Do you know your life’s purpose?
No?
Think about it.

What makes life worth living?
No?
Think about it.

What will you sacrifice your life for?
No?
Think about it.

Do you know what makes your life worth dying for and all that shit the motivational gurus ask?
No?
Think about it.

Are you done thinking?
No?

What were you doing when I asked you to think?
Reading?

Well, how dumb is that? You can’t even take orders? Or have you lost control over your attention?
Think about it.

Ok, now if you are still reading this line, you surely have some attention problems. Because I asked you to think about something. Not just something. But something really important. Something over which your life depends.
But you are still reading!

If you keep reading, who is going to think about life’s purpose and all that shit I asked you?

Because if you can’t answer it for me, how can I answer it for the motivational guru who asked me all that shit I asked you?

I was supposed to answer him yesterday. In the auditorium. When he looked at me, pointing his finger —
“What’s your life’s purpose?”

I looked at the person next to me, although I knew exactly where his finger was pointed. Towards me.

“I’m asking you. The man in the bright yellow shirt,” the guru pointed his finger.

I looked at the people sitting behind me, although I knew exactly where his finger was pointed.

I was the only person in the auditorium wearing a bright yellow shirt.

The guru walked to me, shook his head in despair, and asked,
“I’m asking you. What makes your life worth living?”

I ignored him.

The guru gasped. Everyone heard him.

How do I know, despite ignoring him?
Well, I was looking and smiling at everybody as they turned and glanced at me.
Except, of course, the guru whom I was ignoring.

The guru entered the row I was sitting in.
There were around 11 people to my left and 13 to my right.

How do I know?
Well, I was counting while ignoring the guru’s questions.
And unlike you, I have full control over my attention.
So I know where to direct it and where to divert it.

The guru slowly dragged himself in, pushing his broad body by people’s faces and chair backs.

The guru tapped my shoulder.
“What will you sacrifice your life for?”

I shrugged and turned away — standard procedure by now.

How do I know it was the guru who tapped me and not some other frustrated guy from the audience?
Well, again, attention.
Once you have control over it, you don’t need to think or see who’s tapping you.
Unlike you, of course, who can’t take orders or control attention.

“Hello. Sir? Mr. Yellow Shirt?” the guru tapped me harder.
“Do you know what makes your life worth dying for?”

I looked at the man to my right since the guru was on the left.
The man gestured to me to look at the guru.
I smiled and shook my head.

The guru scratched his head.
People around looked worried, thinking I have some problem.

The guru shoved past the man to my right and sat beside me, oozing righteous motivation.

I immediately turned my face away.

But the motivational guru was extremely motivated to hold my head and turn it towards him.
One hundred eighty degrees.

How do I know the guru was motivated?
Well, I was attentive, unlike, of course, you.
I heard him muttering curses under his breath, so I knew what was motivating him to act.

Also, don’t you know when somebody touches you out of frustration and turns your head?
If you don’t, seriously, you have some attention problems.

Anyway, the guru was now holding my face in his hands, pointing it straight at him.

I tried to move my head, but he didn’t let me budge.

I knew what I had to do.
I closed my eyes.

The guru was flabbergasted.

He tried to open my eyes with his fingers, but I squinted harder.

Soon, more fingers joined the attack — neighbors helping the guru pry my eyes open.

How did I know with my eyes shut?
Attention, of course.
My nose recognized their body odor instantly.
If you don’t believe me, give your nose some attention while it smells something stinky.

OK, anyway, after a while, somehow the men and the guru opened my eyes.

The guru breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hi Sir… Big Fan,” I smiled at the guru.

The guru creased his brows.
“Thank you.”

All others had been looking at us attentively for the last twenty-three minutes.

How do I know people were staring at me for exactly twenty-three minutes?
Well, attention, of course.
That’s where you direct it when you want to escape.
You can hear the clock ticking in the background if you pay attention to it.

Anyway, coming back to the story.

The guru looked at me and wondered about something.
I shot my eyebrows up asking him.

He scratched his neck to think.
“Why are you here, Guru?” I gasped, as I was tired of his scratching.

The guru tried to remember as his scratching reached his nose.
My brows arched.

He shrugged, stood up, and moved his broad being against the people sitting in the row and returned to the stage.

The guru had forgotten what he wanted to ask me.
He had no control over his attention.

If he had paid attention, he would have known from the start that I was not really ignoring him.

Actually, I was bored with his motivational crap.

So I had directed my attention to the stinky smell coming from my neighbours beside me.

I was so intrigued that I wondered —
How could anyone smell so bad?
Can that be someone’s life’s purpose?
To spread the stink around?
Can that smell make people sacrifice everything, even their lives?

When I was looking behind me, I wasn’t ignoring the guru.
I was just trying to confirm if the smell had reached the people behind me.

I was doing the same when people stared at me —
and when the guru asked me those stupid, silly questions.

Then, when I looked to my right and left, I was still trying to confirm the same.

When the guru held my face in his hands, I closed my eyes.
Not because I wanted to ignore him.
But because I was afraid of how he’d react when I puked on his face —
thanks to the smell that had finally reached my head.

Anyway, coming back to the story.

The guru remembered what he wanted to ask.
He didn’t remember.

The guy in the front row reminded him.

I was paying attention, unlike, of course, you.

The guru looked at me.
I looked back, holding my breath.

“What’s your life’s purpose? What makes life worth living? What makes it worth dying for?” the guru asked.

I stood up.
“Can I think about it and tell you tomorrow?”

I moved my broad body against people’s faces while exiting the row and the auditorium.

Do you want to know what I answered to the guru the next day?
Think about it.

If you still don’t get it, read the first few lines again.
And then go see a doctor.
Because I hate people who can’t pay attention when someone is speaking.

And once you’ve fixed it, come prepared with the same stupid questions I asked you — about life’s purpose and all that other shit.

Because I’ll be asking you the same questions in my motivational seminar:

“How to Deal with People’s Stink and Still Survive,”

— A Motivational Seminar by Mr. Yellow Shirt

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“I want to be a pilot,” Ashish said confidently when our teacher asked.

“I want to be a chef and open my own restaurant,” Ketan said.

“I want to be a writer,” I said — without knowing how that would ever happen.

That was twenty-five years ago.

Ashish didn’t become a pilot. He became a banker.
I didn’t become a writer either. I was working in a government organisation back then.

But Ketan became a chef. And today, he runs his own restaurant in Canada.

***

I remember visiting his house as a child.

He would serve us new dishes, proudly watching our reactions. Back then, I thought he was already walking toward his dream.

Years later, on a WhatsApp call, we were talking about school days.

“How were you so sure you’d become a chef?” I asked.
“You said it so confidently even at ten.”

Ketan laughed.

“I wasn’t sure at all. I didn’t even know what a chef actually does. I had just watched something on TV. When the teacher asked, that was the first thing that came to my mind.”

I paused.

“But you used to cook so well,” I said. “I still remember those dishes.”

He laughed again.

“I didn’t make them,” he said. “My grandmother did. I was just pretending to impress you all.”

“But then what changed?” I asked.

He paused for a moment.

“I slowly started living that identity,” he said.
“I began taking small steps. Learning basic things. Trying simple recipes. Watching cooking shows. Reading about food.”

He smiled.

“And those little steps… slowly made me who I am today.”

***

That thought stayed with me.

I had always wanted to be a writer.

But somewhere along the way, I had started believing that I needed to do something big to become one.

So I started small.

One page a day.
Sometimes 500 words. Sometimes less.

Then I began reading books on writing.
Studying how good writers think.
Learning structure, storytelling, language.

Slowly, one step led to another.

One day, those small efforts helped me write my first non-fiction book — The Goal Getter.

After that, I wanted to try fiction.

So again, I started small.
Reading fiction. Writing short stories. Understanding structure.

Today, I have written multiple books and several short stories.

Not because I took big steps.

But because I kept taking small ones.

***

Big goals don’t need big beginnings.

They just need small steps… taken consistently.

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I stood beside my car in the hospital parking lot, staring at the boxes of medicines on the back seat. Somehow, after hours of running between pharmacies, I had managed to gather most of what the doctor had prescribed. My head throbbed with numbers I could no longer afford to calculate.

My phone rang.

“Can we meet in ten minutes?” The voice on the other end sounded tense.

I checked the number. Unknown caller.

“I am sorry. I think you have ‌ the wrong number.”

I was about to hang up when he said, “Nick, right?”

I paused for a second.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Anubhav. I need your help urgently. Meet me in the Brime Cafe in five minutes,” he hung up before I could ask him further.

Brime Cafe? That’s just behind my house.

A strange thought crept into my mind. How did this man know a place so close to where I lived?

I checked my phone book for someone named Anubhav, but found no one.
Is it a fake number? Is it a scammer? Or worse… someone sent by Anand?

My mind kept creating questions I had no answers for.

I checked my watch. It was 5 PM. I stood there, thinking about what I should do. Should I call a friend for backup, just in case? Should I ignore it and leave?

If it were someone from Anand, ignoring the call might make things worse.

Before I could decide, my phone pinged with a message. “I have reached Brime Cafe. Waiting for you.”

I looked again at the medicines filling my car.

Just then, my phone vibrated again. I glanced at the screen, expecting to see that unknown number.

It was not Anubhav.

***

I decided to meet this stranger, Anubhav. What unsettled me most was that Brime Cafe was just behind my house. Did he know where I lived? Was he sent by someone to track me down? I tried to recall if I had met anyone named Anubhav recently, but nothing came to mind.

Just to be safe, I parked my car at a friend’s place and borrowed his car to meet the stranger.

During the short drive, my mind kept circling the same thought. What if Anubhav was connected to the man I had been avoiding all week? The possibility sent chills down my spine. If that were true, I could be in serious trouble. And if he knew about Brime Cafe, perhaps he knew more about me than I realized. The only way to find out was to meet him.

I parked a little distance away and watched the café from inside the car. The blue glow of the Brime Cafe sign washed over the entrance. A few young boys stood outside, smoking and laughing, further shortening their already short time on earth.

I scanned every car parked near the café, checking its number one by one. None of them belonged to Mr. Anand, the man I was trying to avoid.

The café looked brighter against the dark evening sky. Its modern, expensive vibe always attracted the richest crowd in the area. I had been here many times before, yet that evening it felt strangely unfamiliar.

My legs felt shaky. My fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel as my mind tried to decide my next move.

Just then, a loud knock hit my car window.

***

The security guard had warned me before not to park near the doctor’s clinic, a few spots beside Brime Cafe. I assured him again, but parked nearby anyway—just in case I had to leave in a hurry.

I had never been more aware of my surroundings than when I walked toward the café. My eyes kept scanning every face, searching for someone familiar.

Inside, I spotted a slightly bulky man in formals sitting alone at a table. I wondered if it was Anubhav.

Just then he picked up his phone, and my phone rang.

He noticed me standing there and waved.

I walked toward him, the fear inside me slowly turning into a sweat on my forehead.

“Nick, right?” he said, stretching his hand forward.

I shook it, but my eyes and ears kept scanning the café.

“What would you like to have?” he asked with a smile, sliding the menu card toward me.

“Nothing,” I blurted. “Just tell me what you want, and we’ll leave.”

Anubhav squeezed my shoulder lightly and tapped it as if to reassure me. Then he signaled the barista. “One more coffee for Sir.”

He excused himself to take a call.

My mind immediately jumped to the worst possibility — Anand. Maybe Anubhav was calling him, asking what to do next. The thought sent a fresh wave of fear through me.

I stood up to leave.

But Anubhav noticed and gently pulled me back. “Have some water,” he said, handing me a glass from the table. “I know you are tense. Just relax a bit.”

I looked at him, noticing every detail on his face. His thick eyebrows, his wide nose, the freckles on his face. Every detail confirming his identity in my mind.

He smiled and tried to look friendly. But my mind refused to believe it. Something about that calmness felt rehearsed—like a man pretending not to know exactly why he was there.

Just then, the barista placed the coffee on our table.

My phone pinged. I cut it.

It pinged again. This time it was Mr. Anand. The name on the screen nearly made me choke.

Anubhav noticed me staring at the phone. I looked up at him.

He was watching me quietly.

My phone pinged again. Anand again.

I was about to silence the call when Anubhav said, “I think you should take it. Must be important.”

I looked at him.

He smiled. But this time, he didn’t look friendly.

***

I stepped out of the café to take the call. The noise inside was loud enough to drown out anyone on the phone.

I had parked my car just a few steps away. I instinctively reached for my car keys.

They weren’t in my pocket.

I turned back toward the table.

The keys were still lying there.

Through the glass wall of the café, I saw Anubhav pick them up and begin playing with them casually.

A chill ran down my spine.

I was already regretting my decision to meet him. Now I was almost certain Anand had sent him.

My phone rang again. This time I had no choice but to answer.

“How long are you going to avoid me?” Anand’s voice sounded stern, as if he might appear at any moment and slap me across the face.

But now, with Anubhav sitting inside, it felt like Anand already had someone to do that for him.

“I… I’m not trying to avoid you,” I said.

“Oh, really?” Anand chuckled. “How many of my calls have you picked up today?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I was busy arranging your money. I had even arranged some of it, but—”

“But you wasted it buying truckloads of medicines,” Anand’s voice grew sharper.

I swallowed.

Was Anand following me now?

I glanced back at the café.

Anubhav was still there, calmly sipping his coffee while playing with my car keys.

“So now you’re following me?” I said. “You don’t trust me? I gave my word that I’ll return your money by tomorrow.”

The frustration inside me was rising fast. I desperately wanted to get rid of the loan Anand had given me for my business a year ago.

My business had been struggling, and I needed money to save it. A friend had suggested borrowing from Anand—a local moneylender who asked for no collateral, just a promise to return double the amount. At first, Anand denied but later succumbed to the pressure of a friend.

At that time, I was confident that my business would recover.

But the economy was growing slowly. The business survived but didn’t have enough cash for me to return the money. And whatever money I had left was now going toward my father’s heart surgery.

I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped the sweat from my forehead.

“Just pray I don’t meet you and your friend from the Income Tax.” He paused. “Because I will kill you both,” Anand breathed so heavily that I could hear the wind through the phone. “And don’t even think of running away. ”

“How can I run away when my father is lying in the hospital? I am trying. There’s still one more day left. I’m arranging funds. So stop troubling me by sending your men behind me.”

“What men?” There was confusion in Anand’s voice.

“Oh, really?” I said. “You didn’t send Anubhav?”

“Anubhav?” His voice carried genuine confusion. “I’m not a goon who sends people after borrowers,” he chuckled. Then he laughed. “But you have twenty-four hours.”

The call ended.

I stood there staring at my phone, wondering how I would arrange the money in just a day.

I knew Anand was more dangerous than he sounded. Men like him didn’t survive long without powerful backing.

For a moment, I thought of running away to some distant city.

But how could I leave my family when they needed me the most?

I turned back toward the café and found Anubhav sitting where I had left him.

Was he really not Anand’s man?

Or was Anand lying?

And if he wasn’t…then who exactly was he?

Anubhav noticed me looking at him.

He lifted the car keys above his head and gestured for me to come back inside.

***

“Give me the keys,” I said, holding out my palm.

“Sit for two minutes,” he said with a smile, gently guiding me back to the chair. “I need your help.”

My mind was still racing with possibilities, so I barely listened to what he was saying.

“Please help me. I’ll be in serious trouble if you don’t,” he said, joining his hands.

This made little sense. None of Anand’s men would ask for help. Not like this.

“Tell me,” I said, straightening in the chair. “What is it?”

Anubhav glanced around, then leaned closer. “I need you to keep some money for a while,” he whispered.

He pulled a bag from under the table and placed it near me. “My informant told me the income tax department is raiding my jewellery shop tomorrow. If they find this cash, I’ll be in deep trouble.”

I slightly opened the bag. It was full of cash. More money than I had ever seen at one time. My hand instinctively went to my wallet, as if to remind myself how empty it was.

“Who gave you my number?” I asked.

Anubhav leaned towards me. “A friend, Ketan, who works in income tax,” he whispered and squeezed my hand. “Look, please help me. I paid Ketan and I’ll pay you too. Ketan told me about your commission. I’ll pay double.”

I raised my hand to stop him.

My eyes wandered around the café. Young boys and girls were placing their orders. Others were lost in their phones. No one I recognized.

“Please,” Anubhav said again. “Ketan called me today to tell me about the raid. He told me I could trust you. Just keep the money for a day. I’ll collect it tomorrow at the same time.”

He stood up without waiting for my answer.

We walked toward the parking lot. He opened the door of my car and placed the suitcase inside.

“Thank you,” he said, extending his hand.

I shook it.

He turned toward his car.

“Hey,” I called out. “Do you want to meet at my place tomorrow?”

For a moment I watched him, still unsure if he was one of Anand’s men.

“I don’t know where you stay, man. This place is better.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. No calculation in his eyes.

I smiled.

“But getting a table here on weekends is difficult,” I said with a shrug. “Unless we book it beforehand.”

Anubhav nodded and pulled out his phone. “ I’ll book it on the way and text you the confirmation,”

He winked, reversed his car, and drove.

I watched his car disappear into the traffic.

I pulled my phone and called my friend from the income tax department. “ Anand is still looking for Ketan.”

Ketan chuckled. “ I hope he finds someone by that name.”

“Time for a new name,” I said.

Ketan chuckled and then paused. “ By the way, you have not been picking my calls. I hope Anubhav called you.”

“ Yes,” I said. “ He just left the bag of cash with me.,”

Ketan paused. “ How did you recognise him?

“ Well.. I figured,” I turned to look at Anubhav’s car speeding away. I hung up the phone.

My phone pinged. It was Anubhav’s text “I’ve booked a table in the name of Anubhav and Nick. Please carry your ID card. I hope you have it.”

“ Yes,” I replied.

I pulled my ID card out of my wallet. The plastic card caught the glow of the café lights.

My eyes rested on the name printed on the card.

Not Nick.

Ken Jones.

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Genres: General Fiction / Literary Fiction, Mystery & Suspense, and Sci-Fi & Fantasy

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Comedy with a hint of Romance

“Broke, homeless, and addicted to chocolate, will Sheryl chase her dream or remain tied to her mother’s purse strings?”

Sheryl, on the wrong side of thirty-five, has seen better days. She has lost her job, her home, and the ability to say no to her mother: a woman with as much sensitivity as a comedian.

Sheryl, a soft touch, is wilting in a sea of whiskey and American Wrestling. She spends her nights rooting for Johnstone, a wrestler as believable as Die Hard.

Until Sheryl discovers belly dancing.

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My wife’s gynaecologist detected a cyst a few months ago. She did a sonography, but for confirmation, she asked us to get additional tests done. The blood reports were normal, but the cyst had grown to nine centimetres and, according to the gynaecologist, required surgery.

However, she suggested trying medicines for three months before removing it. She believed the medicine might help—but the chances were abysmally low.

In the months that followed, I researched different surgeries that could mean shorter hospital stays, since we had a young daughter. I found the best doctors in town and even in nearby cities.

I connected with friends who knew doctors. I contacted my insurance company and understood all the procedures.

I googled CT scans, MRI scans, and every other scan doctors usually recommend. My mind wanted to be prepared. It began picturing all kinds of scenarios—scenarios that sent chills down my body.

I thought about it so much that I even started dreaming about the dreaded surgery.

By the end of three months, I had identified the best hospital, the best doctors, spoken to my insurance company, and prepared myself fully for the surgery.

My parents had also agreed to take care of my daughter until my wife recovered.

At the end of my wife’s medication cycle, we visited the doctor. In the car, I kept assuring her that everything would be fine. In truth, I was trying to reassure myself more than her.

The doctor called her inside. Meanwhile, I kept walking up and down the corridor, phone in hand. I wanted to be ready—to inform the hospital and get it done with.

The gynaecologist ran a series of tests while I held my breath, my heart beating like it was running a marathon.

After forty-seven minutes, the doctor called me into her cabin.

My legs felt heavy as I waited for her to speak. She removed her glasses and said, “The cyst is now just 1.5 centimetres. I wasn’t expecting this. Your wife doesn’t need surgery anymore.”

I furrowed my brow and asked, “Are you sure?”

She smiled. “Yes. We’ll continue the medicine. That will be enough.”

The trembling in my legs stopped as I finally breathed out—after three long months.

“We suffer more in imagination than in reality,” Seneca once said.

That day, I realised how much I had suffered simply because I believed my destructive thoughts. Once believed, those thoughts grew to enormous proportions.

The mind’s default state is negative—it evolved that way to protect us. But it is often wrong. Its job is to generate thoughts. Some estimates suggest the mind produces sixty to eighty thousand thoughts a day.

Imagine what would happen if you believed every single one of them.

Think about what you choose to believe.

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I almost rammed the car parked in front of me.

My foot slammed on the brake just in time. The tyres screeched lightly against the concrete of the restaurant parking lot.

“Watch out!” the guard rushed toward my window, waving his hand as if trying to stop a runaway truck rather than a distracted driver.

I nodded apologetically.

My mind was nowhere near the steering wheel.

The anxiety of meeting someone so successful had me sweating buckets.

When I joined the networking group, they told me something that sounded simple.

“You have to meet members one-to-one,” the coordinator explained. “It helps you understand each other’s businesses.”

Superb in theory. Terrifying in practice.

Especially when the person you were supposed to meet had been running a successful restaurant for years.

For a brief moment, I even considered asking for a refund for the networking membership.

But it was too late.

I had already requested an appointment with the owner, and she was waiting for me.

From the moment I confirmed the meeting, my mind had started its usual routine.

Why did you even join this group?

These people run big businesses.

You don’t belong here.

The voice had been relentless all morning.

Before I could think of any clever excuse to escape, the owner stepped out of the restaurant entrance and waved.

Mrs.Verma.

There was no turning back now.

I stepped out of the car, forcing a smile that felt as artificial as a plastic flower.

But I made a silent promise to myself.

Get the appointment book signed.

And run.

***

I stepped out of the car and noticed something I hadn’t paid attention to before.

The massive red building stood in one of the oldest parts of the city — the kind of place where the land itself felt historic. The walls looked as if they had been standing there long before my forefathers had even learned to spell their surnames.

This was the kind of area where property prices were whispered about, not spoken aloud. Land here was so expensive that even kings might have had to sell their estates just to buy a room.

Large structures stood shoulder to shoulder along the narrow street, each one carrying the quiet confidence of something built patiently over decades.

I looked at the building again.

A place like this didn’t appear overnight.

Generations of work must have gone into it.

My mind, unfortunately, had also spent generations perfecting another craft — making me feel smaller.

They have built something real; it screamed.

You have just started.

I hesitated.

For a moment, I seriously considered turning around.

No one would know.

But networking groups have one advantage.

They make running away slightly embarrassing.

So I straightened my shirt, took a deep breath, and walked inside.

***

Mrs. Verma greeted me and motioned for me to sit.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, excusing herself as a couple of guests walked in through the entrance. She hurried toward them with the ease of someone used to welcoming people.

The man wore a blue blazer and carried himself as if he owned several companies and probably a golf course.

I quietly turned my head away.

The last thing I wanted was to be introduced.

The restaurant had the warm smell of food and polished wood. Plates clinked softly, waiters moved briskly between tables, and conversations floated through the air like background music.

People sat comfortably at their tables, talking, laughing, stretching their meals just a little longer — the way people do when they genuinely like a place.

At a nearby table, a man was eating with his family. He laughed loudly at something his daughter said and then glanced toward me with a polite smile.

Maybe he noticed my anxiety. Or maybe he was just smiling the way people do when they see someone sitting alone in a restaurant.

My mind chose the more dramatic explanation.

I suddenly felt like a visitor in someone else’s success.

Mrs. Verma returned a few minutes later.

She greeted me with an easy smile.

“Welcome,” she said, as if we had known each other for years.

I stood quickly and shook her hand.

“Can we sit at the corner table?” she asked.

Before I could answer, she had already started walking toward it.

Maybe she preferred quiet conversations.

Or maybe — my mind suggested helpfully — she was slightly embarrassed about being seen speaking with me.

Just as we reached the table, a staff member approached her and whispered something.

“Excuse me for a minute,” she said politely and walked away.

I sat there.

One minute passed.

Then five.

Soon it felt as if the entire restaurant had noticed that the man at the corner table was sitting alone.

Waiters moved briskly between tables carrying plates of steaming food. Families chatted comfortably, laughter rising from different corners of the room.

Every table seemed busy.

Except mine.

I tried looking at my phone. Then at the chandelier. Then at the menu even though I had no intention of ordering anything.

After a while, I noticed the same man in the blue blazer again. He was speaking with Mrs.Verma near the entrance. They seemed to be discussing something important.

Of course they were.

Successful people had important things to attend to. Speaking with nervous newcomers was probably somewhere near the bottom of that list.

Nearly thirty minutes passed before she returned.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with a warm smile as she took her seat.

Successful and busy people had important things to attend to, I reminded myself.

Conversations with beginners could wait.

“No problem, madam,” I said.

Although in my mind I had already concluded that the real problem had just begun.

For the next few minutes she spoke about the restaurant.

How long it had been running.

How they had expanded over the years.

How difficult the early days had been.

Her voice carried the calm of someone who had solved many problems already.

I listened carefully.

But my mind kept doing somersaults.

And once the somersaults were over, it jumped straight to comparisons.

They built this.

What have you built?

They have hundreds of customers every day.

You’re still figuring things out.

The voice was relentless.

Then came the moment I had quietly feared.

***

“So, tell me about your business,” Mrs. Verma said.

I swallowed but my throat suddenly felt dry. I grabbed the glass of water in front of me and emptied it in one long gulp.

For a few seconds, my mind went blank.

Then the words started coming out.

I spoke about marketing communication. About how many businesses struggle not because they lack effort, but because their message isn’t clear. About helping businesses turn attention into customers.

It wasn’t a long explanation.

But it was honest.

When I finished, she leaned back in her chair and smiled.

“That’s very interesting,” she said.

“You explain it very clearly.”

For a moment, I thought I had misheard her.

My brain immediately tried to correct the sentence.

Maybe she meant simple.

Or maybe she was just being polite.

But she continued asking questions about how businesses could improve their communication. She leaned forward slightly, listening carefully, nodding as I spoke.

She looked genuinely interested.

It was… confusing.

“How do you get most of your customers?” I asked finally. “From websites or social media?”

She smiled and picked up the glass of water in front of her.

“We don’t need a website or social media,” she said calmly. “Word of mouth is enough.”

That reminded me of their history.

It had been seventy years since the first customer had walked into this restaurant.

My work suddenly felt… unnecessary.

And the voice inside my head had already delivered its verdict.

You are nothing compared to them.

I quickly pulled out my appointment book and pushed it across the table.

“If you could just sign this,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She looked at the book, then at me, her eyebrows narrowing slightly.

“What’s the hurry?” she asked.

Then she smiled.

“Let me explain the rules of our networking group first.”

For the next few minutes she spoke about how the organisation functioned — its hierarchy, the senior members, and the successful businesses that had been part of the group for years.

Every mention made me feel a little smaller.

I just kept nodding, silently hoping I wouldn’t die of anxiety during my first one-to-one meeting.

Finally, she stood up.

“Let me show you the banquet hall,” she said.

***

We walked through a narrow corridor that opened into a large hall.

I stopped for a moment.

The place looked elegant.

Tall ceilings stretched high above us, with rows of carefully placed lights glowing softly across the room. Exquisite chandeliers hung from above, scattering warm light over polished floors.

The decor balanced celebration with quiet sophistication.

“This is where people celebrate their most important days,” Mrs. Verma said.

“Weddings, engagements, anniversaries.”

Her voice echoed gently in the large space.

As she spoke, she pointed toward different corners of the hall.

“Over there,” she said, pointing near the entrance, “a couple celebrated their engagement last month.”

Then she gestured toward the stage.

“And near the stage, a family organized their daughter’s wedding reception.”

I looked around.

Every corner of the hall seemed to carry someone’s memory.

Laughter. Music. Families celebrating milestones they would remember for the rest of their lives.

And with every step I took inside that hall, the voice returned.

Look at this place.

Look what they’ve built.

And look at you.

The comparison grew heavier with each step.

Success has a strange effect.

Sometimes it inspires you.

Sometimes it quietly makes you feel smaller.

And at that moment, I felt tiny.

I glanced at my watch, trying to signal that I was getting late.

Mrs. Verma noticed.

Without saying anything, I handed her the appointment book.

She took it, nodded, and guided me back toward the stairs.

***

We walked back toward the entrance. She signed my appointment book and handed it back.

I took it quickly, thanked her, and turned toward my car.

“You should visit more often,” she said behind me. “I enjoyed our discussion and…”

I paused.

There was a slight change in Mrs. Verma’s tone that made me turn back.

It was a simple sentence.

But it interrupted the argument that had been running inside my head all afternoon.

I looked at her, slightly confused.

“And?”

“Your profile is very impressive,” Mrs. Verma said. “I have met no one as informative as you in my five years in the networking group.”

For a moment I simply stared at her.

My mind struggled to process the sentence.

“Can I ask you a favour?” she said.

I nodded.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers intermingled for a moment as if she were choosing her words carefully.

“Can you help me with my personal communication?” she said. “I felt so small when I spoke with you today.”

“What?” I blurted.

She took a deep breath, as if calculating her words before speaking.

“I’m sorry for avoiding you all afternoon. I know you might have noticed it.”

“ Avoid?” I said.

“You are too good, too accomplished at your age,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again, as if relieved to finally say it.

My mind went blank.

Because while I had spent the entire meeting measuring myself against her success…

She had been measuring herself against mine.

I felt something loosen inside me.

For the first time that afternoon, I smiled.

She smiled back.

Instead of leaving, we pulled the chairs closer and continued talking.

And what I had expected to be the shortest meeting of the day slowly turned into a conversation that lasted for hours.

***

Inside that hall filled with memories, two people had simply met.

One who had been building something for years.

And another who had only just begun.

All afternoon I had been measuring myself against her success.

Only later did I realize—

she had been measuring herself against mine.

And suddenly, the banquet hall didn’t feel quite as large.

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“Did you reply to the bank notice?” My wife Priya paused as soon as she saw me standing on the terrace. The terrace was dimly lit, and I kept staring at the wall ahead as if it might offer an answer.

I nodded, though my mind was elsewhere.

The terrace was dimly lit, and I kept staring at the wall ahead as if it might offer an answer.

“Did they agree?”

I held my breath, hoping silence would answer for me.

“Ken?” She walked up and held my arms. “Did they agree?”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head.

She closed her eyes and drew in a slow breath. “What will we do now?”

I turned away. The wall in front of me felt like more than concrete; it looked like a closed opportunity. A small cockroach was trying to climb it, slipping every few inches before falling back down. All cockroaches get trampled eventually, I thought. Just as I was being trampled by fate.

My phone pinged. The bank’s email.

I skimmed it.

“We have three months left.” I closed my eyes and tilted my head upward. “If we don’t pay the installment within three months, they will take legal action.”

Coffee spilled from my cup onto the terrace floor, though it was still half-filled. I looked at my trembling hands and walked away without waiting for her response.

“Why don’t you ask your parents or relatives for help?” Priya’s voice followed me. “We have a little kid to take care of. Leave your ego aside and talk to them.”

I knew she was right, but when someone names your fear, it becomes real.

I clenched my hands. I had never imagined I would face this day. When I quit my job, I believed everything would somehow work out. My parents, relatives, and friends had opposed the decision, but I wanted to follow my dream of building something of my own.

I walked back to Priya and looked into her eyes without flinching. “You know what they will ask, don’t you? They will want me to shut this business down and go back to being a corporate slave.” My voice was heavy, though uncertainty still lingered beneath it. “I can’t ask them for help. They won’t understand.”

“I know it’s tough for you, Ken,” she said, squeezing my arms. “But think about our daughter. You had your chance. Maybe this is for the best.”

I gave a dry chuckle and shook my head. “It is for my daughter. What will I tell her when she grows up? That she should give up on her dreams just like her father?”

Priya knew how much the business meant to me. I had put everything into it — not just money or a well-paying job, but my credibility. The business hadn’t performed as I expected. I had borrowed from friends and the bank, yet we couldn’t generate enough to cover even the installment. Meanwhile, competitors funded by investors were flooding the market, copying our product and pushing us out.

The only means of survival was to attract enough customers.

“Do you have a plan?” Priya asked.

I nodded. “I am meeting Nick this evening. Maybe he will invest.”

***

Nick was one of my oldest friends, someone who had supported me when I transitioned from a job into business. I hadn’t met him in about a year, but I always sought his advice. I discussed my plans with him — my product, my strategy, anything related to the business. He was a role model, an inspiration, someone whose validation I constantly chased.

He ran successful businesses and had invested in several others. When I learned he was in the city, I grabbed the chance to meet him.

I waited outside a quiet café near the main road, watching cars pass while rehearsing what I would say.

Nick stepped out of his white Mercedes, which looked newer than the suit I was wearing. His black suit complemented the aura he carried so effortlessly.

“How are you, buddy?” he said, shaking my hand before pulling me into a hug.

“I am good,” I replied, forcing a smile and feeling a flicker of hope from the familiarity of an old friend.

He motioned for me to sit while he finished a few calls. I waited, then ordered our regular coffee.

“So how was your last year? You must feel the difference between a job and a business now,” Nick said, tapping my shoulder from behind before sitting down. His smile still carried the same honesty from our school days. Wealth and status hadn’t corrupted it.

I nodded.

He studied my face. “Is everything okay? You seem tense.”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. My legs trembled under the table. Nick noticed. “What’s wrong?”

I told him everything — how the business was struggling, about the loan and the notice, about New Education Technologies copying our product and bleeding us with advertisements across the city.

He listened intently, silencing his phone each time it rang.

“I need your help, man,” I finally said.

Nick leaned back. “Sure. How can I help?”

His tone comforted me more than his words. I believed he would pull me out of this.

“I want you to invest in my business,” I said. “Take as much equity as you want. I’m ready for even a fifty-fifty partnership. Your expertise can make this a success.”

Nick pressed his lips together and moved them slightly, the way he did when weighing decisions. Years of friendship had taught me that expression.

“Look, Ken, I have too much on my plate right now,” he said.

My heart rate quickened. My legs began trembling again.

“Look, man, I’m in deep trouble,” I said. “I don’t want to shut down the business. You love the product, don’t you? Can you at least loan me some money? I’ll return it. I promise.”

Nick leaned forward and tapped my shoulder. “I can’t. Not right now. Some issues in my businesses. But I can suggest another way out.”

He stood up, pulled out his wallet, and handed me a card.

“There’s a meeting of the city entrepreneurs’ networking group today. You should go,” he said. “You can introduce your business, generate referrals, maybe even get potential clients — or, if you’re lucky, investors.”

I stared at the card. My mind began racing through worst-case scenarios — rejection, embarrassment, failure. Now that even Nick had stepped back, I had no other option but to attend the entrepreneurs’ meet.

***

As I was heading back, my mind kept whispering to me.

Don’t attend the meeting. It’s useless.

It’s a gathering of the biggest entrepreneurs in the city. You are nothing compared to them.

Why would they invest in a failing business?

Nick had told me I would get twenty seconds to pitch. For a sinking ship, even touching the shore for a few seconds can mean the difference between life and death. I had to take that chance.

I wrote and rewrote my twenty-second pitch, refining every word to show how my business was different, what problem it solved, and why it deserved attention.

At exactly 6 PM, I got ready, smoothing the creases on my old formal blue shirt before driving to the venue, repeating the pitch in my car as if I were preparing for an exam.

The hotel shimmered under the reflection of headlights from expensive cars pulling up one after another. My small car looked even smaller among them. For a moment, I considered parking outside to avoid the valet stand, but by the time I made the decision, the attendant was already standing beside my door.

I handed him the keys and walked away quickly, hoping no one would associate me with the modest vehicle.

The meeting was in the largest auditorium on the third floor. By the time the lift doors opened, my shirt clung to my back. I could hear nothing but the loud thudding of my heart. My mind urged me to leave before I embarrassed myself.

The lobby was dim at first, but as my eyes adjusted, the darkness gave way to laughter and animated conversations. Around a hundred people stood in small circles, shaking hands, nodding, smiling with ease.

I registered using the card Nick had given me and moved to a corner. My eyes kept drifting toward the exit door as I debated whether to stay or walk away.

“What do you do?” a gentleman to my left asked, offering me a cup of coffee. I hadn’t noticed him standing there.

I accepted the cup. “I am in the education business.”

He introduced himself and mentioned that he was also attending as a visitor. The regular members met every Friday, he said, to exchange business opportunities and referrals.

He casually pointed out some of the prominent figures in the room — professionals, service providers, manufacturers — all interacting confidently.

“Why don’t you speak to someone before they ask us to sit?” he suggested. “I’ll catch up with my client.”

He left me standing there, uncertain about whom to approach.

I scanned the room again. I knew no one. I wished Nick had come, but he had other commitments.

Then I spotted a familiar face from the education sector. Mr. Sharma, owner of multiple ed-tech ventures and an investor in several others.

I forced myself to walk toward him.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Mr. Sharma looked older than he did on television, but just as polished in his grey suit.

“Yes?” he smiled.

“Sir, I am—”

The host’s voice cut through the room, asking everyone to take their seats.

Mr. Sharma smiled politely. “Let’s talk after the formal introductions.”

I stepped back, holding onto my courage a little longer, but a question kept echoing in my mind.

Was this worth it?

***

The introductions were sharp and succinct. One by one, people stood up and announced their businesses with confidence. I wasn’t listening. I kept rehearsing my introduction in my head.

The host finally gestured toward me. As a visitor, I was told I would get ten seconds.

Ten seconds?

My pitch was at least thirty.

I stood up and spoke, but the words came out tangled. I repeated myself, stumbling over phrases I had perfected in the car. Before I could gather myself, the bell rang. It was over.

I knew I hadn’t done justice to my business. Still, I heard a few claps. I couldn’t tell whether they were polite or genuine.

After the introductions, the room dissolved into conversations. I remained seated, convinced I had wasted my chance, when a man approached me.

“Hi, I am Vipin, a business coach,” he said, extending his hand with a calm smile.

A business coach? Not an investor. Not someone who could clear my loan.

“Hi, sir,” I replied, shaking his hand.

“I liked your approach and the distinct way you described your business,” he said, taking a seat beside me.

I thanked him, but my eyes kept drifting toward Mr. Sharma. When Sharma glanced in my direction and smiled, I took it as a sign.

I stood up.

Vipin raised his eyebrows slightly. “I think there’s a new product we could build together, if you’re interested. Something for first-time entrepreneurs.”

A new product? More money? And what about the business that was already drowning?

“We will catch up sometime, sir,” I said, excusing myself and heading toward Mr. Sharma, my last hope.

***

“Hello, young man,” Mr. Sharma said, shaking my hand. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Ken,” I said with a forced smile. “Ken from Educare Solutions.”

“Oh yes, I remember now. Only two of us were from the education sector,” he said, patting my arm. “Tell me more.”

That sounded promising.

I explained how my business served a focused audience and how we differentiated ourselves by combining personal mentorship with technology.

When I finished, Mr. Sharma remained silent for a few seconds.

“Look, Ken, you have an excellent product. But it’s a tough market.”

He had spoken my fear aloud.

“That’s why I need your help,” I blurted. “If you invest, your expertise can help me scale.”

Mr. Sharma stood up slowly. “I have partners. I’ll speak to them, but I’m not positive right now. Stay in touch.”

He handed me his card, tapped my shoulder, and walked away to greet someone else.

With that, my hope collapsed again. I found myself looking at the exit door, wondering if I should just leave.

Then I noticed someone walking through the entrance.

And for a moment, I thought I might have another chance.

***

Nick had said he wouldn’t attend because of prior appointments, so when I saw him walk into the room, relief washed over me before I could control it.

He carried the same effortless charisma. Conversations paused as he moved across the hall, shaking hands with important men, smiling as if he owned the space. When he spotted me and waved, I noticed a few heads turn in my direction. For the first time that evening, I felt visible.

Nick walked up to me and shook my hand. “Any luck?”

I shook my head.

“Come,” he said, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to someone who can help.”

He guided me toward a small group.

“Mr. Sharma,” Nick said smoothly. “Meet my school friend, Ken.”

“We have met,” I said, forcing a smile toward Mr. Sharma.

“You did? Sorry for being late,” Nick replied. “So, did you make any deals?”

I shook my head again.

“His product is good, but I need to consult my partner,” Mr. Sharma said, tapping my arm casually.

Nick smiled. “You don’t have to consult me on such petty things, Mr. Sharma. If someone like us invests in his business, it will take off.”

The words lingered.

“You are his partner?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Mr. Sharma and Nick exchanged a glance and smiled.

“From last year,” Mr. Sharma replied. “It has been a great partnership.”

The floor beneath me felt unstable.

“You could have invested in my business when we met for coffee,” I looked at Nick. “I offered you a partnership.”

Nick gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “Look, Ken, I know your business won’t last another three months. You told me about the loan. But investment won’t solve your problem.”

He reached into his wallet.

Time seemed to slow as he pulled out a cheque.

He held it between two fingers and extended it toward me.

I took it.

The amount made my chest tighten. It was double what I had asked for.

I looked up. “I value your and Mr. Sharma’s expertise, but this is too much for a fifty-fifty partnership.”

Nick chuckled softly. “This is not for an equal partnership,” he said. “We want to buy you out.”

The words did not hit immediately. They settled first. Then they struck.

Buy me out.

Nick knew what this business meant to me. He had heard every idea, every doubt, every small win. He knew what I had sacrificed. And now he wanted me to sell it.

“Is this why you wanted me to meet Mr. Sharma here?” I said. “You know I don’t want to sell,” I added. “You know that.”

Nick smiled, but something in his eyes had changed. “That’s exactly why I want you to take the offer. Unless…”

“Unless?” My voice sounded distant even to me.

Nick tilted his head toward the cheque.

I looked down again.

My eyes moved past the amount, past the signature, and then stopped at the company name printed below.

New Education Technologies.

The same rival copying our product. The same company flooding the market with advertisements.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

Images flashed in my mind — the hours Nick had spent in my office, the detailed questions about my product, the casual suggestions about scaling, the jokes about selling it to him. The long conversations over coffee where I had laid everything out.

All of it suddenly rearranged itself.

“Unless we throw you out of business,” Mr. Sharma said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of someone used to getting his way.

Nick said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on me.

For a moment, the room felt silent despite the surrounding noise.

All these years, I had tried to be like him. I had measured myself against men like him. I had chased their approval as if it were oxygen.

And here they were, not dismissing my business — but trying to own it.

Nick stepped closer and held the cheque out again.
“Look, I am sorry. Not everyone is meant for business. Take it. Settle your loan. Find yourself a job.”

The room did not go silent, but it felt as if it did.

I looked at the cheque again.

The number was enough to clear my loan.
Enough to silence relatives.
Enough to make Priya breathe again.
Enough to buy time.

For a brief moment, I imagined walking home with it.

Priya’s face relaxing.
My daughter running to me.
The bank notices stopping.

No more pressure.
No more humiliation.

Just relief.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

But then another image followed.

My product — no longer mine.
My idea — under someone else’s logo.
My work — reduced to salary.
Me — explaining to my daughter that sometimes dreams are impractical.

Nick watched me carefully. He knew the weight of the cheque. He also knew the weight of my desperation. “You know this is the smart decision,” he said .

Smart.

The same word people had used when asking me not to quit my job.

For years, I had measured myself against him.
Compared my progress to his.
Sought approval like a student waiting for marks.

And now, the man I admired was not dismissing my business.

He was afraid of it.

That realization settled slowly.

They did not see me as small.

They saw me as threat.

I looked at Nick again.

The aura felt thinner now.

For the first time, I was not looking up at him. I was looking at him.

“You know I don’t want to sell,” I looked in his eyes.

“That’s exactly why you should,” he replied. “Unless we throw you out of business.”

The words echoed again.

I looked at the cheque one last time.

It could solve my fears.

But it would confirm my doubts. And those doubts had been louder than any competitor.

I folded the cheque once.

Then tore it.

The sound was not dramatic.

Just paper giving way.

Nick’s jaw tightened. Mr. Sharma held his arm.

“I hope you realise what you’re giving up,” Nick said.

I turned back toward him.

“Yes,” I said calmly. “I’m giving up the need to be approved by people like you.”

The noise of the hall returned slowly, like sound rushing back after an explosion.

For years, I had stood in rooms like this, feeling invisible.

Now I felt seen — not by them, but by myself.

I folded the torn pieces of the cheque and placed them in Nick’s hand.

His jaw tightened.

This time, I did not lower my eyes.

I held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

Then I turned.

The business coach was still speaking to another entrepreneur near the corner. He paused when he saw me approaching.

I walked toward him without hesitation.

Behind me, the laughter, the deals, the power circles continued. But I was no longer standing at the edge of the room.

I looked at the exit door again. And mentally closed it.

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I was delivering a seminar on entrepreneurship once in an average-rated college when a young man stood up and said,

“Entrepreneurship is for students belonging to good colleges.”

I wanted to respond with examples of countless entrepreneurs who had either dropped out or graduated from mediocre institutions and still built successful ventures.

But his tone and expression told me something.

He had already decided.

On another day, a friend of mine who had started a bicycle startup said,

“Entrepreneurship is for people who have money, connections, or access to both.”

This friend was a graduate from one of the top engineering colleges in the state.

I didn’t agree, of course. I had seen too many entrepreneurs succeed without either.

Then I read the story of Nick Vujicic — and it shifted something in me.

When Nick was born, the doctors were shocked.

He had no arms.
No legs.
Just a small foot-like limb.

He was bullied in school. He questioned his existence. As a teenager, he even attempted to end his life.

If anyone had a reason to focus on what they didn’t have, it was him.

He didn’t have:
Hands to hold things.
Legs to walk.
The body the world calls “normal.”

For years, he asked the same question many of us ask — in smaller ways:

“Why don’t I have what others have?”

But something shifted.

Instead of staring at what was missing, he began exploring what remained.

He had a voice.
He had a mind.
He had humour.
He had empathy.

So he started speaking.

First in small groups.
Then in schools.
Then on stages.

Today, he has spoken to millions across the world. He runs organisations. He is married. He has children.

The world saw what he lacked.

He chose to use what he had.

Most of us are not born without limbs.

But we walk around saying:

“I don’t have enough money.”
“I don’t have enough education.”
“I don’t have the right background.”
“I don’t have connections.”

We keep staring at the missing pieces.

And in doing so, we ignore the strengths already in our hands.

Nick’s limitation was visible.

Ours are invisible — but just as powerful.

The difference wasn’t his body.

It was his focus.

He stopped asking,
“What don’t I have?”

And started asking,
“What can I do with what I have?”

Sure, the world is not always fair.

But no one has everything.

So instead of complaining about what you lack, ask yourself:

What do I already have?

Because you don’t need more.

You need to use what you already have.

P.S.- Short story from upcoming non-fiction book “Quiet Clarity”

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“Are you ready?” Nick said on the phone. “The bus leaves in two hours.”

I checked my watch. 3:00 p.m.

Two hours to freedom. Or disaster.

“I’m almost ready,” I whispered. “Just need to confirm that my parents are still asleep.”

I muted the call and opened my bedroom door two inches — the official angle of criminals.

The house was too quiet. I could hear the ticking clock, the slow breathing of the cat, even the faint rustle of something near the dining table.

But no human noise.

No dragging footsteps. No television. No devotional music. Not even the cough my father used whenever he wanted to remind the house he existed.

The cat, though — the cat could ruin everything. My mother’s ancient, suspicious cat had a sixth sense for wrongdoing. If it meowed at the wrong moment, the entire operation would collapse.

I unmuted the phone.

“Looks clear. I’ll leave in five minutes. See you at the station.”

“Okay,” Nick said.

“Wait,” I whispered. “What about her?”

“She’s ready. I’m picking her up. Relax.”

Relax?

People who say relax have never tried escaping their own house.

I slung the brown bag over my shoulder and stepped into the hallway, moving slowly — trying to imitate the very cat I despised.

For a brief, shameful second, I wished my parents would disappear for ten minutes. Not permanently. Just long enough for me to leave without explanation.

Guilt followed immediately.

What kind of son imagines such things?

But what choice did I have? Last Sunday my mother had said, with terrifying calm, “We need to visit the Sharma family to see their daughter,” in the same tone she used when selecting curtains.

I had nodded then. I always nodded.

I crossed the dining area, eyes scanning left and right like a low-budget spy.

And then—

“Meow.”

I froze.

The cat stared at me from under the sofa, unimpressed.

I stared back, hoping intimidation worked across species.

It blinked. I took that as permission.

I reached the main door. Turned the lock. Opened it. Slipped outside.

Closed it. Exhaled.

Freedom was five steps away.

I turned.

And my heart dropped.

Because even unconscious parents would have been easier to explain than what stood in front of me.

***

“Hi, Ken,” Mr. Anand said, stepping slightly forward. He was the kind of middle-aged man whose hair had begun filing resignation letters years ago.

I knew him well. A common friend of the Sharma family and ours. Which meant this was not an accident.

I forced a smile and kept walking, as if I were merely stepping out for fresh air and not abandoning my own future.

“Where are you going?” another man asked. I didn’t look at him, but the hoarse authority in his voice suggested senior citizenship and entitlement.

“We are here to see you.”

See me?

I cursed myself for responding. “I am not a sofa, Uncle.”

Laughter scattered across the verandah. Not loud. Just enough.

I reached for the gate, hoping speed would solve what conversation couldn’t.

“Ken.”

My mother’s voice.

Polite. Controlled. Dangerous.

“The Sharmas are here on our invitation. Neha is also here.”

She smiled — the kind of smile that reassures guests and warns sons.

Beside her stood a girl in a soft pastel suit, bending to touch my mother’s feet.

When she stood up and looked at me, my carefully rehearsed escape plan developed a crack.

She was… not a biodata sheet.

Not a horoscope alignment.

Not a negotiation.

Just a person.

And annoyingly, a very pretty one.

For a second, the word “prison” felt dramatic. But only for a second. Because somewhere across town, Nick was waiting at the station.

With her.

My father appeared at the doorway and gestured inside.

Not a request.

I tightened my grip on the bag.

I had prepared for emergencies.

I was very good at preparation.

Just not confrontation.

Plan B waited quietly in my pocket.

And I stepped inside.

***

“Are you going somewhere?” Mr. Anand asked, adjusting his spectacles as if inspecting a product.

My parents’ eyes shifted to the bag on my shoulder.

“No,” I said too quickly. “It’s for my friend, Nick. He’s going on a safari. Needed my bag.”

I smiled. The kind of smile that collapses under its own dishonesty.

“Ah,” the older man nodded, pleased with nothing in particular.

“Okay. Have a good time,” I said, standing again.

“Where do you think you are going?” my father’s voice cut through the room.

It wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

I stopped.

“To give this bag to Nick. He’s going on a safari. Remember?”

“Nick isn’t here,” my father said, glancing outside the main door as if expecting him to materialise on command. Then he looked at me.

“Sit.”

One word.

No argument. No explanation.

Just history.

I opened my mouth. For a second, the sentence formed.

I am not ready.

I don’t want this.

But it dissolved before reaching air.

I had said it before. Months ago. Casually. Carefully.

It had floated in the room for a while and then quietly died.

Saying it again now — in front of guests — would not be rebellion. It would be disrespect.

And I had been raised to avoid disrespect more than unhappiness.

So I sat.

I checked my watch. 3:30 p.m.

The bus would leave at 4:45.

If I didn’t leave by four, traffic would make the decision for me.

The bag on my shoulder felt heavier now — not with clothes, but with the illusion that escape was easier than conversation.

***

I glanced sideways to see what my mother was doing. Mrs. Sharma motioned Neha toward the kitchen. Neha hesitated for half a second, then followed.

If I followed her, everyone would interpret it as enthusiasm. And enthusiasm, in this room, was more dangerous than being sentenced to death.

I sat there smiling politely while holding a small bottle in my palm — the one the pharmacist had given me with unnecessary enthusiasm. Yes, that was my backup plan.

Drug the water.

Make everyone sleepy.

Escape.

Immature? Desperate? Sure, but I cared for instant results now. And escaping had always worked.

“Excellent company, we heard?” Mr. Sharma said, attempting small talk.

“No,” I replied calmly. “We’re almost bankrupt. Should be on the streets soon.”

Mr. Anand looked at him. When Mr. Sharma didn’t react, Mr. Anand burst out laughing. “Such humour! I like him.”

Apparently, I was now entertaining.

My father straightened slightly.

“In this economy, he still earns well,” he added, as if I were a stock investment he personally managed.

“Benefits of a good company,” Mr. Sharma replied, not to be outdone.

And just like that, the conversation turned into a silent wrestling match between two fathers armed with children’s salaries.

I watched, wondering if either chest might actually burst from pride.

“Have some sweets,” my mother interrupted, signalling the end of masculine negotiations.

That was my cue.

I rose casually and headed toward the kitchen.

And walked straight into Neha.

***

“Hi,” Neha said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hi,” I replied, lifting my hand in a wave that felt unnecessary given the distance between us. “Why don’t you… have some sweets? With your parents?” I gestured vaguely toward the hall, stating the obvious.

She smiled.

“I don’t eat sweets.”

“Oh.” I nodded intelligently. “I can tell. By your… I mean… you look… disciplined.”

She laughed softly. “You’re a funny guy.”

And walked back toward the hall.

For a second, I stood there replaying the last ten seconds of my existence.

Then I remembered the bottle in my pocket.

Right.

The plan.

I took out the small vial, hesitated — just briefly — and poured the liquid into the water jug.

I was thirty-two years old.

And drugging water.

***

“What are you doing here?”

My mother’s voice cut through the kitchen.

The cat, loyal witness to all crimes, leapt off the counter. My heart followed.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, lifting the tray. “Just helping. Let me carry it.”

“No need.” She took the tray from my hands. “At least behave properly while the guests are here. Don’t you want Neha to respect you all your life?”

All my life?

The words hung heavier than the tray.

“How will I lose respect by offering water?” I asked.

My mother gave me a look — the kind that required no subtitles — and nudged me toward the hall.

As if gently redirecting furniture.

***

I sat at my place, waiting for everyone to finish the sweets and finally move to the water.

I had never thought of water as being this important in my life. But suddenly, water felt revolutionary.

“Water is such an important aspect of humans,” I began, nodding at my own statement.

Everyone, not knowing what to do, nodded back.

“Our human body is seventy percent water,” I added confidently. “Such an important thing water is.”

I looked at Mr. Anand. His brows had risen in curiosity.

I gestured toward the glass of water in front of him.

He picked it up and drank it.

Good.

But the others were still talking.

“You know, we don’t have enough water in our bodies. So I make it a point to drink it wherever and whenever I can. Even in the washroom, sometimes I have it.” I looked at the glass of water, hoping they would get the hint.

Mr. Anand choked mid-sip.

I just hoped he had swallowed enough.

“What is the matter with you?” my mother leaned toward me and gripped my arm. “I know what you are doing. You cannot get out of this. Both your father and I like Neha.”

For the last few years, my parents had wanted me to get married. I had dodged it by not attending weddings, coming home late, and avoiding weekends. Whenever they cornered me, I escaped the conversation. And somehow, it worked.

Until today.

I looked at Neha.

She looked back.

For a moment, I felt she was forced into this too. If I stormed out, her parents would blame her. For girls, not getting married becomes a bigger burden.

I closed my eyes for a second, as I always did when things felt too tight.

I didn’t hate marriage.

I hated compulsion.

“Do you want to ask questions?” my father said, looking at me and Neha.

I shook my head.

Neha followed.

Glasses were lifted.

Water was swallowed.

In a few minutes, they would doze off.

And I would escape.

I checked my watch. 4:15 p.m.

***

A message from Nick flashed.

We have reached the station. Not sure how long I can keep the girl convinced.

I stared at the screen.

This was insane.

I was thirty-two.

Should I try talking again? I knew what they would say. I always knew.

Tell her it’s just for two days. Come pick me up quickly, I typed.

And watched Mr. Sharma struggle to keep his eyes open.

***

“Is everything all right?” Anand asked Mr. Sharma. “Are you having some kind of heart attack?”

Neha stood up, her eyes widening in fear. Mrs. Sharma, who was also trying to doze off, attempted to get up, but her heavy body gave up to the liquid. She leaned back, yawned and said, “Maybe he needs rest because of the night party.”

“Party?” Neha furrowed her brows, trying to make sense as her mother dozed off like her father. Mr. Anand was already in dreamland, probably planning my marriage with someone.

I stood up and whispered, “There are a lot of medicines for oldies nowadays so they can party all night.” I winked.

She just stared at me, then at her parents. Her face went from fear to disgust.

I looked at my parents, who were now smiling and sleeping on their sofa seats. Surely they must also be attending my marriage with Mr. Anand in their dreams.

“I think you should drink some water and rest,” I said, picking up a glass of water and offering it to Neha.

She took it, looked at me as she brought the glass close to her mouth, and then chuckled. “I know there’s something in the water. I saw you putting the liquid in it.”

“What liquid?” I stuttered and shrugged. “The only liquid in this glass is water.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell your parents. Go wherever you are planning to go.” Neha picked up a bowl of sweets sitting on the chair next to her parents.

“I thought you didn’t eat sweets.”

Neha shrugged and put another sweet in her mouth. “And I thought you liked me?”

That hit me. Had I given her hints unintentionally? No, it must be my parents who go gaga over my average looks, mediocre education and frustrating job just to get me married.

“Look, I am sorry. You are beautiful, but…”

“But?” Neha looked at me.

“I don’t want to marry anyone right now.” I almost gasped as the words came out of my mouth instead of being replayed in my mind repeatedly.

She furrowed her brow. “Why didn’t you say it before?”

“I told my parents, but…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“They didn’t agree? Right?” Neha said.

I shook my head.

She paused, looking at the bag over my shoulder. “So you wanted to run away?”

The way she said it made me feel guilty. “Look… it’s complicated. You won’t understand. It’s not that easy.”

Neha smiled, shook her head, and then chuckled. “Sure. You think it’s easier for girls.”

Before I could say anything, she raised her hand to stop me. “Please go before everyone wakes up. I will pretend to be asleep too.”

I checked the watch. It was 4:45 PM. Outside, I heard a horn. I checked — it was Nick.

“Thanks a lot. I will return the favour sometime.”

Neha looked at me and smiled. “Do yourself the favour by standing up to what you believe in.”

I looked at her. Then turned.

As I stepped out, Nick gestured for me to hurry. “Man, that girl is so greedy. I gave her another 10k. And she just has to pretend to be your wife for what, three hours?”

Nick kept talking. I heard him, but couldn’t register the words. My mind was stuck on Neha’s sentence. I wanted to tell her what it’s like to live meeting everyone’s expectations, how difficult it is to go against family and do what you believe in. But something kept bothering me.

There was truth in what she had said.

Nick started the bike. I tapped his shoulder and got off.

“What’s the matter, Ken?” Nick asked, watching me remove the bag from my shoulder.

“ This has to end,” I said, nodding to myself.

“ What?” he looked confused.

“Escaping life,” I smiled. “Not for my parents. Not for anyone else. For myself.”

“ What about the girl?” Nick said.

“Ask her to go back to her place. I will meet you in the evening.”

And I walked back toward the house.

As I entered, I found Neha looking at me. My parents were almost awake, and so was everyone else.

“Ken, where have you been until now? Did you escape the house when we were asleep?” my mother asked as I stood at the door.

I looked at my parents, then at Neha.

“I need to talk,” I said.

My voice wasn’t steady.

But I didn’t move.

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“Priya?” Ken said, the third time in the last minute. Even if a rat squeaked in their house, the neighbours would know. But Priya had not answered him.

“Priya. I have booked the table for 8 pm tonight.”
Ken went from one room to the other in his small apartment in Mumbai. Messy blankets lay on the bed, the dressing table looked unusually dirty, the kitchen unclean—but Priya was nowhere to be found.

Strange. That had never happened in the last twenty years; he knew her. He checked through the broken window to see if she was talking to a neighbour. The neighbour’s door was locked. He checked from the balcony to see if Priya was buying vegetables from the street vendor. No luck.

Ken tried calling her. The phone rang, but nobody picked up. Growing impatient, he called again. This time, he could hear the ring.

He walked into the bedroom with the phone sandwiched between his right ear and shoulder. The ring grew louder. He lifted the blanket to check—but found nothing. He paused, listening, trying to place the sound. Then he went to the bathroom.

There it was.

The phone lay on the washbasin.
But Priya wasn’t there.

He wanted to leave the phone where it was. They had always respected each other’s privacy. But the screen lit up. Ken stepped closer. It was an unknown caller—for him.

But Priya clearly knew the caller. She had saved the number as just one letter.

‘S’.

Before Ken could pick up, the phone stopped ringing.

Who was this S?
Why hadn’t Priya named the person?
Was she hiding something?

Thoughts rushed through his mind as he wondered where his wife of ten years could be—on their anniversary day.

Had she left him?

But why would she? Ken had remained loyal, unchanged—just as he had been when they first met.

His eyes fell on something they had both treasured for years.

Their album.
A recollection of their life together.

***

Ken went to the wooden almirah. It was shut in a hurry, clothes peeking through a narrow opening. On top of it lay their wedding album. He slowly opened the almirah to stop the clothes from falling, picked up the album, and sat down on the sofa.

As Ken flipped through it, every picture pulled him back—to how they had first met, fallen in love, and stayed together through the years. He remembered the first gift he gave her, their first date, and how he had fallen for her instantly.

But she had rejected his proposal.

Priya had been in love with someone else back in college.

That man had broken her heart, and with it, her trust in men.

The rejection had devastated Ken. He loved her deeply, but he respected her choice. He didn’t follow her like a man obsessed. He stayed quietly, respectfully—by being there when she needed him.

Over time, Priya fell for Ken. But she wanted to be sure before marrying him. They dated for ten years before they married. It had tested his patience and his love.

Ken and Priya often revisited their past and promised to keep their love close to it. Priya thought it was impossible, but Ken had promised her he would remain the same.

So every year, Ken took Priya to the same restaurant where he had first proposed. He decorated their house with the same flowers, wrote her a special message, and reminded them of who they once were. He wanted their life—and their love—to remain unchanged, even as years passed.

Ken paused at a group photograph—himself, Priya, and a few friends on an outing.

Her ex stood among them.

Ken froze. His hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his face.

He remembered the man’s name.

Sumit.

Priya had saved the unknown caller as ‘S’.

Was this caller the same Sumit?

The phone buzzed.

This time, someone was calling him.

“Yes, madam,” Ken said, answering, still lost in thought.

“We’ll be visiting your house today at 5 p.m. for the final assessment,” the woman said.

The words jolted him back to the present. Ken glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 10 a.m.

“Can you come another day?” he asked.

“We have to submit your report by Monday. We don’t work on weekends,” she said. Then added, “But why are you worried? It will just be a formality now. Everything is fine with you and Priya, right?”

Ken didn’t answer. His heart began to race.

“Right, Ken?” she asked again, her tone edged with suspicion.

“Yes, madam. Everything is fine. We’ll wait for you,” Ken said, ending the call.

***

Ken placed the album back on the table, but his eyes drifted again to the phone on the washbasin. It lay there quietly now, screen dark, innocent.

He told himself he wouldn’t touch it. He had never needed to in ten years. Trust was not something you checked—it was something you lived with. But trust, he realised, was easy when nothing was at stake.

His marriage was.

If the counsellor didn’t find Priya at home, she would grow suspicious. Ken knew that.

He picked up the phone, then stopped midway, his hand hovering in the air, as if crossing an invisible line.

Once I unlock this, something changes, he thought.

He put it down again, frustrated by his own hesitation.

Ken opened WhatsApp, Instagram, Facebook—apps he rarely scrolled through unless Priya showed him something. He searched for Sumit’s name.

Too many results.
Too many Sumits.

He searched Priya’s profile instead, scanning comments, likes, unfamiliar names. Everything looked normal.

Too normal.

That bothered him more.

He called her mother first, keeping his voice steady.

“No, Ken, she isn’t here.”

Then her sister.
Then a close friend.

Each answer was polite. Concerned. Useless.

By the time he cut the call, the room felt smaller, the silence heavier. Priya hadn’t disappeared into someone else’s house.

She had disappeared from reach.

Ken sat down slowly, the phone still untouched, his heart racing with a thought he didn’t want to finish.

What if she didn’t want to be found?

Did she know the counsellor would be visiting today?
Did she want to sabotage the relationship?

The phone buzzed.

A message from someone.

***

Ken wanted to open her phone to check who had messaged her. He touched the phone, then withdrew his hand. But the brief touch revealed the sender.

It was a message from ‘S’.

Ken pinched his lips and picked up the phone. He tried different PINs to unlock it—her birthday, his birthday, their anniversary, the day they first met.

Nothing worked.

He clenched his teeth at the thought that Priya didn’t care for the days that mattered to him. Sometimes, he felt he loved her more—while she didn’t respond the same way.

The doorbell rang.

Ken startled.

It was the neighbour. She handed him an envelope, neatly sealed.

“What’s this?” Ken asked, examining it.

“Priya asked me to give this to you,” the neighbour said, already turning away, leaving Ken with more questions than answers.

Was this a letter explaining where Priya had gone?

Or worse—a divorce notice?

***

Ken’s heartbeat rose as he opened the envelope. His hands trembled as he pulled out the letter, while keeping the envelope carefully—just like everything else he had preserved related to her. He already knew what he would do with it later. He would keep it, like her old handkerchief, her letters, their wedding card.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the letter.

It’s been twenty years together. I appreciate your love and care. But many times, I feel one needs to grow as we mature. You want to keep things the same.

Ken felt discomfort—and relief. It wasn’t what he had expected.

But as he reread the letter, the familiar accusatory tone returned. Every year, Priya had asked him to change. He felt she was trying to make him into a different person. That she didn’t value his love. That she cared less about his efforts.

He remembered their fights—often stretching over days—each of them trying to explain their own point of view. He remembered how they had started sharing less, how he tried, but Priya had slowly begun spending more time with her friends, both online and offline.

Ken never understood why Priya wanted him to change when he had remained loyal, his feelings unchanged from when they had first met. To end the fights, he often apologised and promised to change. But he found it troubling when he tried. They argued again, and the cycle continued.

Priya had stopped explaining.
Ken had stopped apologising.

On the family’s suggestion, they sought help from a counsellor. Ken wanted to stay together. Priya said nothing. The counsellor decided to speak to them individually. Priya’s sessions were longer and more frequent than Ken’s. He felt the counsellor would side with her. He wanted to withdraw. Priya wanted to continue.

The counsellor had asked for a few months before making a recommendation. Ken feared the worst, but he had no choice. The counsellor’s final visit was scheduled for the day Priya went missing.

Ken leaned back against the sofa, his mind drifting to all the places Priya could be.

Did Priya leave me for someone else?
But she loved me.
Or was it never love—but compromise?

Ken stood up.

He decided to extend his search to the place where they had spent the most time together.

The restaurant where they first met.

***

The restaurant stood exactly where it always had, tucked between newer shops that looked louder and brighter, as if trying too hard to belong. Ken paused outside for a moment before going in. He had stood here many times before—once nervous, once hopeful, once certain.

They had come here every year.
Every single year.

Ken scanned the room for Priya but couldn’t see her. He decided to wait for some time.

Inside, the smell hit him first—oil, spices, familiarity. An unexpected comfort settled in his chest, the kind that comes from knowing what to expect. He chose the same table near the window.

He always had.

In his mind, the years began to overlap.

The first year—Priya sitting across from him, barely touching her food, listening as he spoke about his plans, his fears, his excitement. He remembered how she smiled then, how carefully she chose her words, how she asked questions that surprised him.

The second year—him retelling the story of how they met. Priya laughing, finishing his sentences, teasing him for remembering every detail.

The third year—him ordering without looking at the menu. Priya mentioning a new place she wanted to try next time. Ken smiling and saying, “But this place is special.”

And so it went.

Every year, Ken came prepared—with memories, with stories, with rituals. He spoke of how far they had come, how nothing had really changed between them. He found comfort in saying it out loud, as if repetition could protect it.

Across the table, Priya listened.
She always did.

But with each passing year, Ken remembered her nodding more than speaking. Smiling, then glancing away. Opening her mouth once or twice, only to close it again when Ken drifted back into the past—another anecdote, another familiar laugh, another reassurance that they were the same.

Ken had thought that was love.

One year stood out clearly—Priya talking about work, about feeling restless, about wanting more from life. Ken had reached for her hand and said, “Look how far we’ve come.” She had smiled then too.

He had taken that as agreement.

Sitting alone now, Ken realised she had wanted to say something.

The waiter arrived, waiting for an order. Ken waved him away. His eyes remained fixed on the empty chair opposite him.

For years, he had brought Priya back here, believing that returning to the beginning would keep them close. Outside the window, people walked past without slowing down. He felt an unease, as if they were walking away from the past—from something that had once felt perfect.

Ken stayed seated, the weight of repetition pressing down on him, with the quiet realisation that while he had been protecting the past, the present had quietly drifted away.

***
Ken didn’t know where to find Priya next. He stood by the road, watching people move from one side to the other, as if walking from the past to the future—from the old to the new.

He began walking toward their past, toward the college.

With every step, his eyes stayed on the people moving in the opposite direction. He turned to look at them once, then turned back and kept walking.

Priya’s words returned—the ones that had disturbed him the most.

You don’t want to understand me.

He had never thought about it then. Now he did. The thought troubled him, hurt him.

Does she even deserve me? he wondered.

Then he heard himself.
His thoughts.

They were full of him—him at the centre.

Ken stopped.

He turned.

He knew where to walk now—away from the college, away from his past.

***

Ken knew where he was going.

Priya had mentioned the place often—a café that had opened a few years ago. Loud music. Shared tables. People typing, laughing, living as if time wasn’t meant to be preserved but spent.

Ken had never liked it.

“Too noisy,” he had said once.
“Too modern,” another time.
“Not our kind of place,” he had concluded.

Priya had nodded.
She always did.

Standing outside now, Ken felt the familiar resistance rise in his chest. Through the glass, the place looked unfamiliar—bright, restless, unstructured. Nothing like the places he trusted. Nothing like the past he preferred.

He hesitated.

Then he walked in.

The sound hit him first—music layered with voices, laughter overlapping, chairs scraping. No clear beginning or end to conversations. Ken stood near the entrance, unsure of where to go.

No one noticed.

That unsettled him.

He took a corner seat, feeling exposed. This was not a place that waited for you to settle in. It moved on its own terms.

He imagined Priya here—leaning forward, animated, trying to say something new while he decided whether the place made sense.

For the first time, he saw it clearly.

She hadn’t wanted him to like the place.
She had wanted him to be there.

A server asked him what he wanted. Ken opened his mouth to order what he always did—then stopped.

“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you recommend?”

The question surprised him.

As he waited, something unfamiliar settled in him. Not comfort. Not nostalgia.

Curiosity.

The music was louder than he liked—some singer stretching notes instead of finishing them neatly. Ken frowned, instinctively. This was exactly what he had complained about.

Then he noticed his foot moving.

Just once. A light tap.

He froze, embarrassed, then realised no one cared. The café didn’t pause to judge him.

He listened again—this time without resistance, with presence. The song wandered, refused to return to where it began. It existed only in that moment.

Ken thought of how often he had dismissed things simply because they didn’t resemble what he already loved.

A laugh burst out nearby. He turned, irritated—then stopped. The laugh wasn’t disruptive. It was alive.

Something loosened inside him.

For the first time, Ken wasn’t trying to turn the moment into a memory. He wasn’t comparing it to the past or waiting for it to end.

He was simply there.

And without naming it, he understood:

The present could be beautiful too.
Not because it lasted—but because it was happening.

Ken tapped his foot again.

This time, he didn’t stop it.

***

Ken’s phone vibrated on the table.

He looked at it without urgency—the way you look at something when you already know it will change nothing. A message. He turned the screen toward himself.

We’re on our way to your house.

Below it was the counsellor’s name.

Ken checked his watch.

4:00 p.m.

For a moment, he waited—for the familiar tightening in his chest, the calculations, the urge to rehearse what he would say.

None of it came.

Instead, his shoulders dropped.

He hadn’t realised how high they had been.

The café continued around him. Cups clinked. Someone laughed too loudly. The singer adjusted the mic. Life, uninterrupted. Ken sat there, breathing more easily than he had all day.

He thought of how he used to arrive everywhere already prepared—with stories, with memories, with certainty. He had believed love meant holding things together, keeping them intact. Preserving what had once worked.

He saw now how often he had arrived late to the present, even when he was on time.

How Priya had spoken, paused, waited.
How he had nodded, reassured, redirected.
How he had stood beside her, physically close, while his mind wandered backward, checking old ground.

He thought of moments he had been there—at dinners, at walks, at anniversaries—and felt, for the first time, the spaces he had missed. Not arguments. Not crises. Just ordinary moments that had asked for attention and received memory instead.

Ken wrapped his fingers around the coffee cup. It had gone cold. He drank it anyway.

The thought of Sumit returned.

He didn’t care anymore.

Outside, the light had shifted. The afternoon had moved on without asking him.

He didn’t feel afraid of what would be said at home. He didn’t feel the need to defend himself. For the first time, he wasn’t reaching for proof that he had loved well.

Ken stood up, left some money on the table—

—and noticed something.

***

Sitting in a corner, in a black dress with a blue purse by her side, a woman looked at him, a drink in her hand. She looked gorgeous. Her eyes did the talking. They stayed on him, as if trying to look into his soul.

Ken looked up and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the woman was still gazing at him.

But she saw something different now—a flicker of hope. He had never looked at her like this before, not in the twenty years she had known him.

She leaned back in her chair, lifted her drink, and smiled through the glass. Ken remembered the first time she had smiled at him. Then he pulled himself back to the present.

Priya stood up and walked toward him. She looked into his eyes. He looked back. A sense of relief washed over him—not for finding Priya, but for finding what had been missing in him all these years.

As she came closer, his phone rang. Priya noticed immediately—it was her phone that Ken was carrying. The screen displayed a single letter.

‘S’.

Ken didn’t care anymore.

“Pick up,” Priya said.

Ken handed her the phone.

“Yes, Seema madam,” Priya said, listening, her eyes still fixed on him. “No, we don’t need counselling anymore. I think we’ve found what we missed.”

She ended the call.

Priya stepped closer, now inches away from him.
“So you finally found me,” she said, biting her lip.

Ken met her gaze, felt her breath on his skin. His eyes spoke before his words. He smiled.

“I still want to know you more deeply.”

Priya held his face and kissed him.

Their past dissolved into the moment, giving fresh wings to their love.

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Valentine’s Day Special

I was drunk on the idea of happiness as a grown-up. Maybe because I was looking for it.

I read countless books on the subject and followed their advice. It often left me more exhausted than before. I was certainly not happy.

I asked my parents and teachers, and they all had their own versions of it. I chased those ideas. I succeeded in building a high-paying career. I bought everything money could buy. But happiness still evaded me, leaving me even more confused.

I then watched endless documentaries and movies that even slightly mentioned happiness. But I found nothing substantial that I hadn’t already heard.

Disheartened, I gave up on the entire façade.

A few years later, I visited my mother-in-law with my wife and our child.

She lived alone in a centuries-old house her husband had built. The walls were older than most of the neighbours. The green paint felt outdated to modern urban aesthetics.

“These walls have seen three generations grow up,” my wife joked.

There was no proper water purifier. The concept of an air purifier didn’t exist in this part of the world. The flooring looked worn, as if it had grown tired from decades of footsteps.

The dining table we ate at felt like it might collapse any moment—even if my two-year-old kicked it.

Cars? That was too much to ask for.

She was a teacher and took immense pride in her work. The fees she charged were less than what I spent on coffee powder in a year. When I tried to convince her to charge more, she would often say she valued what she was giving back.

My mother-in-law returned from church and was ecstatic to see us.

“What did you ask God for today?” I asked as she hugged my child.

She smiled. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I asked, surprised.

“Nothing,” she said again. “I just thanked Him for all the happiness He has given me in this life.”

She was content with what life had given her—and that contentment had brought her all the happiness anyone could ask for.

No expectations.
No blind ambition.
Just gratitude—and the freedom to enjoy what life offered.

That’s when I understood:

stop expecting,

start accepting.

P.S. This is a story from my upcoming book, “Quiet Clarity,” which carries short stories with something to ponder upon.

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“You close the deal. Anyhow.
And don’t blame me if they repeat what happened with John.”

The call ended before I could respond.

My body reacted anyway.

Heat rose up my neck. Sweat gathered along my spine. My phone felt heavier in my hand, as if it carried more than a voice—more than a warning.

John.

How would John survive?
What would happen if I lost my career too?
What about all my success—vanishing in seconds?

I wasn’t supposed to be expendable.
Not at this level.
Not now.
Not today, when everyone was celebrating my success.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. The way I had learned to do it when things slipped out of control and there was no one left to back me.

When I opened them, the past was staring back at me.

A massive red banner with white font stretched across the school building:

WELCOME, SUCCESSFUL ALUMNI!

The red walls were freshly painted, lined with boards celebrating alumni success. Logos. Designations. Cities. Proofs of arrival. The school’s pride now visible to the entire town.

My photograph stood out—larger, cleaner, impossible to miss.

President of a top MNC.

I felt a flicker of pride. Then disbelief followed.
My school was celebrating alumni success.
I was their main guest of honour. Their most successful alumnus.

My eyes drifted upward—to a window on the second floor. The one near the last bench. The one that had changed my life. Or at least, redirected it. The sight of it stirred something deep inside.

I unlocked my phone and opened my email.

Drafts.

My thumb hesitated. My hands trembled, then withdrew.

I closed the app immediately.

Not now.

I couldn’t afford memory when everything was on the line.

I reminded myself of the deal. I had been working on it for more than a year. If I lost it, nothing else would matter—not the present success, not the past struggle, not the man who once sat by that window.

I dialed my secretary.

“Renegotiate,” I said. “Change the terms. Push back. Do whatever it takes.”

She didn’t ask questions. She heard the desperation in my voice.

As I ended the call, a hand waved from across the courtyard.

I recognized it instantly.

***

“How have you been, Nick?”
Mrs. Rao, my old class teacher, tapped my arm gently. “We are so proud of you.”

I nodded, pursing my lips. I could see the pride in her eyes as she smiled.

But something felt amiss.

I knew the feeling. It had been with me ever since I left this school—quiet, persistent—tugging at me when I least expected it. I had learned to ignore it. Learned to stay busy instead.

Thankfully, my phone rang.

“Excuse me,” I said, already stepping away.

I went to a corner and picked up the call.

“Sir, the company isn’t budging,” my secretary said. “They’re firm on their prices. I tried, but—”
She paused, afraid to finish the sentence.

“But?”
My heart thudded hard against my chest.

“They’re ready to withdraw,” she said. “I think they have a better deal from our competitor.”

I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped the sweat from my forehead.

“Don’t give me excuses,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Talk to their manager. Offer a better deal. Cut prices. I don’t care. Just close it.”

I ended the call without waiting for her reply. I went to the corner, drafted an email and sent to the company, offering a better deal. I wasn’t sure if my company would approve but I had to try as my career was on the line.

***

“Any problem, sir?”

The voice startled me. It was familiar—but changed.

My heart pounded again, this time with a different fear. The fear of being seen. Of being exposed in the middle of all this admiration.

I turned. “No problem, buddy,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just some important office work.”

“Big man you are,” Ashish said, grinning as he hugged me. “So proud of you, man.”

Once, we had shared everything—notes, dreams, stupid plans for the future. Now we shared only this moment.

I didn’t have the courage to tell him that what made him proud was hanging by a thread.

My success gave them hope.
I didn’t want to be the one who broke it.

We walked toward the others—old classmates, juniors. They were talking animatedly about their careers, laughing easily. As I reached them, the conversation stopped.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Maybe they saw me as the epitome of success. Maybe they didn’t know what to say.

I smiled anyway. Hugged them. Said the right things.

That’s when I noticed the Dean’s office.

A shiver ran down my spine as memories rushed in, uninvited and sharp.

Without thinking, I turned and walked toward it.

Slowly.

***

As I opened the Dean’s cabin, I saw my past self standing there—smaller, restless—facing the teachers and my parents.

It was the last day of school.

The complaints were familiar.
My absent-mindedness.
My lack of attention.
My habit of drifting away into thoughts no one could follow.

“He could be really successful,” Mrs. Rao had said. “If only he could focus on present realities instead of dreaming.”

The others nodded.

My parents took it seriously. They always did.

Together, they carved out my present-day success.

I felt a tear slide down my cheek as the memory moved on.

My father’s grip tightened around my hand as he walked me out of the cabin. I remember wanting to pull free—to run back, to reach the window—but something inside me wouldn’t move.

Fear, perhaps.
Or obedience.

My eyes stayed fixed on the window as he led me toward the school gate.

It was the last time I saw it.

Everyone said my life changed for the better after that.

I didn’t question it. Even when I wanted to.

Something stopped me.
Maybe a lack of self-belief.
Maybe the comfort of being told what was right.

I stepped out of the Dean’s cabin.

Ashish and the others called out to me, inviting me back. The formal introductions had begun.

I nodded.

But my eyes drifted once more to my most cherished place—

the window.

***

As I climbed the staircase for my classroom on the third floor, I remembered how I had climbed the success ladder. One step at a time. Someone or the other showing me the way. Sometimes it was my parents. Sometimes my teachers. Sometimes society itself.

Every time I achieved something, everyone celebrated with immense joy.
But I couldn’t feel it.

I didn’t question it, although I wanted to.
Something stopped me.
Maybe a lack of understanding of what the world truly values.

As I reached the third floor, another memory surfaced. These were the same stairs from which the teachers had carried me to the Dean’s cabin every time I spoke about my vision. They thought I was foolish to want to become something nobody valued.

I stopped outside my classroom.

This was the room where I had spent most of my days as punishment—for not adhering to rules, for not meeting grades, for failing expectations I didn’t fully understand at that age.

I entered the class and sat on the last bench.

The familiar feeling returned immediately.
The lack of curiosity.
The boredom.
The quiet emptiness.

And then I did what I used to do back then.

I looked out of the window.

As I looked out, I was lost again. I spotted a little bird taking flight. The different colours of the sky. The many possibilities of life.

I remembered the dream that had remained close to my heart—something I had buried that day in the Dean’s cabin.

It never truly left me.

It stayed with me, tugging quietly as I was being carved into a successful person.

Sometimes the feeling became so conflicting that it tormented me. I wanted to talk to my parents, my mentors, anyone who might understand. But every time I tried, I froze.

So I ignored it.
I kept doing what was expected of me.

Slowly, the tugging faded.
But it never disappeared.

It returned from time to time, reminding me of the dreams born at this very window.

When I became Vice President, my family was ecstatic. Proud.

I felt regret.

I couldn’t understand why.

That was when I wrote the email.

It was ten years ago.
It had stayed in my inbox ever since.

A buzz in my jacket pulled me back to the present.

***

“Sir, the vendor might agree, but he wants a further cut in prices,” my secretary called.

“ I have already offered him a better deal. I can’t go below that. That’s not in my hands,” I said. “I’ll have to talk to the CEO. You know his position on it.”

I stood up, forcing myself back into the present.

“That’s the only possible way we can close it, sir. Please try once.”
She sounded tense.

The words settled heavily inside me. They reminded me how much this deal mattered—to my company, to my position, to everything I had built so far. The trembling returned. I couldn’t fail now and destroy all my success.

What would everyone think of me at this point in my career?

No.
That couldn’t happen.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were still shaking, but somehow I made the call.

As I spoke to my boss, trying to convince him, my eyes drifted to the other window. Down below, my batchmates were introducing themselves, talking about how life had treated them. Some spotted me and waved, calling out my name.

I nodded back, still listening, still negotiating.

My boss agreed—partially.

That wasn’t a good sign.

There was only one option left.

I would have to speak to the vendor myself.

***

As I walked past the door, I looked back at the window again. Something tugged at me from inside—the same feeling. I turned back toward it and did what I used to do back in school.

I closed my eyes.

It pulled me into the past. Into the world I had once envisioned. Into the dreams I had forsaken.

I heard the announcer calling my name from the ground. It was my turn to speak.

I didn’t open my eyes.

I wanted to stay there, living the dream inside my mind. I felt something familiar—something I used to feel years ago when I stood by this very window, dreaming.

Is this what joy feels like?
Or happiness?

My phone buzzed.

I kept my eyes closed. I felt the air brush against my cheeks. Goosebumps rose on my skin—my body responding to a dream buried deep within me.

I opened my eyes slowly.

The feeling lingered. It had spread through me.

I thought of the email.

Something stopped me.

Fear, perhaps.
Or the need for validation.
Or something else I didn’t yet have words for.

My phone buzzed again.

It was the vendor.

***

I spoke to him, trying my best to convince him. He didn’t sound very positive. But demanded ten minutes to get back to me.

I ended the call and rushed toward the ground where I was supposed to make my introduction.

As I walked, I noticed something shift within me.

I wasn’t walking alone.

I was carrying something with me—something I had left behind at that window.

***

“Welcome, Nick. Nick doesn’t need any introduction,” Mrs. Rao announced. “He is the pride of our school now.”

She clapped. Applause filled the school premises.

I walked onto the stage. The noise faded. Silence settled.

I looked at Ashish. He was smiling, pride written all over his face. I looked at my teachers. There was a quiet satisfaction in their eyes—as if my life was a confirmation that they had done the right thing.

My gaze moved to the Dean. Age had softened her, but she looked content, fulfilled—happy that she had guided a distracted child onto the path of success.

I followed the corridor with my eyes. The one that led to the Dean’s office. Then the office itself. The place where my life had shifted. Then the window.

The window that could have made me what I had once envisioned.

It might not have given me money or validation.
But it would have given me happiness.
And a sense of fulfillment I had never known.

Tears escaped before I could stop them.

My phone buzzed.

I wiped my eyes and looked down.

“The deal is on.” My boss said. “Great work, Nick,” he sounded ecstatic. “You’ve succeeded again. There’s no stopping you now.”

I waited for relief. But it didn’t come.

I waited for a sense of achievement. But it didn’t come.

Instead, I felt what I used to feel standing by that window years ago. A quiet hope for a different life. A better one.

I closed my eyes.

“There was always something stopping me, sir,” I said.

“What?” His voice carried confusion.

“Fear,” I said. “Of standing alone. Of fighting for what I believed in. Of failing.”I paused.“But not anymore.”

I opened my email and sent the draft that had waited in my mailbox for ten years.

My resignation. Not just from the job—but from the life I had been living.

There was silence for a while. “Are you out of your mind?” my boss shouted. “Do you even realise what you’ll miss if you give this up?”

The mic was close enough for everyone to hear.

I looked up at the window of my classroom.

“Something was always missing, sir. But today I got it.”

I looked at Mrs. Rao. At the Dean. At the window.

“What?” my boss asked. But I could sense the question on everyone’s face now.

Outside, a bird took flight.

I pointed toward it.

“Just a little courage to follow my heart.”

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“Jungle safaris are always fun,” my friend Harry said, trying to convince me to go for one. “And you never know when you might get to see a tiger.”

“A tiger in a safari?” I clenched my fists and shook my head as hard as I could, memories of lost money flooding back. “No, thank you. I’ve tried at least five safaris just to spot a tiger and never found even one.”

Harry stepped closer and tapped me reassuringly. “This time we will surely find one. I promise. I have a plan,” he said, raising my hopes despite myself.

I agreed hesitantly, promising myself that if I didn’t spot a tiger this time, I would never go on a jungle safari again—like a man trying to spot God from a different planet.

***

We travelled 250 kilometres with the expectation of spotting a tiger on at least one safari. I also expected to get my money’s worth—unlike the past many years, when I had wasted a lot of money and never spotted His Majesty, the tiger.

Harry’s plan was to cram in as many safaris as possible over two days, without worrying about what would happen to our middle-aged bodies, already worn out by office work.

Although the journey took us almost six hours, we weren’t tired. We were too excited to wait and insisted on going on our first safari immediately.

It was an afternoon safari. The temperature hovered around 25 degrees Celsius, which felt cool by Indian burning standards, where summer temperatures casually soar to 45 degrees.

An open safari jeep carried us into the jungle after our tickets were verified. As we entered, a cooler stream of air hit us, reminding us we had left behind the cacophonous, polluted human world and entered a place closer to how God might have intended it.

We immediately lifted our binoculars as the guide steered the jeep toward an area that was supposedly isolated but now crowded with other safari vehicles. He promised the tiger would appear any moment—as if the tiger cared about the enormous money tourists had paid for tickets or about the guide’s enthusiasm. The tiger, it seemed, had chosen to feast elsewhere.

The guide kept taking us from one spot to another, raising our hopes and then crashing them, like kids trapped on a giant wheel. Our eyes stayed fixed, desperate to spot the majestic animal—like lusty eyes glued to a porn film. Our ears strained for animal sounds that might guide us toward the tiger, as if the forest itself pitied us for the money we had spent. I kept checking my watch, alternately encouraging and criticising the guide, hoping to squeeze some competence out of him.

After three hours of mindless wandering, we discovered two things:

• the guide wasn’t as knowledgeable as he had claimed when he boarded the jeep
  
  

• our safari was wasted because His Majesty had chosen not to shower his blessings on us.

In short, we found no tiger, no tigress, and not even any of their unwanted children.

I was terribly disappointed. My expectations crashed. Meanwhile, my irritating mind began calculating how much money I had wasted on safaris over the years, even reminding me of the soothing massages I could have taken instead.

Harry, who had promised me a tiger, seemed more determined than ever for the next safari. I had never seen him this committed—even when every possible girl rejected him for marriage, including the ones who supposedly liked ugly men. Anyway, my friend went off to search for something in the nearby village that he believed would help us spot the tiger, while I slept like a tiger that had just finished a wholesome meal.

***

The next morning, at exactly 5 a.m., my friend knocked on the door. He looked as excited as a tiger who had just spotted a tigress after a month of searching.

“Get ready. We have the morning safari, remember?” Harry tapped my arm so hard that my sleep ran away like prey that had just seen an approaching tiger.

“Why the hell do you look so excited? It’s just a stupid safari.” I yawned as I took the brush to my filthy teeth.

“Told you I would bring someone who will help us spot the tiger.” He smiled as wide as he possibly could.

“You’ve got God?”

“Even better.” He winked, smiled, and pushed a man forward. “I’ve got the best guide from the village. His name is Ashok. We will surely spot a tiger today.”

Ashok was smaller than average, his head balder than average, but his smile wider than average. I almost choked on the toothpaste. But Ashok smiled calmly and convinced me to trust him.

***

In the next hour, we threw the breakfast the resort had packed into our bags, verified our safari tickets, shoved our newfound best guide Ashok into the jeep, and headed toward the jungle.

It was 6 a.m., and the cold air reminded us how it felt to breathe air not polluted by our industrial aspirations. The temperature hovered around 10 degrees as we entered and dropped to 7 as we moved deeper into the core area of the forest.

The guide spoke very little. His eyes seemed fixed on listening rather than seeing, as if he were guessing the tiger’s path through sound alone. Without saying a word, he kept directing the driver—left, right, straight. For a while, other safari vehicles appeared ahead and behind us. Then Ashok guided us onto a path where ours was the only jeep on the road.

When we dared to ask, he simply gestured for us to trust him.

After fifteen minutes, he asked the driver to stop. He motioned for us to be quiet and closed his eyes, listening intently.

We looked around. There was no one. Only tall trees whispering in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, birds chirped. A monkey made fearful sounds, as if he had just seen a naked man making love to another monkey.

I stood up on the seat and swept my binoculars in every direction but saw nothing. I lowered them and looked at the guide instead. His nostrils flared, testing the air. Then he opened his eyes and pointed.

We heard something moving through the dry leaves.

And then we saw it—an ugly, hairless dog, caked in mud, casually crossing the road.

I gritted my teeth so hard that the dog ran away, its remaining hair vanishing more out of fear of getting eaten along with its master.

The guide apologised and steered us toward another part of the jungle. He took us to a lake where several safari vehicles waited, hoping the tiger would appear to quench its thirst.

After another hour of waiting, napping, and silently cursing the guide, we realised the tiger wasn’t thirsty after all.

Another safari wasted.

As always, I was crestfallen and cursed my friend for wasting my money. He was doubly disappointed—once for failing me, and again for failing to spot the tiger.

Then the guide said something so novel that my hopes rose once again.

***

“Night safaris,” Ashok said, nodding. “Very few people book them—and those who do spot a tiger every time.”

I had never booked a night safari before. But Ashok convinced us, and we immediately arranged the tickets, cancelling our morning safari for the night one.

Ashok also promised to guide us without charging a penny. He was ridden with guilt, and his reputation as the best guide was at stake.

In a night safari, nobody can see anything beyond the beam of the vehicle’s headlights, so we didn’t carry the useless binoculars. The jeep moved through darkness—or at least that’s what I remember—because we couldn’t see the trees or anything around us.

Every other minute, the vehicle stopped, raising both our hopes and our fears. I was afraid of an irritated, jealous leopard jumping from the trees onto our car and robbing us of the chance to see his boss, the tiger, before we could recover our money’s worth.

Each stop revealed animals crossing the road. Once, a herd of deer passed silently. Another time, a huge, muscular bison blocked our path. Every time, I hoped the tiger would appear from behind like a villain and pounce on the animal. But it seemed the tiger had better plans—lying down somewhere, fornicating in the dark, and most importantly, wasting my money.

We returned from our last safari without a word exchanged between me, Harry, or Ashok—or any combination of the three. We simply nodded and went to our rooms, our expectations burned to the ground.

The resort receptionist promised a surprise, but I didn’t care for anything anymore.

***

The next morning, I woke up to a knock on my door.

“Sir, there’s a safari vehicle ready to take you,” the resort manager said.

I yawned, struggling to keep my eyes open. “Wrong room. We’ve finished our safaris. We’re leaving today, remember?”

The manager called the desk while I stood half-asleep, balancing against the door. The receptionist from the previous night appeared.

“Sir, remember I talked about a surprise?” she said, smiling, her teeth freshly minted. “The family who booked the safari next door had to leave because of an emergency. You can take the safari.”

“I don’t need it. Thank you.” I almost closed the door, but the manager interrupted.

“Take it for free, sir. We won’t charge you. The driver has already arrived from the village. We don’t want him to lose his day’s pay.”

He rushed off to confirm before I could protest. Maybe he noticed I was greedy enough to accept whatever the world offered for free—even when it was usually not worth it, like my worthless free SIM card that promised network everywhere.

I woke my friend and told him about the free safari. He jumped into the jeep with his binoculars. I left mine in the room on purpose. I had no expectations of spotting anything.

While the tickets were being verified, I insisted we skip the guide. But the government apparently believes tourists must pay for their stupidity, so we were forced to take one. I simply gestured to the guide to remain quiet and mind his business while we minded ours.

***

As we entered the jungle, I closed my eyes. My plan was to sleep for the next three hours.

Then I felt the cold air brushing through my hair, as if someone were gently blowing on it. The wind kissed my cheeks, and I found myself smiling. I slouched deeper into the seat, my head tilting, my eyes still closed.

When I opened them, the tall trees were dancing with the wind. Leaves sang softly above us. Birds chirped merrily, unconcerned about whether they would see another day. Monkeys leapt between branches as if nothing else in the world mattered.

My friend pointed to a herd of deer crossing the road as the jeep slowed. For the first time, I noticed how they sauntered through the forest, unbothered by the danger around them.

The jeep moved through different parts of the jungle. For the first time, I noticed everything—the tall green trees, the playful wind slipping past them, the varied songs of birds, the restless dance of animals, the forest offering itself without asking for attention. Maybe I had missed all this before because I had arrived with an agenda, a goal, an expectation to see only what the world had taught us to care about.

I was so absorbed that I forgot we had only thirty minutes left.

Then, the jeep followed a few other vehicles. Someone claimed they had spotted the tiger.

I didn’t care. My heart already felt full in a way I hadn’t felt before.

We stopped near the other vehicles. My friend pulled out his binoculars. I watched tourists scan the grass desperately, trying to locate where the tiger had vanished. Some lowered their binoculars in frustration, exactly the way I had the day before. My friend sat back, dejected.

I stood instead, taking in the forest. Everything around me was green, as if God himself had painted it after absorbing its calm. Then I noticed something moving in the distance, behind the low grass—one step at a time. It blended into the greenish-yellow field, but each step disturbed the leaves.

As the driver started the engine, I patted his shoulder and asked him to wait. I knew what my eyes had found.

Within moments, binoculars were raised everywhere. Most people still couldn’t see it, including my friend.

Then, the tiger emerged from the bushes.

He stood barely fifty metres away. I felt my heart unclench as I took in the sight of him walking in quiet glory—the black stripes, the orange-yellow coat, the steady stride across the road. Cameras clicked. Hearts raced. Minds fell silent. And then he disappeared into the meadows.

I closed my eyes and took it all in. My lungs filled with fresh air. My heart moved to the rhythm of birdsong. I saw the forest as a whole, something I had neither expected nor hoped for.

The animals, the trees, the birds—they don’t have goals. They live each moment without agendas or expectations. Maybe that’s why their short lives feel more meaningful than ours.

When we try to see the world through a narrow lens, we miss what it is quietly offering us.

When we returned, I paid in full for the safari.
But it wasn’t because I had finally spotted the tiger.

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Eleven Letters

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Over the years, I have developed a practice of meditation.
Every morning, I make my coffee and meditate for around thirty minutes. The sense of calm that follows often grounds me and helps me focus.

But within a few hours, my mind slips back into overthinking, analysing—and what I call destructive mode.

One day, I noticed something.

It was around noon. I was chatting with a friend on WhatsApp when I noticed that the garbage was almost spilling out of the large dustbin in my kitchen. I quickly picked up the garbage bag, replaced it with a new one, and kept the old bag aside for the corporation van to collect the next day.

The following day, I noticed the same thing. The garbage bag was full again. So once more, I threw it out and covered the dustbin with a new bag. This time, I also bought a larger dustbin—the largest possible for a house—hoping I wouldn’t need to empty it every day.

The next day, after meditating as usual, I returned for lunch and checked the dustbin, almost expecting a small sense of achievement.

But what I saw opened my mind.

The dustbin was full again. And I was the only one using it.

That’s when it struck me: if I wanted the dustbin to stay clean and usable for longer, I didn’t need a bigger bin—I needed to put less garbage into it.
The amount of garbage output depended entirely on what I was throwing in. More garbage meant more cleaning. Less garbage meant less cleaning.

I looked at the clutter I was generating, reduced it over the next few days by purchasing only essentials, and soon I didn’t need to clean the dustbin every day. In fact, I cleaned it only once every three to four days.

That’s when I noticed the same pattern in my mind.

After meditation, my mind stayed calm for a few hours. But as noise and clutter crept in, it slowly slipped back into destructive mode.

Social media and instant messaging apps have increased this clutter. They help us connect with people—but disconnect us from ourselves. Clutter has increased. Focus has reduced. Efficiency has taken a hit.

So I decided to reduce the inputs to my mind.

I uninstalled some apps and used the web versions for others. I limited myself to a few minutes a day—only if they were truly important. When I felt bored, I went for walks without my phone and let my mind breathe.

After all, what do you really do with so much unwanted information?

Within days of reducing my social media intake, my mind stayed calm for longer periods.
I could focus better. My efficiency improved.

That’s when I realised something simple:

Meditation helps you empty the mind.
But if you keep dumping garbage into it, no dustbin—no matter how large—will stay clean.

(This is an excerpt from my upcoming non-fiction book, where each short story leaves behind a question rather than an answer.)

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Ken stepped out of the Uber and looked at his school.

Twenty-five years hadn’t changed the building much. The black gate still leaned slightly to the left, as if tired of guarding children who wanted to run away the moment they entered. The walls were freshly painted, but the paint felt cosmetic—like makeup on an irritatingly ugly face. The ground remained crowded in his memory, still carrying the stink of small, sweaty bodies slipping past one another, pushing in every direction.

His eyes moved to the cars parked outside.

They were lined up like trophies. Black sedans. SUVs with tinted windows. Cars that didn’t need explanations.

Ken glanced behind him.

The Uber that had dropped him off was already gone.

He adjusted his blue T-shirt, suddenly aware of how simple it looked. Clean. Ordinary. Safe.

Everyone’s done well, his mind whispered helpfully.
And you?

The memory returned without warning—the laughter, the humiliation, the moment everything seemed to tilt. How life had quietly gone downhill after that.

Ken felt his heart pick up pace. He wanted to turn back. To leave. But he remembered why he was here.

He had been carrying the thing with him for the last twenty-five years. If he didn’t give it today, he never would.

But will it matter now?
Will I matter now?

Ken did what he had learned to do over the years.

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Tightened the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

And walked in.

The school courtyard buzzed with noise—laughter bouncing off old walls, voices layered over each other, stories competing for attention. People stood in clusters, some hugging warmly, others measuring each other with polite smiles.

Ken spotted a group near the assembly ground.

Shiny suits.
Tidy blazers.
Watches that caught the light.

Someone was talking about expansion. Another about exits. A third laughed loudly, as if volume itself were proof of success.

Ken slowed.

His trousers felt too simple.
His shoes felt too quiet.

He considered turning around. He almost did.
Maybe it isn’t worth it, he thought.
Maybe I am exactly what they said I would be.

Then someone shouted his name.

“Ken!”

Paddy came running toward him, arms open, face lit with recognition. He hugged Ken tightly, like they were still sixteen and afraid of exams.

“You made it!” Paddy said. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Ken smiled. “Neither was I.”

As Paddy pulled him toward the group, Ken’s hand drifted instinctively to his bag.

Still there.

The thing he had brought.

He had carried it longer than he cared to admit. Scribbled on it during years when things were falling apart—when he kept hearing those words, and when he quietly decided what to do with them.

Introductions began informally, the way they always do.

“I’m a surgeon.”
“I run my own firm.”
“Real estate.”
“Tech. Mostly overseas.”

Titles were exchanged like currency.

Ken nodded. Smiled. Stayed quiet. His mind tried to make sense of how innocent children had turned into pompous men and women—how worth was now calculated not by how good a friend you were, but by how much you earned every year.

Then he saw John.

His closest competitor during school days.

John hadn’t changed. Same posture—slightly forward, like he was always about to win something. Same smile that never quite reached his eyes. His blazer fit perfectly, tailored to both his body and his confidence.

John stopped when he recognised Ken. His gaze dropped briefly to Ken’s trousers.

“Uber?” John asked, glancing toward the gate.

Ken nodded. “Yes.”

John smirked. “Nice. Practical. Cheap.”

Someone chuckled.

Ken felt the heat creep up his neck, just like old times. He stayed where he was, grounding himself in the present.

John turned to the group. “So what are you doing these days, Ken?”

Ken’s heartbeat quickened—the familiar rush that always came with that question.

Before he could answer, John continued. “I’m president of a financial company. Forty years old. And trust me—you don’t want to know the numbers.”

He chuckled, then tapped Ken’s arm lightly. “Last I heard, you quit your job. Or were you fired?”

Ken opened his mouth, then closed it. The sounds around him faded. His eyes wandered, searching—not for escape, but for the reason he had come.

Then he saw her. His English teacher.

The most respected and feared teacher in the school. The one whose words felt less like feedback and more like judgment—final, unquestioned. She stood near the staff room, speaking to another teacher, her posture relaxed, her smile gentle. Older now, but unmistakable.

Ken’s fingers tightened on his bag strap.

The words returned without effort.

His chest tightened. The same fear he had fought for years surfaced again, sharp and familiar.

He gripped the strap harder. Still there, he thought.

The piece of paper.

He had wanted to give it to her once he had finally figured things out.
He just never had the courage.

The teacher’s words returned without invitation.

You can’t do anything in life.

Ken didn’t remember why she had said it. Only that she had. And that others had heard it too—classmates, their parents, his parents. It hadn’t feel like a comment. It had felt like a verdict. One that stayed.

Ken swallowed. He took a step forward, then stopped.

Will it matter now?
Maybe she was right—considering who I was back then.

John grabbed Ken’s arm. “Still unemployed?” he said lightly. “Relax, we’re all friends here. Maybe someone can help you out.”

He chuckled.

Ken smiled faintly and gently pulled his arm free. His mind snapped back to the present.

“I don’t think money and careers really matter here,” he said. “We’re friends. Like old times.”

A few people nodded, impressed by the thoughtfulness of it.

John laughed.

“Old times were school,” he said. “This is real life.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to be heard. “If you’d worked harder, you could’ve been something impressive too.”

The words landed without effort.

Then John added, almost casually, “Looks like our English teacher was right.”

Something tightened inside Ken—not anger, not shock.

Recognition.

He had heard this before.

Publicly.

His chest ached with the familiarity of it. What had begun in school had followed him quietly for years, resurfacing whenever someone decided to say it out loud.

A microphone crackled.

“Everyone, let’s gather near the stage,” the announcer said. “We’ll do quick introductions. Name and what you’re doing now.”

Ken’s stomach dropped. He turned instinctively toward the exit.

John moved faster.

“Sit,” John said, pointing to a chair. “Introductions are fun.”

Ken sat. His fingers tightened around his bag, as if what he carried inside mattered more than anything else in the room.

The chair creaked, unimpressed.

People went up one by one. Applause followed confidence. Polite silence followed modesty.

Ken leaned sideways, scanning the room, measuring distance. One voice urged him to leave—no one cares. Another told him to stay—to finish what he had come for.

Then John stood.

His introduction was polished. Confident. Long.

When he finished, he looked straight at Ken and said into the microphone—

“Ken, you’re next.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Some smiled awkwardly, as if cushioning a fall.

Ken didn’t move. His legs resisted, trembling slightly, as if waiting for permission.

Then the teacher noticed him.

“Ken?” she said, peering closer. Then smiling. “Ken! Come here.”

Every face turned.

Ken closed his eyes for a moment. The words surfaced. The years that followed them. The resistance. He remembered why he was there.

He stood.

Each step toward the stage felt heavier than the last, but he kept moving—like he always had.

Memories rose as he climbed the steps: the doubts, the nights spent questioning himself, the long stretch of choosing to continue anyway.

The teacher smiled warmly. “Tell us what you’re doing now.”

A soft laugh came from somewhere behind him.

John chuckled. “Go on.”

Ken opened his mouth. Closed it. His hand brushed against his bag.

Something slipped. A few books slid out and hit the stage floor.

Ken froze. He bent quickly, gathered them, and pushed them back into the bag.

A few people noticed.

John noticed more. “What’s that?” he asked.

Ken smiled faintly. “Nothing.”

John stepped forward and pulled the bag open. The books spilled out again. John picked them up.

His eyes widened. He stared at the cover. Then the name. Then Ken.

Silence spread.

Ken took a breath. He stepped forward, gently took the books from John’s hands, and walked toward the teacher—despite the fear, the same way he always had.

“This is for you,” Ken said, handing her the folded paper first.

Then the books.

She read the covers slowly. Then the name.

Her hand trembled. She looked at Ken for a moment as if to recollect the Ken she knew. “I’ve read these,” she whispered. “Everyone has.”

She looked up at him, disbelief giving way to pride. “You’re Ken… the bestselling author?”

Ken smiled, small and steady. “I’m just a writer.”

She stood and placed a hand on his arm. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Then she unfolded the paper.

The page had aged, its color faded to pale yellow, creased and worn—much like her own hands.

At the top were the words—

You can’t do anything in life.

Below it:

Thank you for helping me understand what really matters.

She remembered the day she had said it. The certainty with which it had left her mouth. The guilt she had carried since.

She looked at Ken. His face held no anger. No resentment. Only calm.

“And what matters?” she asked quietly.

Ken looked around.

At the people who had judged him.
At the man who had mocked him.
At the boy he once was.

“What matters,” Ken said, “is what you think of yourself. What you believe. And how long you keep going when everyone else doubts you.”

The room was silent.

Then someone clapped. Then many did.

Ken stepped down. He bowed slightly to his teacher, a quiet thank-you for everything—spoken and unspoken.

His chest felt lighter.

Not because he had proven anyone wrong.

But because he had finally seen, clearly, what had been carrying him all along.

The thing he carried for years wasn’t just the piece of paper.

It was belief —
the one that kept him going when doubt was louder.

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“I will send it today. Without fail,” Raghav’s neighbour screamed from the side window.

Raghav had been hearing this sentence for a week. He looked at the neighbour with a straight face, then at the old man sitting across the street, reading his newspaper. He wanted to say something, but his mind flashed images of biryani.

At first, his mind refused to accept reality. It couldn’t imagine eating anything other than the promised biryani. For two days, it rejected normal food like a protester on a hunger strike, throwing out whatever Raghav put into his body. But when the magical biryani didn’t arrive, his body surrendered and returned to dull survival meals.

“Don’t eat now,” the neighbour shouted again.
“Wait for the biryani today. You can complete your goal until then. Today is the last day, remember?”

Then he disappeared—presumably to marinate chicken and his hope for a delicious meal.

***

Raghav stood at the window, as he did every morning, watching the neighbour vanish. He wondered when the man would stop promising and actually send the biryani. It had been over a week. Promises arrived daily. Food never did.

Every morning, the neighbour also reminded Raghav of his goal.

Send one email.

One email. One attachment. One magazine. The start of his writing career.

A magazine that published essays about quitting jobs and finding oneself in European cafés. Raghav had never been to Europe, but he had thoughts. Strong ones. That should count.

But that day was the last day for submissions of the year. Raghav had missed it last year, and the year before that—either because he couldn’t perfect it, or because life came in the way. He didn’t want to miss it this year.

At 10:08 a.m., Raghav opened Gmail.

Subject: Submission
Too confident.

He added Humorous.
Deleted it. Humour was subjective, dangerous, and slightly unpatriotic.

Added Short.
Deleted it. Length anxiety. Also, he didn’t want to offend the editor by guessing his height.

He closed Gmail.

***

From the open window came the neighbour’s voice.

“I’ll do it today,” he said on the phone.
“I just want to go through the recipe once more.”

Raghav went to the window, hoping to convince the neighbour to make the damn biryani even if it was imperfect. Then his eyes fell on the old man across the street, reading the newspaper as always, wearing a faintly sarcastic smile. Raghav wanted to run over and confront him, but didn’t.

Raghav nodded, even though no one was watching. He thought the neighbour was right.

Reasonable man. After waiting so long, who wants badly made biryani?

Raghav opened his essay, hoping to perfect the line that bothered him most.

Just one line needed fixing.
The line exposed a weak paragraph.
The paragraph exposed a soft opening.
The opening exposed an identity crisis.

He closed the document. His chest tightened, his heart sprinting like Usain Bolt late for rent.

He leaned back in his chair, hoping for inspiration.

***

From next door came the neighbour’s voice:

“I rushed last time,” he said.
“This time I want to do it properly.”

Raghav wiped sweat off his temple.

Good man. Learns from mistakes.

Maybe I should also perfect it a little more. With more zeal.

He took a tea break.

While the kettle boiled, Raghav remembered his college blog. A forgotten URL. A forgotten version of himself. He remembered refreshing the page after posting, waiting for comments.

One had arrived.

Decent. Needs depth.

Depth had taken fifteen years. It still hadn’t arrived. Somewhere along the way, his dream of becoming a writer had curled up and gone quiet, waiting to be let into the real world.

***

Back at his desk, Gmail waited. Patient. Accusatory.

He attached the file.

His finger hovered over Send.

His brain woke up like a legal department on caffeine.

What if this magazine isn’t aligned with my voice?
What if they don’t like it?
What if my friends read it and pretend they didn’t?
What if I find out I’m not a good writer?

His phone buzzed.

Last hour for submission.

His fingers panicked. He detached the file.

Outside, the neighbour laughed.

“No no,” he said. “Tomorrow is safer.”

Raghav clenched his fists. Then softened.

The neighbour wasn’t wrong.

Safety first. Always.

Raghav noticed the old man across the street. The old man smiled, then returned to his newspaper. Raghav almost walked over to confront him, but his phone buzzed again.

45 minutes remaining.

Raghav checked the magazine’s FAQ section.

We read everything.
Suspicious.

Don’t wait for perfection.
Unrealistic.

He felt personally attacked.

He opened Twitter—for like-minded people, but mostly validation.

A writer he followed had tweeted: Sent my draft without overthinking. Accepted!

Raghav closed the app.

Some people are just perfect writers, he thought.

***.

From next door, the neighbour’s voice dropped.

“I don’t want to mess it up,” he said softly.
“This thing means a lot to me.”

That line stayed.

Raghav remembered when writing had meant everything to him—how hours disappeared while he wrote, how he used to tell people, I’m working on something. Fifteen years had passed, and he hadn’t sent a single piece.

***

At 12:19 p.m., Raghav decided the problem was timing.

He was a morning writer.
It was afternoon.

Afternoons were for reflection, dignity, and naps.

He shut the laptop and slept.

A knock woke him.

Raghav ran to the door.

It was the neighbour.

For one irrational second, Raghav believed.

The biryani was here.
Faith rewarded.

The neighbour looked tired.

“I keep telling myself I’ll send it,” he said.
“But honestly… as long as I don’t send it, I can still believe it’s good.”

Raghav’s brows tightened.

“You didn’t make biryani?” he asked quietly.

The neighbour shook his head and walked back toward his house.

***

Raghav, tired and angry, walked toward the neighbour.

The neighbour turned. “I promise tomorrow,” he said, his eyes misty with guilt and regret.

Raghav’s gaze drifted to the old man across the street. The old man lowered his newspaper to see what was happening. Their eyes met.

Raghav remembered the last time he had looked into those eyes. Fifteen years ago, when he first rented this place. He remembered the old man asking what he wanted to be.

“A writer,” Raghav had said, without thinking twice.

He remembered fighting with everyone—his family included—to pursue that dream. Leaving home. Leaving a well-paying job. Renting this small apartment to save money. Manuscripts stacked on the writing-cum-sleeping desk. Meagre jobs taken to survive until someday he became what he had always dreamt of.

It had been fifteen years.

“I promise tomorrow, I will surely send the biryani,” the neighbour said again.

Raghav froze.

He had heard this before.

Not just from the neighbour.
From himself.

He looked at the old man. The old man smiled and nodded.

Raghav watched vehicles pass on the street, one after another, just like his life.

He ran back to his apartment and opened the drawer beneath his desk.

Stacks of paper.
Same font.
Same title pages.
Different years.

He closed the drawer.

He returned to his desk.

Gmail was still open.

Unsent.
Pure.
Untouched by reality.

And suddenly, the pattern snapped into focus.

As long as the email stayed unsent,
the essay could be brilliant.
Praise could exist.
Rejection could not.

This wasn’t hesitation.
It was preservation.

Fear wasn’t blocking him.
Fear was protecting him—from finding out how far he could fly.

***

“Maybe next week,” the neighbour said.
“What’s the hurry anyway?”

Raghav laughed. Short. Sharp.

The neighbour wasn’t cautious.
He was rehearsing avoidance out loud.

And Raghav had been calling it wisdom.

For years.
Since the first notebook.
The first abandoned blog.
The dream he spoke about carefully, so it wouldn’t have to prove itself.

The fear of judgment suddenly felt lighter than the weight of never knowing.

Raghav placed his fingers on the keyboard.

Deleted the subject line.
Typed again.

Submission

He attached the file.

He did not reread the essay.
He did not reread the email.
He did not negotiate.

He clicked Send.

The screen paused.

The cursor blinked once.
Then disappeared.

One line appeared:

We’ve received your submission.

Nothing else.

No applause.
No rejection.
No ceremony.

Raghav closed his laptop.

Until now, the dream had only existed where it couldn’t fail.

Now it existed where it could.

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The world is a selfish place. It’s full of selfish people who care about no one but themselves. Don’t believe me? Try losing your wallet and see how many people help you when you don’t find it and start losing your mind.

Last Sunday the universe didn’t solve my problems—no, that would’ve been too easy. Instead, it set fire to every problem I already had, then added bonus problems for entertainment.

I stood on the crowded footpath, patting every pocket like a confused magician who had misplaced his own trick.

Wallet gone.
Documents gone.
Dignity… drifting away somewhere with the wind. My world beginning to collapse before me.

If I didn’t find it somehow, my life would be a mess.

I had an important bank verification the next day. Without my ID card, they wouldn’t even let me enter the building, forget giving me the loan.

I also had my driver’s license, ID card, a few medical receipts, two ATM cards, and—this one truly hurt—my favourite coffee shop reward card with five stamps.

“That’s it,” I muttered. “My life is over. Finished. Serve me on a plate.”

What if I didn’t get the loan? I’d be stuck in the same boring job. What if someone misused my ID and took a loan instead? Even the thought made me sweat like a dog running a marathon for no reason.

People walked past me like I was a lamppost having a nervous breakdown.

Some asked what was wrong.

Some clicked my picture and posted reels online.

Some even paused to see what I’d do next—like I was a villain waiting to pounce on the heroine in a 90s Bollywood movie.

But nobody offered help.
Nobody cared.

The world wasn’t done slapping me yet.

***

I retraced my steps like a detective whose only clue was “wallet missing.”
I searched everywhere I had gone in the last two hours—
the medical shop, the salon, the spa, and even the men’s toilet.

I found ugly men discussing their affairs, but not my wallet.

Then I asked people on the street.

The tea seller shook his head before I even asked. Instead, he offered me filthy watery tea and even tried charging me for it. When I reminded him I had lost my wallet, he gave me one day to pay for the filthy drink. Selfish idiot.

The auto driver said, “I can drop you home. But it’ll cost twice the fare because you’ll only pay if you have money at home.”
No points for guessing—he thought I was poor.

A cyclist sped away the moment I approached him, as if I was planning to auction his cycle for money.

One uncle told me, “Be careful next time,” which is the most useless advice in human history.
I mean… that’s accidental pregnancy advice, not lost-wallet advice.

But really? Next time?
Do you think I’m such an idiot that I’ll use a wallet again?

I was sweating. Panicking. Imagining someone misusing my identity to apply for ten loans and a free set of kitchen knives.

Forget the fraudster—my wife would butcher me with those knives first.

I was about to give up when something shiny caught my eye.

****

A wallet lay near the edge of the road.
Same colour as mine.
Same size.
Same “I am important” vibe.

My heart jumped. I ran to it.

Opened it.

Stopped.

It wasn’t mine.

THIS one was full of cash — but the kind of cash that had lived a hard life: worn-out tens and twenties.

I blinked twice, because my wallet usually contained the opposite of cash—hope and dust.
But really, who even uses cash in today’s digital world?

If the universe wanted to test me, it was doing an excellent job.

***

For one brief, shameful moment, a thought whispered:

“Just take the money and throw the wallet.”

Then the moral version of me, who appears only on weekends, said:

“Give it to the police.”

But the practical version said:

“Police will take the money and start a food business with the old man’s ID card.”

A darker thought appeared:
Why should I help anyone when nobody helped me?
Why should I be good when the world is cruel?

Then I saw an old, faded card tucked in one corner.

It belonged to an elderly man.
His photo looked like he had seen too much life and too little mercy.

There was an address written faintly on the ID.

I don’t know why, but I opened Google Maps and typed it in.

It was 35 minutes away.

I stared at the map. Then at the wallet. Then at my reflection in a parked car.

Maybe curiosity pushed me. Maybe conscience. Maybe the worthless value education they forced on us in school.

***

The lanes grew narrower as I walked.
Dogs blocked my path like furry security guards.
Google Maps announced “You have arrived” in front of a wall with no door.

After a few wrong doorbells and one angry auntie threatening to call the police, I finally found a small, old house with peeling paint.

I knocked, unsure what I was even expecting.
I even considered leaving the wallet at the doorstep and running away.

As I turned, an old lady opened the door.

Her saree was worn, her hands shaky, and her eyes a mixture of worry and exhaustion.

I held out the wallet.
“Is this… your husband’s?” I asked.

Her breath caught.
She grabbed the wallet with trembling hands.

“This… this is his,” she whispered. “We lost it this morning. The money… it’s for his medicines this month. He has been searching for it since morning.”

Her eyes filled, but she held the tears back the way only strong people know how.

“Why do you keep cash in the wallet?” I asked. “Why not use a bank account instead?”

She smiled gently, pulled out all the cash, and said,
“You don’t need a bank account for this much money. A wallet is enough.”

I glanced around again—
the cracked walls, the thin curtains, the silence of an old life.

And then my eyes fell on her hands.

The way her fingers wrapped around the wallet—tight, protective, almost desperate—
made the whole world pause for a second.

It wasn’t just money for her.
It wasn’t even a wallet.

It was their month of medicines.
Their food.
Their safety.
Their life.

Suddenly, my lost wallet felt like the least important thing in the world.

That wallet meant far more to her than my loan ever meant to me.

She thanked me again—not loudly, not dramatically—just softly, sincerely. Her gratitude was so pure that it felt heavy, like it carried the weight of their entire life. Then she did something I never expected.

She pulled out a hundred-rupee note and tried to give it to me as thanks.

I looked at her trembling hands, then at her face struggling to offer it.

Even a hundred rupees meant a lot to them.

I smiled and shook my head.

But inside… something shifted.

What would’ve happened if I had thrown the wallet?
Or given it to the police?
How would her husband have bought his medicines?
And if the money was gone… how would they even eat?

And here I was worried about a business loan?

I opened my bank app and looked at my balance.
Then I looked at the couple’s tiny, fragile home.

Their problems were real.
Heavy.
Life-threatening.

Mine?

Mine were just inconveniences wearing Halloween makeup.

My deadlines were still waiting to destroy my peace.
But suddenly, my problems didn’t feel that big anymore.

The world hadn’t changed.

But I had.

***

I walked back slowly.

My wallet was still missing.
My documents were still gone.

Maybe the world is a selfish place where everyone is busy doing something for themselves.
But maybe pausing your life and helping someone out still makes it a better place for someone.

Maybe kindness isn’t something you wait for.
Maybe it’s something you choose first.

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Nish didn’t believe in miracles. So when a charity mistakenly paid half of his humongous hospital bill, he knew someone was tricking him into doing something he never wanted.
Maybe his boss was trying to get him back.
Or his father-in-law who wanted a new slave to run his business.
Still, Nish — who had left his job for his dream — didn’t want the favour.

He had no money, no insurance, and no energy left to deal with the remaining bill.

People are cruel and selfish, he believed.
But the worst part is… they become even crueler after a tragedy.

A few days ago, Nish discovered he had a tumour. He dealt with it somehow, survived the surgery, and was finally recovering. Mostly by sleeping and watching television.

But then the universe punished him.
By sending relatives.
Cruel.
Brutal.
He cursed the gods.

Why did they come? Because the doctor had advised him not to be alone or he might feel lonely and depressed.
So, his mother ensured he was never alone.

The relatives came in truckloads.

What kinds of relatives, you ask? Silly. Loud. Pretentious. Useless. Nonsensical. Fake.
All varieties. You name it. They were there.

They wanted to “visit the recovering patient,” or as Nish put it, “make him unrecoverable for life.”

All his life, Nish had ignored these fake relatives. They always visited whenever he failed or something went wrong — mostly to laugh at his situation or to pretend they cared.
It was a test of his patience every time someone said, “You need to keep trying harder.”
He would just smile, swallow his anger, and escape at the first opportunity.

The world would be a better place if fake people didn’t live in it.
But then… there wouldn’t be anyone left in it.

Nish loved his privacy more than his relatives loved pretense.

But now that he was bedridden, he couldn’t ignore anyone.
The pain of talking to them was worse than the pain at his operation site.

Nish realised he couldn’t survive like this.
If the tumour didn’t finish him, the relatives surely would.

So he set a goal:
To stop relatives from visiting him for at least one full day — just ONE peaceful day of recovery.

Doctors said, “Rest is important.”
Relatives retorted, “Be serious. No time for stand-up comedy in the hospital.”

His eyes noticed a blurry figure outside his room. A familiar shape, but he couldn’t see it clearly.
Must be some stupid relative waiting to give him advice, he thought.

So Nish planned to fix the relatives problem once and for all.

He looked at his wife and mother discussing lunch. He watched them closely and implemented the strategy they used to deal with each other.

***

When the next batch of relatives walked in — the ones who always smelled like incense and moral judgement — Nish shut his eyes, held his breath, and pretended to be dead.

It was flawless acting.
Better than his wife and mother.
Oscar-level.

Except one aunt, Shanta Aunty, leaned over him and whispered loudly:

“This is what happens when you don’t believe in God or His religion. He punishes and kills you.”
She fake-cried. “You need to try harder in your next life.”

The other relatives started crying, thinking Nish was dead.

Nish kept his eyes closed, praying to God to take him away immediately.

Shanta Aunty leaned closer and pinched his toe to check if he was alive.

He twitched, almost coughing in shock.
Some relatives nearly had a heart attack imagining a ghost before them.
Some others ran away to admit themselves in the next ward.

Shanta Aunty turned dramatically.
“SEE? God acted on my prayers so soon and brought him back to life!”

“No. God kicked me back to tell others you are His fake disciple,” Nish said, gritting his teeth.

Shanta Aunty furrowed her brows in anger.
She couldn’t believe Nish was trying to expose her before others.
The other relatives fake-smiled and took a step back from the aunt.

They stayed for two hours, debating how Nish was ultimately going to die — by lack of rest or by Shanta Aunty’s unflinching stare.

Finally, Nish gave up and shouted that he was in pain.
The nurses rushed to check his wound.
But the pain came from the headache Shanta Aunty had gifted him.

Nish wanted his life back.
He hated the fake people adding salt to his wounds.
He wanted to be alone and figure out how to pay the remaining bill.

He noticed the blurry figure again peeking inside.
Before Nish could see who it was, the man ran away.
He assumed it was another relative.

He was exhausted.
He needed them gone.

So he decided to use a different strategy — one borrowed from his wife.

***
Nish’s wife was never interested in physical affection unless she wanted something from him.
It was her bribe technique.

Since physical contact was impossible, Nish used the edible alternative.

He bribed a nurse with a Dairy Milk Silk.

“Please,” he begged, “tell them visiting hours are closed. Say the doctor gave strict orders.”

She agreed.

But when the relatives arrived, they didn’t leave.

Instead they argued.

“Aunty, visiting hours are over,” the nurse said.

“We are family, not visitors,” one replied.

“Our horoscope says no rule applies to us,” another explained.

“Call the doctor. We want a second opinion,” someone added.

The nurse pulled her hair, abandoned Nish, and fled.

Slowly, relatives entered like an army occupying territory.

Nish stared at the off television as they stared at him, pretending they cared.

He wondered why staring competitions never became an Olympic sport — his relatives would win gold medals effortlessly.

Another round of advice began.

“You should eat only goat milk for six months.”
“Sleep facing east or your soul won’t revive.”
“Have you tried rubbing turmeric on your pillowcase?”

Nish wanted to scream, “Aunty, if turmeric could cure diseases, hospitals would be yellow.”

But he stayed quiet.
Barely.

***

Finally, after they left, Nish pulled himself up, panting like someone who had survived a natural disaster.

He needed a new strategy.
Something powerful.
Something brutal.
Something wife-level dramatic.

He wanted his privacy.
He knew these relatives had ulterior motives.
So he preferred to be alone and tackle all his problems.

He saw the shadow again outside the door.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

It vanished.

He was irritated now.
He had to fix this once and for all.

Then he remembered his mother’s ultimate strategy.

His mother, whenever she truly wanted peace or wanted to watch television without disturbance, used one technique:

Trauma dumping.

She would narrate one long emotional story — irrelevant, half-true, and never-ending — until everyone got exhausted and left.

Nish decided to use the same weapon.

It was time.

The next set of relatives entered — cousins, uncles, and that one aunt who always smelled like pickle and judgement.

Before they could ask, “How are you feeling?” Nish sat up with wild eyes.

“I need to share something,” he whispered.

Everyone leaned closer.

“I saw a shadow last night.”

Relatives froze.

“It came near my bed,” he continued dramatically, “and whispered that one of my relatives is cursed.”

Some jaws dropped.

He scanned the room slowly.

“I don’t know who it was… but the shadow specifically smelled of… incense sticks.”

Every head turned to Shanta Aunty.

She gasped so loudly it sounded like a pressure cooker whistle.

“I-I don’t smell like incense!” she yelled.

“Oh? You don’t?” Nish asked innocently. “Maybe the curse is stronger than you think.”

Just then, the accountant entered.

He reminded Nish of the remaining bill.

Shanta Aunty screamed and ran out of the room, clutching her handbag like it contained holy power.

The others bolted faster than Usain Bolt.

Within minutes, the room was empty.

Nish couldn’t believe it.
He could’ve called the accountant earlier and saved himself so much torture.

The silence was heavenly.

He lay back on the pillow, a single tear escaping.

Not emotional.
Just relief.

He drifted into real sleep — not the “Shanta Aunty is coming” sleep.

***

When he opened his eyes, he found someone sitting next to him.
Someone blurry.

The same shadow he had been noticing for days.

Nish rubbed his eyes.
Blink.
Blink again.

And then the shape focused.

“Couldn’t sleep?” the man asked. “You kept turning all night.”

“Ken?” Nish whispered, stunned. “Since when are you here?”

Ken looked at the wall calendar… then tapped his watch dramatically.

“Since your operation day. I was by the door all the time.”

Nish shot upright.

“That’s… ten days! What about your work?”

Ken shrugged.
“To hell with that. My friend is more important.”

He picked up Nish’s medicines and placed them gently in his hand.

Something softened inside Nish.
A warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He remembered their fight years ago.
The words thrown.
The silence that followed.
The decision Nish had made — to cut him off forever.

And yet… here Ken was.
Not the fake relatives.
Not the loud aunts.
Not the turmeric-pillows squad.
But the one person Nish had pushed away the hardest.

“Why didn’t you meet me earlier, Ken?” Nish asked quietly.

Ken sat down beside him, guilt pooled in his eyes.

“Because ten years ago,” he said, “you told me to leave you alone.”

Nish swallowed hard.

“But,” Ken added with a soft smile, “I wanted to be here for you. To sit with you. Even if you pretend to sleep like an idiot. Even if cancer tries something stupid. I’m here to fight with you, not watch from a distance. I wanted you to know you’re not alone in this.”

Nish looked at Ken.
Really looked.

Not as the cousin he fought with.
Not as the friend he pushed away.
But as someone who showed up — imperfect timing, imperfect past, imperfect relationship — yet fully there.

His throat tightened.
His eyes burned.

At that moment, the accountant entered and handed Nish a slip.

Bill paid in full, it read.

Nish looked up in confusion.

The accountant smiled… and gestured towards Ken.

“That charity…” Nish whispered.

“Don’t insult me by calling it a charity,” Ken said. “Brothers for life, remember?”

Nish couldn’t control himself.
He sprang up and hugged Ken after ten long years.

He realised something simple yet huge:

He had spent his whole life avoiding people because they were “fake,” “loud,” “annoying,” or “imperfect.”

But love didn’t need perfect people.
It only needed people who stayed — even when you were wrong, imperfect, or pushed them away.

And somehow, in the middle of irritating relatives, worst timing, and a tumour scar still healing…

Nish didn’t feel alone at all.

The world wasn’t cruel.
His life wasn’t empty.
He wasn’t cursed.

He was held.
Quietly.
Stubbornly.
In the imperfect way that mattered most.

He closed his eyes again — not to fake sleep this time — but to let a single tear fall without shame.

“Thanks for staying,” he whispered.

Ken placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Always.”

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The world is a dark place. Don’t believe others who tell you otherwise.

It was the first Saturday of November when my boss called me into his office and fired me. Can you believe him? He made me go to the office on a weekend just to fire me. Like I was some cracker lit just to be fired in someone’s home.

But I had nowhere else to go. With all the debt we had to pay back, I couldn’t face my wife. I was crestfallen. Everything seemed dark — my life, my career, and my dream of starting my business. I had planned to save money to start my venture, but now with the job gone, my dream had to wait, maybe for eternity.

I didn’t know what to do. Finding another job in the falling economy was difficult. But I was angry because I was fired for not cooperating with my boss. It wasn’t right.

Still trembling at the thought of an uncertain future, I somehow walked to my car and placed my office bag on the back seat when I saw the envelope. I remembered the letter and thought of using it. But something in me stopped me from going ahead. I remembered how my wife had suggested that I never use it.

I gripped the steering wheel and sat in my car for some time, my thoughts vacillating between my next step and the letter in the envelope.

But darkness was gripping me. As the situation seemed hopeless, I felt heavy. I closed my eyes and everything seemed dark. Just black. Deep, thick black.

Like someone had dipped my face in ink.

A strange silence wrapped the air. Not peaceful silence — the creepy kind where even your heartbeat sounds like a crime.

I tried to move my legs.

Something felt… tight.

Something held me down.

My chest tightened.

My breath stopped halfway.

“What is this?” I whispered, half scared, half angry. “I have to do something. I can’t lose this job.”

An idea struck me. I decided to approach my super boss and tell him about the wrongdoings happening under my boss. I would tell him how my boss was bribed by the contractor to get the contract. How together they were misappropriating funds and looting public money.

***

I drove straight to my super boss Mr. Ankit’s home, which was located on the outskirts of the city where no one except my boss, his wife, and their anxieties lived.

“Sir, Mukesh Sir has been misappropriating funds. The contractor bribed him,” I said in a single breath, faster than the rapper in a rap song. My mind yelled back, “yo,” to appreciate me.

No answer. Ankit Sir looked straight into my eyes. “Do you have any proof?”

I nodded and pulled out my phone to show him a picture. It clearly showed the contractor handing money to Mukesh. I had followed him and clicked the picture from a distance. I remember that day clearly because that’s when I realised the phones that cost us almost our organs can actually be used to catch theft. They weren’t supposed to just show our ugly faces wrapped in a filter to the world, which anyway doesn’t care about how you look.

Ankit Sir looked at my phone and then at me. “Do you have this picture anywhere else?”

I shook my head. He nodded and returned the phone to me. When I looked at it, the picture was gone. Vanished. Faster than a politician’s promises.

I furrowed my brows and looked at Mr. Ankit. He chuckled. “Don’t ever come near the office. Else I will ensure you get arrested.” He closed the door, leaving me in the dark.

I hated how loud my breathing sounded at that moment — like the darkness was listening. Watching. Judging.

I swallowed hard.

“This can’t be happening.”

And then the thoughts started.

Why did Ankit Sir delete the picture? Is he also part of the contractor bribes?
Why does it feel like the whole world has closed in?
Why do I feel chained… trapped… stuck?

I crawled back into my car. Every thought made the space feel smaller.

“I don’t see anything ahead,” I whispered to myself. “My whole life feels like this… this darkness. What will I do now?”

My voice sounded sad, dramatic — and a little stupid — but the fear was real.

I felt suffocated.
I felt powerless.
I felt… doomed.

Everything seemed wrong. Off. Tilted.

I cursed myself for going against the bosses.
For believing stupid things like “Always do the right thing.”
For ever thinking I would be rewarded for staying true to my values.

I took another breath, slow and shaky.

The air felt thick, like it had weight.

“Okay,” I told myself. “Stay calm. Control your mind.”

Good advice. Zero results.

Because at that exact moment… my mind gave me another idea. I looked back and saw the envelope. I remembered the letter. I also remembered my wife’s advice. But I had no choice. I picked it up and decided to use it.

Then I heard something.

A faint rustling.
A soft movement.

Someone — or something — breathing near me. I listened to the sound of the steps. It wasn’t one person alone. God, are they going to kill me now?

My heart jumped so high it could have hit the ceiling if I could see it.

Who was near my car?

I held my breath and listened.

There it was again — gentle, steady steps.

Definitely not mine. Because mine were paralysed with fear.

My throat tightened.
Fear crawled down my spine like a cold insect.

“Who’s there?” I whispered, my voice cracking.

No reply.

The breathing stayed slow. Calm. Almost peaceful.

But the world inside my head wasn’t peaceful at all.

I searched for something strong in the car. All I could find was my bag and the letter in my hands. I couldn’t kill someone with papercuts, for heaven’s sake, I convinced myself.

I somehow got out of my car. The sound of the footsteps grew louder as they approached me. I closed my eyes, holding the letter like a weapon.

Then I felt something wet on my feet. And something similar on my back, right where my shirt and trousers were in a lip-lock.

I opened my eyes and found two dogs — eight legs total — licking my feet and ass. I almost gasped my heart out and drove away as quickly as I could.

***

I lifted my right hand while driving. The letter was my only chance. I hadn’t disclosed it to anyone. It had details of the contract, the misappropriation of funds, the bribes, and the proof. Everything.

No one knew about it except my wife, Neha. She also worked in my office in a senior position, but in the finance department. She had suggested I not show the letter to anyone. In fact, she wanted me to get rid of it.

But why would she say that? Was she too afraid for me? Did she know something else?

My mind was now drenching with thoughts. I had to find out and also get my job back. That was the only way I could realise my dream of starting my business someday.

***

I drove to my house. As I walked toward the door, I heard a few voices. I went closer and put my ear against it.

My heart froze.

I recognised those voices. They were Ankit and Mukesh, my bosses. What were they doing in my house?

I turned to leave, but before I could run away, I heard the door open.

“Where do you think you are going?”
Neha walked up to me and stood in front of me. She grabbed the letter from my hands. “Told you to get rid of it.” Then she tore it into pieces. With that, my plan of using the letter had failed.

I looked at the torn pieces lying near my feet. I was shaken. Why did she tear the letter? Why were my bosses here? Was Neha involved too?

Mukesh walked up to me and patted my arm. “You are such an idiot. Never disclose secrets to the culprits.” He winked at Neha.

Ankit just chuckled and shook his head in disapproval as he walked past me.

My heart was crying. My wife was involved in the entire corruption scandal. There was no way of getting my job back. My relationship was gone. My dream was lost.

Now I could feel the darkness engulfing me.

“Why… why did you do it?” I gasped.

“For our better future.” Neha smiled and placed her hands on my cheek.

I pulled back and shook my head in despair.

The darkness inside my brain cracked like a dropped plate.

In the last few hours, I was not just out of a job — my entire life seemed like a lie. I had no future in my work. No hope in my relationship. My dream was dead. All I had was darkness around.

The world is a dark place, I remembered.

But then, as I walked down the road, away from everything, I saw something.

***

A man stopped near me. He looked at me and started walking towards me. I noticed him limping. God, is he going to mug me now? Today, of all days, when I have lost everything? I stood up and turned.

“Sir,” he called. “Can you give me twenty rupees (0.23$)? Even ten rupees would do. I promise to return it.”

I turned. “Ten? Why?”

He waved and called someone from the dark. Two little kids appeared.

“I am not a beggar, Sir,” the man said. “I couldn’t sell enough vegetables today. But I need to feed my kids.”

I looked at the man’s attire. He was wearing an old brown shirt and trousers. His kids, not more than five, walked and stood near him.

“Let me buy the veggies,” I said, pulling out my wallet and trying to give him a hundred-rupee note.

The man smiled and shook his head. “The veggies are stale and dry now. If you want the veggies, please come tomorrow at the market.” He pointed towards the place where he sells them.

That hit me hard. Here was a man begging a stranger for money to feed his kids, but he still wouldn’t do the wrong thing. I imagined how dark his world must be. How constant the struggle. How worries and problems must be engulfing his life. And yet here he was, smiling and facing it all.

I loaned him the money and started walking back. As I walked, I remembered my childhood when I was bullied. The world seemed dark back then. I remembered my school days when judges’ bias cost us the district tournament and eventually a career in sports. The world had seemed darker back then.

I remembered my college days, when I was suspended for standing against the wrongdoings of some faculty members. It was darker back then.

I remembered how, in spite of everything, I had survived the darkness. By doing what’s right. By doing what I believed in. By persisting. By fighting for myself.

I closed my eyes and looked within. I realised the world has always been the same — a place filled with the wrongs of some people. But in spite of that, some people find the light in darkness. The light that gives them hope to persist and live a life they dream of.

Everything else around me was dark, but I could see everything clearly — through the light that was lit inside me.

I picked up my phone, opened the drive, and sent the details of the corruption to the Managing Director of the company.

Within a few months, the MD offered me the job back. I refused. Instead, I chose to start my own venture. The light amidst the darkness gave me the courage to push for my dream.

The world is a dark place. But the light within can help you sail through the darkest times— towards a better future.

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Something unbelievable happened — my book Sensible Idiots became a #1 Humour Bestseller in India, and then hit #2 in Humour in both India & the US.
For a book I wrote half-delirious at night… this feels unreal.

When I saw these rankings, my first reaction was,
“How did this happen? Who left the algorithm unsupervised?”

My second reaction was more honest:
I didn’t reach here alone — you helped me get here.

You downloaded the book.
You supported it.
You encouraged a guy who writes humour about idiots (including himself).

And that made me realise something important…
Readers like you are the only reason authors like me keep going.

So here’s a small favour that genuinely helps more than you can imagine:

👉 Could you leave just ONE line as a review?

Nothing long — literally one line like:

• “Fun read.”

• “Made me laugh.”

• “Sensible book about Idiots.”

Right now the book has huge momentum, and Amazon pushes books harder when readers review them.
And honestly… each review gives me more motivation to keep writing the next book.

And if you haven’t read it yet, you can still grab it for FREE — but only for a limited time.
(I want everyone in this community to get it before it returns to paid.)

Here’s the global link:
👉 Sensible Idiots

If you’ve already reviewed it — thank you.
If you’re about to — thank you.
If you’re smiling at this email instead of reviewing… thank you anyway (but please review). 😄

You’re not just a subscriber —
you’re part of this journey, and I mean that genuinely.

Warmly,
KYG

P.S.

Most readers assume “someone else will review.”
But your one-line review could be the one that keeps the book visible today.
👉 Sensible Idiots

Want to cure procrastination—or better yet, laziness?
Let me ask you why. Why on earth would you want to get rid of something that’s equal to godliness—if not better?

I know some idiot, online or offline, might have convinced you otherwise. But don’t buy such nonsense from people who secretly worship laziness yet publicly preach the opposite.

Here are a few reasons that might convince you to reconsider:

1. You Will Get Rid of Anxiety

Do you remember that feeling when your boss gave you work and you committed a blunder? He came charging at you, warning that you’d be thrown out of the job. That was anxiety knocking at your heart, whispering what your life would look like when you start living on the streets.

Now ask yourself—why did this problem start in the first place?
Because you decided to work that day. How crazy of you!

Every time you open a spreadsheet, a project file, or a gym bag, a small voice inside you whispers, “What if I fail? What if I’m not good enough?”

God, I’m tired of that voice. It’s so passionate about making me sweat like I just got caught in the rain.

But here’s the secret: what if you never open that spreadsheet, gym bag, or—dare I say it—that condom? You’d never regret it.

Procrastination can save you from that irritating, over-motivated voice and its anxiety. Forever.

It’s your inner therapist saying, “Relax. Let’s not open that Pandora’s box today.”

By not doing the task, you don’t have to deal with the emotional roller coaster of doing the task. No work, no stress, no worry, no panic—just peace, calm, and a refreshing sense of denial.
Like yoga, but without the stretching.

2. You Eliminate the Risk of Failure

People say, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”
But they forget the second part: you also avoid 100% of the embarrassment.

If you don’t believe me, think about the reason for your embarrassing marriage. What would’ve happened if you had procrastinated on your wedding day? Your life today would’ve been nothing short of magic.

When you never start, you never fail. You can always tell yourself (and your parents, and your ex, and your mirror) that you could have been great—if only you’d started. You live in an eternal state of potential, untouched by reality. It’s like being a seed that refuses to sprout because it’s too pure to deal with dirt.

Besides, have you ever seen someone fail at something they didn’t even try? Exactly.

So be like that train destined for a journey but too wise to leave the platform.

3. You Avoid the Trap of Comparison

Do you know the pain of scrolling through social media and watching everyone else “living their best life”? Promotions, proposals, six-pack abs, startups that “just hit 10 million users.”

Gosh, it’s so demeaning to see incompetent souls winning so much in life. But if you never compete with them, you’ll never catch that disease.

Procrastination is the vaccine for that infection.

When you haven’t even begun your journey, you’re not in the race. You can simply shrug and say, “I’m not competing, I’m observing.” No pressure to post, no urge to prove.

Like a philosopher watching rats race in a competition he never signed up for.

You might even start to pity the overachievers—poor souls, sweating for goals while you sip your coffee in peace.

4. You Save Yourself from Stress, Obesity, and Modern Disease

Let’s be honest: most diseases today are caused by work.

People work long hours, skip meals, eat junk, stress out, and end up at the doctor’s office wondering why their bodies are falling apart. But not you—the noble procrastinator.

You have chosen health over hustle.

Your heart rate stays low, your mind stays calm, and your step count remains gloriously stable at zero.

Science may not confirm it yet, but I’m convinced the real secret to longevity isn’t exercise—it’s avoidance.

5. You Achieve Inner Peace

Monks spend decades meditating to silence their thoughts.
You do it instantly—by refusing to think about your to-do list.

While others chant mantras and chase enlightenment, you simply close your laptop, stare at the ceiling fan, and achieve a Zen-like state of bliss.

No deadlines. No decisions. No disturbances.

Some call it laziness.
I call it enlightened non-action.

6. You Live in a Stress-Free Loop of Hope

Work is so depressing that people don’t even want to leave for the office the next day.
But procrastination gives you something to look forward to—tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a magical land where all your problems will be solved, and your future self will have six hours of extra energy, a clearer mind, and a better internet connection.
But only if you procrastinate today.

You go to bed feeling optimistic.
“I’ll start tomorrow,” you whisper, smiling.

And the next morning, when tomorrow becomes today, you simply reschedule hope for another tomorrow.
It’s the most sustainable emotional recycling system ever invented.

7. You Build a Lifelong Relationship with Comfort

People chase work and money all their lives, but what they’re really seeking is comfort.
Procrastinators, however, get comfort without chasing anything—and they get it immediately.

Why climb a mountain to feel accomplished when you can feel accomplished by not climbing it at all?
Why go through the agony of deadlines when you can embrace the luxury of delay?

You’ve discovered what philosophers call The Path of Least Resistance—or as productivity experts would call it, Tuesday.

8. You Become a Master Negotiator (With Yourself)

Procrastinators are excellent at one skill: self-negotiation.

“I’ll start after this episode.”
“Just one more scroll.”
“Let me clean my desk first.”

You, my friend, are running the most advanced internal PR campaign ever. You can convince yourself of anything. You could sell yourself the same excuse a hundred times and still nod in approval.

That’s not laziness—that’s persuasion.
That’s leadership.

And don’t people say that leadership starts with yourself?

9. You’re Saving the Planet (Kind Of)

Less work means fewer commutes, fewer power-hungry machines, fewer coffee cups, and fewer “urgent” emails.

In your quiet way, you’re an environmental hero.
While the world burns fossil fuels, you burn daylight—and even that, sparingly.

You’re the Greta Thunberg of inaction.

10. You’ve Mastered the Art of the Exit

At the end of life, when God asks, “So, what did you do with your time on Earth?” you won’t panic.
You’ll smile politely and say, “I’ll answer that tomorrow.”

Then, you’ll use your earthly experience to avoid responding altogether.
Even in heaven, you’ll find a way to hit snooze on eternity.

Conclusion

Procrastination has been unfairly judged by the modern world. They call it the thief of time, but it’s actually the guardian of sanity. It protects you from anxiety, shields you from failure, and keeps you joyfully detached from society’s treadmill.

Maybe we’ve been asking the wrong question all along.
Instead of “How do I stop procrastinating?” we should ask,
“How do I become a master at procrastination?”

Because somewhere between your unfinished to-do lists and unopened emails lies a beautiful truth:
You’re not lazy.
You’ve just been chasing the wrong things—with unnecessary enthusiasm.

So the next time you’re accused of wasting time, take a deep breath, smile, and say, “I’m just postponing greatness until it’s ready.”

And if they still don’t get it…
tell them you’ll explain tomorrow.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance between this essay and real life is purely coincidental—and disturbingly accurate. The writer accepts full responsibility for inspiring you to do nothing… eventually.

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