Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 3 — Triyacharitam

Just like the dumbest kid in class who blurts out “two plus two,” and the whole room claps because the bar is on the floor — that’s how it often feels with her. It’s not that she’s done something extraordinary; people just offer support out of instinct, the way we help whoever looks like the underdog.

While she offers only intimacy, and a man offers intimacy, love, money, effort, protection, a family name, and everything else, society still acts as if she is the generous one: “Thank you for giving us your divine intimacy.” Accepting a man purely for his money becomes the very proof of the lack — of intellect, strength, and character.

The applause is never for merit; it’s scarcity dressed as virtue.

Another voice inside me knows the truth: not every woman is a whore. I just happened to meet the worst of them, again and again, until my sample size became my worldview. A starving man blames bread for not feeding him. I blamed every woman for the ones who broke me. This isn’t philosophy. This is the fifth stage of grief — after denial, anger, bargaining, depression: self-abuse.

Now they promote her to “equal.” A woman who is greedy from the start is not worthy of being entitled to “equal ability.” Next the gorilla will demand a seat at the table because it learned to peel a banana. The monkey will grab a microphone and insist it can sing. The female donkey will bray, “I also have a pussy — so am I not equal to woman the way woman is now equal to man?”

Equality reduced to a punchline where the only requirement is owning the same hole.

And who started this circus? Whores. They invented the ledger: “I gave you pussy — now you owe me.”

A woman with character never brags about giving, and a man with character never counts. He gives because he already gave his heart — no invoice attached.

But once giving becomes a favour, it becomes business. Blame becomes currency. Obligation becomes a snake coiled in the bed. And love dies in the fine print.

A wrong stance can be corrected. A given-up heart cannot be revived. It becomes like the whore’s body even the butcher refuses to buy for meat — yet society still lines up, still pays a premium for something already spoiled.

I already know enough to understand there is no point in living another second. Yet the assignment is living. So I live. Not for hope. Not for fruits. Just to finish the sentence the universe started writing on my skin the day I was born.

Triyā-caritaṁ puruṣasya bhāgyam; deva api na jānāti kuto manuṣyam.

Once I argued that women have character. I thought “character” meant her fickle heart, her restless mind. Now I know better. The ancients were right: a woman’s character is a man’s fate, and even gods cannot read it — so how can a mortal?

Her greed and his ego are manufacturing defects. They come pre-installed from the factory, the result of evolution. They will never be patched.

I used to preach “stay open-minded.” The world laughed and taught me the hard way: the elders were right, the proverbs were right. “Once a whore, always a whore” is not cruelty — it’s destiny catching up with biology. She cannot change after becoming one, because she was born one. Character is cast iron; it does not melt in the middle for convenience.

And if an addict can barely quit one substance, struggling for a lifetime, how will a whore quit multiple addictions — sex, money, greed, lifestyle, a life without responsibility, no one to question her, good food, rich customers with rich secrets, and the cheap thrills her heart thrives on? How can she quit all of that?

The first time I walked into a brothel, I went for company, for someone to talk to — the same old stupid story. I told myself: a girl is a girl; it’s only her profession. Then I learned: choot māranā is not a job. It is the nature of a particular kind of woman.

Jaise ko taisā mile, mile kīch se kīch, pānī se pānī mile, mile nīch ko nīch.

Like meets like. Mud finds mud. Water finds water. The low find the low. Still walking.

Neither action nor duty, neither good nor bad, neither sin nor virtue, neither right nor wrong, neither truth nor falsehood — none of it touches the one inside. It neither gets wounded nor grows. It does not fall in love or hate. It is within me, without cost. It carries me with it, and I with it. It is my character — the true will of my heart, my soul.

Ronie Dinosaur walks alone.

And if you don’t know, let me tell you. In the Gita, Krishna is the character, and Arjuna is the body. They speak to each other. Character is not good or bad. The body bears blame. That’s why Krishna has avatars.

And he says:

Karmanye vadhikaraste ma phaleshu kadachana, ma karma-phala-hetur bhur, ma te sango ’stv akarmani.

“You have the right to action alone, never to the fruits of action. Let not the fruits become your motive, nor let your attachment be to inaction.”

I am not Arjuna. I act — not for duty, not for blame, not for chains, not for desire, not for ambition — but because this alone can be done with character, because this alone lets the man in my heart match the one in the mirror outside.

We live knowing breath has an end. Not all wars are fought on battlefields — caged birds, jailed beasts, addicts in rehab, confined hearts still fight to survive.

I am the only witness. I am original. I am my own truth.

Fame becomes a consequence, not a reward. It doesn’t arrive from the world; the world merely observes. Real fame is granted only when your own self decides you have suffered enough. Only then will that inner witness acknowledge your endurance as fame.

Answer to question 2 : asked here **Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 2 — Unbreakable** Why can’t Shiva have avatars?

The original does not take avatars. Desire ended with the character, and the character is unchangeable. Born once, it lives only to know itself fully. It may develop flaws, stop acting, or endure, but it cannot divide, replicate, or repeat. Its grief has been seen, its truth carried, its lessons endured. There is no need for avatars because the original’s journey is complete in its singularity. To repeat it would be to betray what it was — to dilute the weight it bore and the character it embodied. This is why Shiva did not have avatars, and why Ronie Dinosaur roars alone: the original acts once, sees once, and bears its consequence fully. Original don’t have copies. I have original character. And I guess so was he.

The original acts once, bears its consequence once, and its journey cannot be repeated. Copies dilute, avatars replicate. I am original; so was he. That’s why no avatars exist.

Exercise for anyone who wants to answer: Write your answer in the comments.

Question 3: So I say I developed a character flaw because I needed a woman to love me — even if it was only physical — and I went to a brothel. But if I had been born in a world where no woman sold herself, what would the next option have been (other than force, of course)? What would it look like in a world like the one Shiva lived in?

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