i was born a name.
then a face.
then a habit.
then a race.
i became the fears
my father feared.
i wore the weight
my mother seared.
i spoke in voices
i never knew.
i walked in shoes
i never grew.
but one still night,
i stopped the spin.
and found the “i”
was deep within.
i was told to fold my legs,
to sit like modesty, cross-wrapped in fear,
to let my voice be music, not moan,
to keep hunger confined to kitchens and prayer.
they dressed my curves in decency,
measured desire in teaspoons of shame,
taught me that lust is a male domain-
i learnt silence before i knew my name.
but i kept a theatre behind my eyes,
with red lights, velvet ropes, secret scripts.
each fantasy was a revolution rehearsed,
each gasp a line i dared not let slip.
i dreamt of power without remorse,
of being touched like scripture – slow and deep.
not worshipped, not possessed –
but ravished where my shadows sleep.
and then came you,
with palms that asked before they claimed,
with lips that listened as they kissed,
with ears for every trembling flame.
i opened-no, i erupted-
a language in moans you translated true.
when i whispered what the world forbade,
you undressed not just me, but you.
i said it aloud-what i crave,
and you did not flinch or freeze.
you smiled like thunder breaking glass-
as if desire was finally disease-free.
there in the heat, i found the holy,
in sweat i found sanctuary’s glow.
you did not tame me. you tasted my wild,
and let my fire freely flow.
so now, when i close my eyes,
it is not shame that presses in the dark-
but the echo of my own growl,
and the embers of your spark.
for the first time, i moaned without apology-
and the world didn’t end.
it just shattered a glass
that no one ever dared to mend.
they spat my name like bitter pills,
twisting it till even echoes winced.
i wore their laughter like loose threads,
unravelling in every hallway inch.
a “loser” scrawled on my locker door,
a bruise of ink that never dried.
they’d bump and bark and call it play-
while i just clenched the storm inside.
my fists were fires, fingers folded,
forged in flame but cooled by will.
i bit back every broken syllable,
a soldier still-though soft and still.
i learned to hide in bathroom stalls,
as if shame could flush the sin of being.
they mocked my lunch, my lisp, my shoes-
even my silence felt worth seeing.
but i didn’t swing. i didn’t break.
my knuckles never wrote revenge.
i let their rage just ricochet-
like rain off a rooftop’s iron edge.
each slap they smuggled past the rules
taught me more than school ever could:
that mercy isn’t made of marble,
but soft clay that grips where steel never would.
i trained my tongue to sculpt, not slash-
words became my quiet blade.
they took my power, punch by punch,
but i rebuilt what they unmade.
i see them now-gray ghosts in suits,
clocking in with hollow pride.
still bullying, but now in boardrooms,
their schoolyard venom formalized.
and me? i own the silence now-
that sacred stillness i once feared.
it made a home within my chest,
where once their laughter pierced and sneered.
i hold no hate, no boiling brew,
no scar that begs to be renewed.
for i am not what they put me through-
i am the punch i never threw.
“every word, a wound returned”
suits sit smug with sacred seals,
scribing sins the sword conceals.
candles curse what cannons cheer,
cloaks of virtue veiling fear.
statues speak of stolen grace,
scrolls erased, then re-embrace.
monuments made from martyr moans,
museums lined with plundered bones.
ashes airbrushed into art,
agonies auctioned part by part.
children charred in cradle cries,
cameras cold to closing eyes.
feasts are filmed while famines fester,
freedom forged in foreign gesture.
aid arrives with armored aims,
altruism under other names.
prayers pierced by pilot play,
parables twisted into prey.
holy hymns turned house-to-heap,
hope hung high, but buried deep.
diplomats dance on distant dead,
deals are drawn where demons fed.
banners bathed in borrowed blood,
boasts built over brotherhood.
justice juggled, journals jammed,
jargon justifying lands they scammed.
saints are sorted, sins are sold,
some are sacred, others scolded cold.
victims vetted via views,
validity granted to chosen news.
morals move in measured might,
maps made true by missile light.
songs still swell from shattered skin,
stone by stone, the souls begin.
fire feeds the forged and free,
flesh remembers memory’s plea.
rubble rises, rage remains,
roots defy the rusted chains.
tales once trapped in time’s arrest,
torch the thrones they once oppressed.
we write in wounds they tried to wipe,
with whispered wrath and wired type.
pens now press where prophets bled,
poems bloom from pages red.
not to plead, but to proclaim,
not to beg, but burn the blame.
east or south or scarred beyond –
every echo ends the con.
i was born under the same bastard sun –
but they prayed i’d bleach before i turned one.
grandma held me like a broken wish,
said, “don’t worry… kuch lep laga dena, this’ll fix.”
they checked my elbows, compared my knees,
scrubbed my neck like it held disease.
“no, she’s not adopted,” they’d often joke –
just darker than what the catalog spoke.
“kaali hai… par features ache hain,”
as if my nose could cancel melanin pain.
they fed me fair & lovely like holy truth,
taught me to chase what they stole from my youth.
schoolyards had jokes dressed as ‘funny friends’,
“aye, africa!” – laughter that never ends.
the teachers didn’t bat a single eye,
just marked me average and let it fly.
bollywood was no fucking better –
the villain’s dark, the hero’s letter
is stamped with gold, a glowing face,
the heroine’s skin a marriage base.
matrimonial ads read like casteist hymns:
“wheatish bride,” or “only fair-skinned!”
even gods in calendars have skin divine,
but look suspiciously european half the time.
my cousin’s baby came out brown –
they passed him around like mourning ground.
“don’t worry,” they said, “he’ll grow out of it,”
like melanin’s just some passing shit.
i’ve seen aunties bleach their pasty pain,
“beta, don’t go in sun – you’ll tan again.”
heard uncles say with pride and mirth,
“i chose my wife for her colour – not worth.”
they love dark skin on tv screens,
but not in daughters, or bridal scenes.
dark men can pass if rich and tall,
but dark girls? nah, that’s a fucking flaw.
and don’t get me started on fucking ads,
where black skin’s a before that always feels sad.
turn two tones fairer in seven days –
what a magical fucking casteist maze.
not once did they teach us love for shade –
just how to dodge it, bleach, and fade.
we chant unity in diversity on stage,
while burning dark dolls in every cage.
so, fuck your fairness creams and caste-filled gloss,
your shade charts that label humans as loss.
my skin is not your redemption arc –
it doesn’t need light to leave a mark.
my sunburnt soul was never yours to clean.
i wasn’t made to fit into your fairytale scene.
you don’t need light to be seen as bright –
i am fucking radiant in my own right.
i’m time -no cap, i’ve seen the scroll.
from boomers’ grooves to alpha’s toll.
each gen thinks they’re the final boss –
but trust me, love, y’all mid at most.
boomers: “talk softly, dress neat, write checks, repeat.”
they called me “hip,” they called me “rad,”
drank black coffee, not ‘dad-to-bad’.
they smoked indoors and said, “behave!”
then blamed it all on microwaves.
love notes folded like paper swans,
now y’all just text: “u up?” at dawn.
they feared long hair and disco lights –
now they’d trade their knees for tiktok likes.
gen x: “raised by vibes, powered by eye-rolls.”
gen x came through with shoulder shrugs,
too grunge to care, too broke for drugs.
watched mtv and wore disdain,
believed emotions were a scam campaign.
they walked so memes could later run –
invented cool, then dipped for fun.
used payphones, mixtapes, dial-up moans,
and ghosted you via dial tones.
millennials: “we brought brunch. you’re welcome.”
ah yes, the latte-generation crew,
cried at work and called it “breakthrough.”
they said “adulting” like it’s war,
then rage-quit zoom at 34.
they’re all “burnout,” “side-hustle,” “vibe,”
manifesting peace through spotify tribes.
they romanticized healing in cafes –
while buying crystals on emis.
gen z: “it’s giving… psychological warfare.”
then gen z burst in, full on flex,
with adhd and autocorrects.
said “rizz,” “slay,” “delulu” and “based,”
and typed in lowercase. unphased.
they cancel, stan, get un-cancelled too,
wear trauma like it’s a designer shoe.
invented “beige flags,” dated “icks,”
and argued love through instagram pics.
they don’t walk, they core -it’s a thing.
goblin, feral, clean girl, king.
gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss spree –
meanwhile, i’m in the corner like “bruh… me.”
gen alpha: “touchscreen toddlers and existential roblox.”
alpha? bro -they don’t even blink.
they google life before they think.
they don’t play tag -they play on apps,
get diagnosed by chatgpt claps.
they call mom “bruh,” call dad “npc,”
their lullaby? lo-fi adhd.
they’ve never seen a tree get climbed –
but can deepfake grandma in real time.
me – time: “certified boomer, eternal slay.”
i’ve worn every font, danced every cringe,
from flared-out jeans to y2k fringe.
each era slaps, then fades away –
like facebook moms who learned to slay.
but through it all, i’ve watched y’all grow
from “yeet” to “yikes” to “ratio’d.”
and if you think you’ve changed the game?
just wait, the next one won’t know your name.
so post your pics, go viral fast,
make reels about your healing past.
but know this truth from someone wise:
even “forever”… gets archived.
hashtag me. meme me. cancel me twice –
i’m time, bestie. you’re just my slice.
born not in squalor, nor in gold,
but in that grey where dreams decay –
a nameless cog, a tale untold,
he cried, then wiped his tears away.
no toys adorned his birthday floor,
no sweets in schoolbag wrapped in lace.
just second-hand and something more –
the silence of a missing place.
to school he marched in worn-out shoes,
his ink a patchwork of spilled grace.
while friends wore brands he couldn’t choose,
he learnt to smile with half a face.
each grade a war, each pen a fight –
to claim a desk, defend a dream.
he argued for the fees each night,
as whispers mocked his public scheme.
in college too, the battle stayed –
a battlefield of hidden cost.
he swallowed pride each time he paid
by skipping food for dreams near lost.
he clung to bus rails, bruised and bent,
while others zoomed past him in style.
his notebooks held the rent he spent,
his laughter absent all the while.
then came the job -a suit, a name,
a number in a payroll sheet.
the world now bowed, but just the same,
he bore the burn beneath his feet.
parents aged like wilting leaves,
and so he stood, their sun and shade.
he bought them time, he patched old eaves –
with every debt, a promise made.
a bride was found through quiet ties,
a homemaker, as norms would want.
their vows were made beneath the guise
of love that knew not how to daunt.
she bore the rules, he bore the weight –
the house, the bills, the social thread.
though equal souls by destined fate,
he led while dreaming he was led.
their children bloomed in newer air,
with schools that swallowed half his pay.
he trimmed his wants, reduced his share –
so theirs could never fade away.
they learnt with tabs, he learnt with tears.
their books imported, his were torn.
he smiled and shelved his hidden years,
for they were dreams he never wore
he watched their world expand and shine,
while his shrunk inward, room by room.
yet never once did he repine,
he fed their stars, embraced his gloom.
a hundred wants, a thousand nights –
he bore them all without a sound.
while they took off in fearless flights,
he stood his ground, not making ground.
old age arrived without a song,
just aching joints and silent days.
the house grew full, the nights grew long –
yet no one saw his muted gaze.
he sat in rooms he built with pain,
their laughter echoing past his ear.
a shadow fading in the frame,
a name that now just disappeared.
and when the final moment came,
no curtain call, no poet’s line.
just nurses whispering his name,
and machines mapping his decline.
he shed a tear that none could see,
a truth no legacy could deny.
he smiled and whispered silently –
“at least they’ll never see me cry.”
in a realm beyond faith and celestial flair,
past temples abandoned and incense-less air,
there lies a lounge with marble floors scuffed,
where gods long forgotten gather – aloof and stuffed.
they sip on ambrosia from chipped gold mugs,
wrapped in old tunics, complaining like thugs.
no prayers arrive, no offerings made –
just echoes of hymns that decades decayed.
dyaus pitar sighs, scratching the dome of the sky,
“once the father of gods – now just the why.”
beside him sits veles with a bottle of kvass,
“last prayer i got was for cheaper gas.”
hecate stirs her latte with a bone,
“i used to govern crossroads alone.
now i’m a halloween costume for rent –
or whispered by teens on a witchy lament.”
janus peeks backward, then peers ahead,
“two-faced, they said – now they ghost me instead.”
he juggles a key, a forgotten gate’s shard,
“humans lock doors, but leave gods unguarded.”
bastet curls up with a hiss and a purr,
still gets dms from tumblr’s blur.
“cats still adore me – they just don’t say grace.
unless grace means sleeping on your face.”
priapus chuckles with pride unchecked,
still banned from ads, still hard to forget.
“they worship the bulge in modern disguise –
yet no shrine bears my glorious rise.”
apsara menaka twirls in faded silk,
“from vedic poems to fairness milk.”
no more seduction for heaven’s sake –
just reels, regrets, and a thirst trap break.
nanshe sighs through a haze of dreams,
“justice, orphans – noble themes.
but now my mail’s just therapy memes.”
bran the blessed with a raven-tat sleeve,
“used to guard bridges – now i just grieve.
a bridge once burned is never rebuilt –
unless netflix wants a celtic guilt.”
maruts blow gusts in a forgotten breeze,
“used to storm battles, now we wheeze.
relegated to typos in weather news –
we’re the thunder gods nobody reviews.”
they lounge by the mailbox made of jade,
hoping for letters that never get laid.
sometimes a whisper, or scent of devotion –
but mostly ads from wellness potions.
then out stepped a god with six billion adherents and a beard,
wearing gold-leaf crocs and a gaze slightly seared.
“they beg me for parking, for tinder dates,
and curse my name when they’re five minutes late.
they shout my name in bliss and in war,
even in bed, behind a locked door.
they tattoo crosses but ignore the creed –
and venmo churches far more than they read.”
“you guys have it easy,” he said with a grin,
“no spam, no guilt, no inbox sin.
they pray to me, but never say why-
they just need wi-fi or alibis.”
the old gods muttered, half amused,
half enraged that he wasn’t abused.
forseti mumbled, “they’ve forgotten law.”
while yami blinked, “i forgot awe.”
tangaroa missed the tides of prayer,
now he gets cruise brochures in thin sea air.
itzamna received a wish for an a,
from a kid who failed history anyway.
then thunder cracked as two gods arrived –
their abs and ego equally alive.
zeus in linen, with chest hair bold,
“olympus is dead, but i still sell gold.”
“i’ve got books, cameos, toys for teens,
and fanfics worse than dionysian scenes.”
he sipped ambrosia with netflix foam,
“call me myth – but i’ve built a home.”
then odin appeared with a glint in his eye,
a streaming contract tucked nearby.
“my sons get spin-offs and glorious fights,
while you lot vanish with temple lights.”
“i died twice – but they brought me back!”
said thor, with hammer and protein pack.
“no prayers needed, just box office thrills,
they even made loki pay my bills.”
the old gods rolled their eternal eyes,
jealous of contracts and merchandise.
“hollywood’s altar isn’t the same,”
mokosh muttered, “but it gets you fame.”
“and yet,” said nanshe, “they are not divine,
they’re memes, they’re shirts, they’re party line.
no soul is stirred, no life is saved –
their myths are glossed and stories shaved.”
in a corner, alone, sat dyaus in mist,
holding a telegram from a long-lost priest.
it read: “dear father sky, forgive my doubt.”
he folded it gently, then tossed it out.
ashur cracked a knuckle, ptah fixed his shoe,
olorun tried to remember who was who.
they laughed at memes vritra posted in thread,
“forgotten gods of bharat” – group mostly dead.
from tezcatlipoca to enlil, from lugh to tanit,
each shared a tale where they once lit the planet.
a few get mail once in a year –
a misplaced chant or drunk man’s cheer.
they all glanced up at the astral board,
where the prayer count stayed at zero scored.
and in that silence, despite the jest,
lay divine hearts heavy in chest.
because no god, no matter how wise,
wants empty heavens or prayerless skies.
better to drown in mortal cries
than be a relic nobody tries.
so they lounge, these gods, who forgot how to god,
mocking the heavens, giving fate a slow nod.
but deep in their stillness, each silently yearns,
for a whisper of faith… that never returns.
in a high-rise hive of glass and chrome,
he files his roots beneath “unknown.”
his name, once wild as monsoon rain,
now clipped and styled for urban gain.
the syllables he shed like skin,
once sacred, now a source of sin.
that surname – a rusted bell of caste –
he muffled it to move up fast.
the gods he knew now wait outside,
their chants replaced with lo-fi tide.
no mustard oil, no turmeric flame,
just scented soap and borrowed fame.
his feet once kissed the rural dust,
now tread on tiles scrubbed clean of trust.
each echo in his sterilized room
hums like a hymn denied its bloom.
he dines with men who raise their glass
to claim, “oh caste? that’s centuries past.”
their laughter – clinking casteless wine –
can’t taste the poison in the brine.
he nods, and smiles with well-tamed grace,
while hiding the tremor behind his face.
their heritage is worn with ease,
his stitched in shadows, out of lease.
he irons his accent, tailors his tone,
sells himself clean, down to the bone.
but no matter how sharp the suit or shoe,
the mirror still mutters, “they don’t know you.”
at night, beneath a borrowed quilt,
he dreams of buffaloes and silt.
of temples carved by unlettered hands,
of fireflies bright in guttered lands.
but wakes to walls too white to hold
the soot and spice of stories old.
he swallows tears, like bitter ghee,
because even grief must be bourgeoisie.
the city has taught him how to hide –
with passwords, paychecks, practiced pride.
yet in his silence rings the toll
of culture censored from the soul.
one slip, one drop of native sound,
and masks he built come crashing down.
for caste is not just skin-deep stain,
it walks with marrow, breeds in brain.
he’s not ashamed of where he’s from –
just scared of being asked to run.
to flee the boardroom, burn the bridge,
return as label, live on fringe.
his heritage – a whispered ache,
a scroll he’s not allowed to break.
so he keeps it locked, behind his name,
and hopes his kids won’t do the same.
but guilt – a guest that overstays –
now sits with him on salary days.
because for every box he’s dared to tick,
there’s blood beneath the metric click.
and so, within this sterilized cell,
he breathes a truth he’ll never tell.
yes, the closet hides the name they hate –
but also, everything that made him great.
i woke with a flicker in the corner of my sight,
the ceiling fan spun like a buffering byte.
my bedsheet shimmered in 480p,
and my own hands lagged behind me.
outside, the trees refreshed in loops,
birds chirped in tones from whatsapp groups.
the sky had a filter, warm and fake,
the clouds swiped left before they could break.
my coffee steamed like a netflix stream,
my mirror pixelated mid-daydream.
when i blinked, my face would freeze,
like a paused call in a foreign breeze.
i ran to a doctor, then three, then more,
they said it was stress – or metaphor.
“your mind’s a modem, overfed,”
but i knew it was my soul instead.
i lived on rectangles, scrolled to sleep,
sought dopamine in every beep.
i loved in texts, fought in threads,
and cried in memes while breaking breads.
my work was slack, my rest was screen,
my prayers – just playlists in between.
even silence had a buzzing tone,
and i felt most distant when never alone.
so i fled.
not a wellness retreat with leafy tea,
but a forest with no electricity.
no signal bars, no glowing keys,
just dirt and dew and dragonflies.
the first night, my fingers shook,
reaching for screens that never looked.
i whispered “okay google” to a stone,
and wept when it did not answer the tone.
but then, a curious thing began –
the stars showed up, unfiltered, grand.
the moon said nothing but stayed so still,
and i felt a fullness i couldn’t fill.
the rain fell like applause on trees,
the wind told jokes in rustling leaves.
and slowly, my breath began to sync,
with the universe’s ancient link.
i watched the sunrise load in full,
without a lag, without a pull.
and i didn’t share it. i just knew –
it was meant for me, not the algorithm’s view.
now, i walk where no cables hum,
where tweets are sung, not thumbed.
i listen more, i speak in tone,
i’ve updated into flesh and bone.
once, i feared disconnection’s gate,
now, solitude feels like a clean slate.
this isn’t exile – it’s a return.
a flick of a switch – the soul’s concern.
so no, i’m not off.
i’m not away.
i’m just on
airplane mode.
Rishabh Dubey 'Kridious' 