys 

Except this time, they're dystopian: see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing, except what has been approved by the masters

But, dare you call it out! You’re a paid gig by the opposition.

But, dare you speak the truth? You’re a fucking anti-national.

But, dare you fight back? Your existence is illegal.

And now, you are the headline.

And it’s funny, because you never really mattered.

Not to them, not even to the ones who aren't them.

But the moment you become inconvenient? Suddenly, they care.

Your face is on the television, plastered across social media forwards and reposts, like a bunch of hate-mongering billboards

Your stories from a forgotten adolescence, dug up by jobless men so old they're closer to death than they're far from adolescence

Rotten, decayed old twats, who haven’t read a book in twenty years but will write eight paragraphs on your morality, like they were critically acclaimed authors at least, if not the messiahs of morality, the same morality you'd expect from the land that taught the world how to fuck in sixty-nine different ways

The news will question your flesh and bones, the hashtags will sweepingly remark on your bastardry,

And by the time your voice reaches anyone... who are we kidding, your voice won't reach shit

It will sink in your epiglottis like a cancerous lump

The dumb ones are now deaf, and you're dumb

Your dumb and their dumb, not the same, but how do you explain grammar to the gods that failed graduation

History will not remember your name, because history doesn't give a flying fuck about matters of facts

History is a bunch of sales people, the very best of them, pitching you a series of stories suited to tongue-fuck your egos so good, once they're done, you can't tell the difference between facts and fiction

History will not even mention you as a footnote

Because they’ll rewrite it while they slice you up, head to toe, in the name of contempt

They’ll cut you in three,

One for each word of your favorite phrase: freedom of speech.

They will fuck your mother,

Invoice you for services rendered,

And slap a 28% GST on top.

Because happy endings are a privilege, you see.

And you’ll pay.

Because you always do.

Because you were raised to.

Because they convinced you it was an honor to, it's what nationalists do.

And in the end,

When your pockets are empty,

When your children’s future is crowdfunded by foreign loans because nationalism doesn't sign cheques,

When your delusions turn sober because patriotism is like cocaine, but on a stopwatch

You’ll do what every generation before you did.

You’ll clap anyway.

Dead Poets Society

He who says money is the greatest currency is a privileged half-wit whose IQ is lower than the lowest I scored in high-school math

Money is the greatest currency for the ones who have means and ways, and hooks and crooks, to get some, and some more

For hundreds and thousands others, money is farther than a distant dream blurred out in the limitations of myopic eyes

And hope, their only currency

Hope is a funny currency

It doesn't dwindle, doesn't need to be bought off at the price of your skin, meat, or corporate blowjobs

Hope sells for free

At the traffic signal, in between the deafening noise of a few clinking coins at the bottom of a copper bowl, drowned in the deadening madness of a restless crowd in a hurry to be somewhere and yet heading nowhere

And then there are a few bastards

Who couldn't find enough money to satiate their lust or enough hope to find them love

Who hence decided to spit on everyone on either sides of the road, in the name of disillusionment

Their bruised egos bleeding out poetry, in a desperate attempt to heal

But then, healing starts with belief, and beliefs are born off hope

Dead poets pile up on a bullet train to extinction

In The Name Of Faith

In a world divided between religion & science

Each often holds their high grounds

Locked in the privilege of their ivory towers

Convinced their ways are aligned closer to the singular truth

And yet the bastards raised in degenerate whorehouses

With questions as their only companions

Despite a hundred thousand frowns and promises

Knew singularities were acts of faith, dichotomy the only true consequence of reason

Religion says believing is seeing

But then how do you believe something you haven't even seen

How do you vest your beliefs in a faith so ultimate and yet so fragile

How do you let the hollow insides of a spineless truth swallow you whole while you lay down the very existence of your species at its mercy

Science says seeing is believing

But then how do you explain purple, something you see and yet it never exists in truth

How do you let your biology take the wheel when you know it's been compromised to illusions, and convinced into gaslighting you, every single day

How do you let the misconstrued interpretations of an alien truth blindfold you into a cage of singular perceptions

It is rather funny to see the elites tumble in their incessant need to cling on to faith like creatures of convenience

While the unsophisticated sharp-tongued morons give shape to the singular truth the elites hate the most: to watch their faiths crumble, and drift away, from right beneath their feet

In a world where science and religion sell for equal stakes

Order is blasphemous; chaos, the way of life

Of Fucks Given & Taken

Have you ever wondered how the truth of intimacy isn't half as intimate as the idea of it

In the shallow breaths of a gasping anticipation to the screenplay of a fornication, you've played over and over again in the boner of your brain cells

In the folds of an inexpensive adulthood rented out to the suicidal moth of an innocence, spent at the length of faded words in a worn out erotica

In the flimsy skin wrapped around the throbbing veins of your measured thickness molly-coddled to a perverted sickness disguised as desire

Have you ever wondered how orgasms are a commodity

How the stretch marks laid out across the breadths of your skin like stitches on the only blanket of a homeless, aren't aligned to the aesthetics of desire

How your ideas of sexual gratification revolve around objectifying fiction born off Photoshop & cocaine that is as distant from human anatomy as Communism as a practice is, from Communism as an ideology

How you constantly dwell at the crossroads of the duality of fucking the ones you wouldn't jerk off to and jerking off to the ones who wouldn't fuck you

The next time you think or feel, even for a fraction of a second, sex isn't political

Peel off your clothes like masks off a creature of convenience, and dare make love to the other side