In The Name Of The Holy & The Sacred Shit

Whoever said marriages are made in heaven died light years away from being married

Drunk on textbook definitions and arrogant ignorance of what married in love looks like

Ever wondered why the married never write about marriage objectively

Because the objective truths of marriage aren't bestsellers

And unless it's a bestselling idea

How do you sell it to a capitalist world pretending to be communists of convenience

Marriages are ugly, mad, angry, and all kinds of crazy and borderline psychotic

But then, had they accepted and agreed to that, it'd blemish the very heavens they said marriages were made in

And you know how most things in life are a morsels of good in periodic episodes but otherwise shades of shit; marriage is no different

Unless you maneuver the shit, you won't get to the morsels

But then again, you don't want any of that shit, do you

Although, statistically fifty-percent of that shit is your shit

But then no one likes to be held a mirror to, especially with their ass bare naked, farting and shitting all over, do they

For someone who gets fucked over by life every now and then

Between breakfasts and lunches, and lunches and dinners

How optimistic do you have to be to believe marriage is a rollercoaster but on plain land

It’s not people who have fucked over marriage

People are messy, flawed, delusional; that's a given

What fucked over people is the deluded idea of what ideal marriages should look and sound and feel like

This obsession with the 'ideal' —

Like perfection is a prerequisite

Like conflict is failure

Like compromise is defeat

As if two people can live together forever

Without wanting to run each other over in a parking lot

At least once a week

Ideal is a beautiful synonym for imaginary, except no one seems to remember

Love, Dopamine & Other Hallucinations

Love is not a poem

It’s a bad habit with good lighting, or as the new-age retards call it: aesthetic

It starts with serotonin setting you up like that shady friend who swears “This one’s different”

It’s a bluff in broad daylight

You get high on forehead kisses and shared playlists

And before you know it

You’re trauma-bonding over alcohol and daddy issues

They say love is magic

But then, deep down, you know magic isn't real; magic is make belief

A carefully crafted con job for deluded desperate people too scared to admit the universe doesn’t owe them shit

It’s a placebo sold in pop songs and paperback novels

You think you're starring in a rom-com

Spoiler alert: You're the unpaid extra in a psychological thriller

You’re not watching the movie

You are the plot twist that gaslights itself every single night into thinking "This is normal"

You romanticized it

Of course you did

They fed you Shelleys, Bollywood, and Valentine's Day capitalism before you hit puberty

They never taught you how to walk away from someone just because they were bad for your brain chemistry

Because nobody wants to hear that love is Pavlovian conditioning

That you’re just chasing dopamine with a smiley face

That heartbreak is withdrawal

That healing is rehab without the group therapy

You don’t miss them

You miss the daily dosage of distraction from yourself

Because me-time is like weekends; necessity but in minimums, overdo it, and you feel your sanity packing its bags in silence

And so you go back

You think maybe this time, love won’t be wrapped in dreadful baggages and unresolved PTSD wearing a perfume you once liked

But deep down, you know

Love is just another drug you forgot to quit

And worse?

You're already looking for your next dealer, hoping this one is sangria in a wine glass, but knowing full well it is arsenic in a whiskey bottle

Maps, Missiles, Men & Masturbating Gods

You’d think a species that survived plagues and pandemics, and would evolve into something remotely decent

But no

We grew opposable thumbs

Just to reload rifles faster

We discovered fire

So we could set newborns ablaze with phosphorus bombs

Because their parents prayed in a different direction, a direction your landlords didn't approve of

We wrote books

Hundreds of thousands of pages across centuries

So we could fight over whose pages had the right fonts and whose had God's blood all over

Look at Gaza

Look closely

That is not rubble

That is bone-dust mixed with powdered nationalism

That isn’t resistance or retaliation

That’s a war crime with better PR

Children turned to statistics

Mothers turned into target practice

Fathers turned into shadows

Carrying sacks of limbs instead of groceries

Borders were lines once you know

Sketched by trembling colonial fingers on caffeine and cocaine,

The same fingers that looted generations of wealth and spices, and yet could never figure out how to handle either

And now?

Now, they are holy scripture; sanctified, unquestionable

So much so, we don't blink twice before tearing apart flesh from bones, over them

Because imaginary lines drawn on paper maps

Hold more value than actual lives

Because God apparently owns real estate

And believes in ethnic cleansing

As long as it aligns with your flag’s colour palette

They say this is about politics

Geopolitics

Religious extremism

Terrorism

But the truth is simpler

It’s about dicks

It’s always been about dicks

This is just another limp dick-measuring contest

Between leaders with erectile egos

And shriveled humanity

Millions dead, but at least someone gets to call it a victory

Like winning a pissing match by drowning the other guy’s family

And what about the rest of us?

We hashtag

We repost

We call it awareness

As if views and likes are oxygen to lungs, caved in under concrete

As if comments and reposts can rebuild homes bulldozed by faith

They say God is watching.

Maybe he is, with popcorn resting on his potbelly full of wine, some tissues, some lotion, for his daily dose of humiliation porn

Or maybe, just maybe

He’s as imaginary as the lines we murder each other for

Maybe, there’s no God in this

Just men, angry men, petty men, power-drunk men

Hiding behind scriptures like perverts in a trench coat.

And behind them, some more men.

Clapping. Nodding. Calling it sacrifice. Calling it just.

This isn’t about who fired first

This is about why the fuck are we still building missiles instead of Colloseums for our collective shame

This is about how we turned evolution into a suicide pact

Signed in blood, stamped with flags, and notarized by apathy.

The only thing we’ve truly mastered as a species is

Dying for the wrong things while living for absolutely nothing

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.