Trial By Blood, Verdict By Water

I am the judge.

Robes stiffened with ritual righteousness. 

Gavel molten, breathing fire, screaming justice.

Conscience sharper than sharpened glass.

The floor trembles. Walls sweat blood and pus. 

Air coils like serpents whispering unholy.

Dust crawls away. Shadows tremble. I do not sit. I descend.

Judgement is inheritance.

By blood. By caste. By closeness to the gods.

My forefathers ruled here. Their verdicts were holy, sanctified in their blue blood. Their hands carved eternity.

On my chair. On the throne of a judge.

Verdicts passed where they must not.

What an absolute abomination.

A filthy stain. A defilement.

The gods recoiled. History shivered.

I inhale that sin. So I can exhale righteousness.

It is my duty to purify. To exorcise. To remake holiness.

And as I unleash Gangajal on the floors of a room sheathed in justice, it hisses like acid from heaven. 

Ink writhes, climbs walls, twists into screaming faces.

Rats kneel. Clerks vomit holy obedience. Paper bleeds. Shadows dance in homage to the ancestors.

Even democracy is a hallucination. 

Dalits breathing Brahmin air? Blasphemy. Horror.

The gods shudder. Faith trembles. History bends under terror.

I bite the pen. I lick the chair. I taste sin. I exhale holiness.

Walls convulse. Ceiling bleeds. Floor vomits dust.

The Dalit flickers; mocking, ephemeral, untouchable.

Judgment is not in his chromosomes.

He can only be judged. Only condemned. Only measured against eternal, inherited law.

I summon the chamber alive.

Ink twists into serpents. Rats scream prayers. Clerks twist, vomit, collapse into worship.

Air coils. Steam rises. Shadows writhe in grotesque obedience.

Gavel melts into molten judgment. Tea turns to bitter ash. Obedience is absolute. Judgment bends only to me.

I rotate the pen thrice. I pour gangajal. I sip molten tea. I bite the pen.

I taste impurity. I exhale holiness.

Walls sweat blood and pus. Floor trembles. Ceiling convulses.

All bends. All submits. All is mine.

I am the judge.

I am divine.

I am eternal.

I am the eye of law.

I am holiness incarnate.

And yet…

The Dalit exists.

Invisible. Untouchable. Defiant.

Like sins do.

Forever beneath me.

Never presiding. Never judging. Only judged. Only condemned.

Cockroaches in my kitchen corners have more power.

I pour more gangajal.

Ink writhes like vipers. Chairs twist and split. Rats kneel, bleed, sing holy songs.

Clerks vomit, choke, weep in obedience. Shadows fold into themselves.

Walls bend. Floor cracks. Ceiling screams.

All bends. All submits. All is mine.

I sip tea. I bite the pen. I taste sin. I exhale holiness.

Obedience is absolute. Judgment bends only to me.

I am the judge. I am divine. I am eternity.

The Dalit flickers.

He is untouchable. Defiant. Haunted.

But he will never sit.

He will never judge.

He can only ever be judged.

He can only ever be condemned.

Like cockroaches crawling my kitchen corners.

I pour gangajal on the air.

On shadows. On ink. On trembling clerks.

On the ghosts of Dalits swallowed by my forefathers’ holiness.

All bends. All submits. All is mine.

I am the judge.

I am divine.

I am eternal.

I am law.

I am holiness incarnate.

I am God’s own hand, His wrath, His eye, His voice.

The only. The truly.

The molten gavel drips Gangajal onto the floor where corpses of forgotten Dalits curl into prayer, and even the shadows writhe, seared with the eternal scars of my justice.