“My head is stuck,” I said, my eyes on the message on my phone—the same phone that had been buzzing for two days straight with the same question from everyone I knew.

The pretty astrologer, busy on her mobile since I arrived, looked up, then at my head. She threw the mobile aside, its screen scratched raw from her own pointed nails, and touched her own head. “You mean your head is stuck with the hair?”

“No, no. I mean my mind is stuck somewhere.”

She wrinkled her brows and kept staring, waiting to know more. I looked at her pretty feet, then at the crawling lizard on the wall, and everywhere else except at her.

“We don’t have all day. Kindly speak or leave,” the astrologer raised her voice. “Where’s your mind stuck?”

Well, that was a rhetorical question, if you ask me. Everyone had been asking me the same thing for the last two days. My parents. Her parents. His parents. His husband’s parents. Her husband’s parents. God, I didn’t even know so many people were still alive in my circle.

“Hello?” The astrologer waved her hands to wake me up from my thoughts.

“I am sorry but I..I..I—” I stammered, my eyes on the phone in my hand. “I..I can’t tell you.”

The astrologer looked at the clock on the wall, shook her head in anger, and threw a notepad at me. “Write then. But it will cost you more. Handwriting analysis is a separate service.”

The astrologer was lucky. If she had said the same thing to me, or to any other person, even to a stranger, I would have ensured she closed her business. But that day, my mind was elsewhere. Stuck.

I picked the notepad up, but my hands trembled as I took the pen to write. I lifted my eyes and found the astrologer staring at me. For a moment, my mind was stuck on her beauty. But better sense prevailed. Who would risk his life with an astrologer who could predict your next move before you even thought about it? She was an astrologer, for heaven’s sake, an ambassador of God with access to his plans. Powerful, undoubtedly, considering the unpredictability of today’s world, and Mr. President in particular.

“Write,” she motioned towards the notepad with a look that said she’d light me on fire if I didn’t.

My phone buzzed. Ready when you are, it said. Not yet, I typed back. I picked up the notepad, quickly wrote on the paper, and handed it to her.

For the next few moments, no one spoke — or I’d gone deaf. She kept staring at me. I kept staring at the lizard making its move towards its target. But I could hear her heavy breathing as she controlled what looked like an intention to kill me.

Well, why blame me? It was her profession to predict. That’s what I had written on the notepad. “Predict and tell me what my mind is stuck on.”

We check the efficiency of doctors by their medicines, the plumber by his repair, so I thought—why just believe hearsay about the astrologer? Why not check her talent with a live demonstration itself? Only then could I trust her to tell me where my mind was stuck.

When she didn’t speak for a while and kept staring, I motioned her toward the notepad. “You just said we don’t have all day,” I said. Her breathing got faster, more intense. But I knew I had a point, so I stuck my feet to my place.

“Attendant!” the astrologer shouted. Within moments, two attendants came running into the room as if to save a drowning world-class swimmer.

“Yes, madam,” both said in unison.

“Take this idiot away,” she said, pointing towards the door as if I didn’t know where the exit was.

I pulled the chair toward me and sat down. “Not going until I have my answer,” I smiled. “I have also paid for your time, and these two assured me they will not ask me to leave until I get my answer.” I looked at the two attendants to confirm. They looked horrified. “Isn’t it, girls?”

The attendants avoided looking at their boss.

The astrologer was about to say something, but I interrupted. “And they’ve signed on your company’s behalf, on your official claim note. The one you give when a customer pays for your services.” I pulled the paper from my shirt pocket to show her. The astrologer gritted her teeth, clenched her hands against the chair. Looking at her in that moment, even I could predict she would pounce and kill me. But I am not an astrologer, and she was a sane one—for she did nothing of that sort. At least, not for a while.

“The paper also claims you will return double the amount if the customer doesn’t find his solution,” I read the line to remind her. “My mind is stuck. So find me a solution.”

The astrologer rubbed her face with her hands, then drank the glass of water before her, motioning the attendants to leave. I leaned back in my chair, watching the devils disappear.

“Well,” the astrologer smiled. “I will help you. But you have to be ready to be helped.”

That sent a chill down my spine. Not the fact that I was going to be helped, but the way she said it. “Oh, I am ready,” I said, faking confidence, but I could hear my heartbeat running like it was on a treadmill.

The pretty astrologer-cum-handwriting-analyst rose, smiled, and went to the table nearby. She pulled open a drawer and hid something in her palms.

“Open your palms,” she said, showing me how it had to be done with her other hand.

I swear I hated only silly questions till that moment. But since then, I hate silly gestures like opening palms even more.

“What is it?” I stammered, hiding my palms under my arms.

“You will know. Don’t worry,” she smiled, tilting her head.

I looked at the wall to see the lizard, avoiding her orders. The lizard was as close to its target as the astrologer was to me. “Take it,” she said, standing before me.

“I don’t like snakes.” I pushed the chair away with my legs.

She laughed. The twinkle in her eyes made me feel like kissing her for a moment. But then she stopped, as if she’d predicted the thought in my head. I immediately tried thinking of something else. But the picture stuck to my mind, and I imagined kissing the snake instead. Thank heavens I hate French kissing, or that would’ve been weird.

“Take it. It’s not a snake,” she said, positioning her hands over my palm.

I swallowed, closed my eyes, and opened my palms. Paper?

I opened my eyes to confirm. Yes, it was a small paper with some mantra scribbled on it.

“Read it in your mind, right now,” she said.

“My mind is not stuck,” I said aloud.

Her jaw tightened, but she smiled anyway. “In your mind. Say it every day, a hundred times.”

“And?” I looked at her.

“And your mind won’t be stuck anymore.” She walked to her chair and leaned back.

“But you didn’t tell me why my mind is stuck,” I rebelled.

The astrologer leaned toward me. “You are here for the solution, not for the problem, isn’t it?” she forced a smile.

I looked at my phone in my lap. There was a message. “Not yet,” I typed back.

As I looked at the lizard on the wall, I realized it had swallowed its target. I swallowed my helplessness and looked at the astrologer. She was back to killing the screen with her pointed fingers.

“Anything else?” she said, without taking her eyes off it.

“What if the mantra doesn’t work? What if my mind is still stuck?”

“I told you—you have to be ready to be helped. You have to believe in it. It will work,” she said.

“Okay, I believe you. I will even recite this thing two hundred times if need be.” I cleared my throat. “But if it still doesn’t work, will you pay me double the amount I paid? As promised in your claim note.”

The astrologer typed something on her phone. Then looked at me and smiled. “No,” she shook her head, pinching her lips. “But we will try to find another remedy for your problem.”

Before I could say anything more, she said, “Time’s up.” I looked at the clock on the wall.

“Next,” she shouted, and another person walked in with his problems.

We crossed paths, smiled, and nodded to acknowledge each other’s presence. Not that I had met him before, but at that moment, there was one thing common between us. We both needed a solution to our problems.

My phone buzzed. There was a message again. Ok, I typed back.

As I turned, I saw the man sitting in the chair I had just vacated. I walked over and pulled up a chair to sit beside him.

The astrologer’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Yes, madam,” I said.

“What do you want now? We are discussing his problems now,” she said, pointing at the man beside me.

“Yes, right, I know. We three are discussing his problems now,” I said. “He doesn’t mind a second opinion. Do you, friend?” I tapped his back. “We take second opinions even for doctors, so why not astrologers, right?”

The man didn’t seem to know what to say. The astrologer’s mouth fell open, clearly unsure what to say next. But she found something. “What makes you think you’re a qualified astrologer yourself?”

I pinched my lips, thinking about what felt like a baseless question. I hadn’t questioned her qualifications, but she’d questioned mine. Wow, what a world.

She leaned back as I thought about it. The man next to me stared at me, wanting the answer to her question more than the solution to his own problem.

I picked up the notepad, scribbled something on it, tore it off, and handed it to the astrologer.

“What the hell is this? I can’t even read it.” She wrinkled her eyes and nose, hoping to make sense of it.

“Well, I can tell you that, but it’ll cost you more. Handwriting analysis is a separate service,” I winked and leaned back.

The astrologer’s eyes widened. The man beside me smiled, thinking he was lucky to meet two handwriting-analyst-cum-astrologers in one room.

“But since you’re my first client, I won’t charge,” I smiled and took the note back from her.

“I am a qualified astrologer,” I read the note aloud. “I am a qualified astrologer,” I said it again. “See, I told you I was a qualified astrologer. It’s written right here.” I showed her the note again. “You should read it a hundred times too. And believe it. That’s how it works, isn’t it?”

The astrologer breathed heavily. “What makes you think I’ll believe this nonsense?”

“Read it every day, a hundred times, and most importantly”—I paused—”believe it,” I smiled.

Her hands went still on the desk. Her breath turned ragged. For one long second nobody moved—not her, not the man beside me, not even the lizard on the wall. Then she thumped the desk with all her might and lunged across it towards me, her chair clattering back against the wall. Her fingers closed around my neck, nails digging in like she meant every mark they left. The man scrambled back, his chair screeching against the floor. “Help! Help!” he shouted.

Doors banged open. Attendants poured in, and right behind them, two more women, all grabbing at the astrologer’s arms, prying her fingers off my throat one at a time. For a few seconds it was just noise—shouting, chairs scraping, her nails raking one last line down my collar before they finally pulled her back.

One of the women, with strong, heavy arms, slapped the astrologer. The other held her back.

“Thank you for coming on time, officers,” I said, taking breaths to fill my empty lungs. “This pretty astrologer tried to kill me like the lizard ate that insect on the wall.”

The women wrinkled their noses and glanced at the wall.

“This gentleman saw it happen himself,” I said, pointing at the man. He nodded hesitantly, not knowing what else to do.

One of the two women slapped the astrologer again. “Now she’ll spend her life in prison.” She slapped her once more. “Go on—predict the other inmates’ futures now.”

I laughed, but since nobody joined in, I stopped. “She must be ready for it, considering she should have predicted her own future well in advance,” I said.

The two women smiled and began pulling the astrologer away, while she begged to be let go.

“One piece of advice,” I said to the astrologer. “Write on a piece of paper that you didn’t try to kill me, and give it to the judge.” I smiled. “But he has to believe it, else it won’t work.” I winked.

The women took the astrologer away.

“Thank you for sending them on time,” I messaged my friend, who had been messaging me ever since I’d entered the astrologer’s office. No badge, no uniform, no station address on any paper — just two women I paid better than she ever paid her attendants, and a claim note I’d read so many times I could recite it in my sleep. It wasn’t the first astrologer’s office I’d walked into that month. It wouldn’t be the last.

The attendants looked horrified at the course of events. I walked towards them. “Don’t worry. You won’t go to prison—unless you return double my money. My problem isn’t solved yet, you know,” I shrugged.

The attendants swallowed hard and rushed to bring me the money.

See, I told you my mind was stuck… on getting rich by trapping gullible people.

But one thing I couldn’t understand, even today: why couldn’t the astrologer predict she would land in prison and lose double her money?

Gosh, my mind is stuck again.

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Year 2005. Sometime around May.

I stood near the gate of the university building, lost in my head, until someone pushed me from behind and pulled me back into the world.

Loud voices everywhere. Friends embracing families. Happy faces, worried faces, tearful ones. The results were out.

“What are you waiting for? Go check yours.” My friend hugged me, tapping my arm repeatedly. He had cleared the most difficult year of engineering. He kept talking but his voice faded somewhere.

All I could hear was my heartbeat.

“What’s your roll number?” Ashish ran toward me, out of breath, grinning. I could tell from his face he had already passed.

My hands were trembling as I pulled the admit card from my wallet and handed it to him.

Engineering was never my first choice. I never understood the technicalities. Never loved the subject. My only goal was to clear it so I could pursue what I truly wanted. So I had poured everything into it. Worked harder than I ever had. My friends were more confident about my result than I was. They thought I would top the class.

I watched Ashish push through the crowd toward the red walls of the old building where the results were pinned.

After a while, he turned.

The smile was gone.

He slowly shook his head.

Ketan couldn’t believe it. He rushed to check himself. Same answer.

I had failed. Again. Two subjects.

My family thought I was distracted. My teachers didn’t think I was worth engineering. That night I cried alone in my room, with nothing but the silence and the weight of all that effort that had gone nowhere.

The next morning I began again.

Weeks later, walking to the exam hall, I froze in the middle of the road.

My legs wouldn’t move. My mind was loud with every worst case, every embarrassing outcome, every disappointed face. I stood there on the pavement, unable to take another step.

Then something shifted.

What’s the worst that could happen?

I will fail.

I was already failing. There was nothing worse left to fear.

And in that moment — something moved in me. Not confidence. Not hope. Something quieter and harder than both.

I might fail tomorrow. And the day after. But I will not be a failure in my life.

The moment I said it, the pressure lifted.

I walked to the exam hall with a free mind.

There were more failures after that day. More subjects, more setbacks, more roads that went nowhere. Friends disappeared. New questions arose about my capability.

It was a lonely walk. There were stretches where I couldn’t see the end of it.

But I didn’t quit. I kept pumping belief and hope into myself. The future stayed unclear — until it didn’t. Just small flashes at first. But I kept at it, disregarding every question that arose in the minds of others — and in my own.

When I wrote the last word of my first book “The Goal Getter,” a tear skipped my eye.

The first image that came to my mind was a boy frozen on a pavement, who had refused to give up.

That was me. Fifteen years ago.

Quiet Clarity

It’s not failure until you give up.

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The speaker walked across the stage like he owned the air in the room.

“Right now,” he said, pausing for effect, “your life is here.” He held his palm flat at waist level. Then slowly raised one finger toward the ceiling. “But it needs to be there.”

The hall went quiet for a moment. Then it erupted.

Somewhere in that applause, I heard a voice beside me say, “What an idiot.”

I turned. The man was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the stage with the calm expression of someone who had already made up his mind.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“He’s an idiot.” He nodded toward the speaker. “It’s because of people like him that others never reach their real potential.”

Before I could respond, he stood up and walked out.

I watched him leave, then turned back to the stage.

Ten years later, I was at a conference with a friend.

We were waiting for the keynote speaker — someone the organisers had been building up all morning. Multiple businesses. An Ironman. Books. Music. The kind of introduction that makes a room sit up straight.

A man walked past our row on his way to the stage.

I recognised him before I could place him.

“Sir,” I said, standing up.

He stopped.

“I think we met once. A motivational seminar. Many years ago.”

He looked at me. Then something shifted in his face.

“The believer guy,” he said.

I frowned, half-smiling. “I was sitting next to you. I don’t think we spoke much.”

“I remember.” He raised one finger slowly toward the ceiling, mimicking the old speaker’s gesture. “So. Did you get there?”

“Yes,” I said.

He pinched his lips. Shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I stared at him. “I achieved what I set out to do. I wanted to be an engineer. I am one.”

He patted my arm. “Good for you.”

Something in his tone sat wrong. I didn’t let it go.

“I’m not sure I follow,” I said.

He exhaled. Then looked at me directly.

“When you became an engineer — in that moment — did you believe you had reached your full potential?”

I thought about it honestly. “Yes.”

“But who decided that was your full potential?” He let the question hang. “Your family? Your friends? The world you grew up in?”

I didn’t answer.

He pointed upward. “You built a ceiling. You called it engineering. You reached it and stopped.” He shrugged. “Most people do.”

Then he leaned in and lowered his voice.

“But what if you broke it? Just broke right through it — and kept going? What if the ceiling didn’t really exist?”

He held my gaze for one second. Then walked to the stage.

I watched him take the podium. The same man who had once walked out of a seminar calling the speaker an idiot.

Now he was the speaker.

I looked up at the ceiling.

And broke it in my mind. The ceiling never existed after that.

I discovered the endless possibilities my life could go in.

Quiet Clarity

Your life reflects the limits you put on it.

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“Sir, this business will change my life.”

Rohit leaned forward in his chair as he spoke. His eyes sparkled with excitement. The business plan rested on the table between us. Every few seconds, he tapped the pages as if his enthusiasm would spill out before the words did.

“I have already watched thirty videos about it,” he said. “People are making huge profits. I just know this is going to work.”

I smiled and nodded.

Over the years, I had met many people like Rohit. Their energy entered the room before they did. They spoke fast, dreamt big and made the future sound only a few months away.

“So when are you starting?” I asked.

“Next month,” he replied. “I just need the perfect logo, website and office setup first.”

He pulled out his phone and showed me pictures of modern offices.

“I want people to feel we are a big brand from day one.”

A few months later, Rohit called me.

“Sir, the market is down.”

“Keep working,” I said.

Rohit exhaled sharply.

“You are not getting it, sir.”

The next month he called again.

“The suppliers aren’t cooperating.”

“Keep at it,” I said. “There must be another way to convince them.”

Silence followed.

The month after that came another reason.

“Customers don’t understand quality.”

Every conversation carried more frustration than the last.

One evening, I visited his office.

The excitement had disappeared from the walls.

Unopened boxes lay in the corner. Dust covered the glass table. The logo he once showed me with pride hung behind him like something abandoned midway.

“I think I should shut it down,” he said, staring at the laptop screen.

“Shut down the business? You were so confident before.”

Rohit laughed.

“There’s a much better opportunity in the automobile sector.”

Then he started explaining the new business, the market potential, the logo, the branding.

His excitement for the new venture told me there was no point explaining anything.

“I know someone in the automobile sector,” I said. “Maybe you should meet him.”

Rohit agreed instantly.

A few days later, we visited my friend’s garage.

“Ashish, there’s someone here to meet you,” I called out.

Ashish was lying beneath a car fixing something. He looked at us from under the vehicle and motioned for us to wait.

After a while, he rolled himself out.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, wiping his hands with a cloth. “Even senior mechanics struggle with some problems.”

His shirt carried stains of grease and dust. His hands looked rough from years of work.

I had known Ashish for years.

He never sounded excited.

Never posted motivational quotes.

Never spoke about changing the world.

Rohit looked around the garage and frowned.

“Sir, I thought your friend owned an automobile business,” he said. “Looks like he’s a mechanic.”

Ashish heard him.

He smiled.

I was about to respond when Ashish gestured us to follow him.

He led us through a side entrance connected to the garage.

Rohit slowed down as we entered the showroom.

Bright lights reflected off polished cars lined across the floor.

“Ashish owns five showrooms in our city,” I said. “He’s the biggest car dealer in town.”

Rohit’s mouth remained half open as he looked around.

“I had known Ashish for fifteen years. In that time the automobile sector had seen crashes, slowdowns and recoveries. His showroom had seen all of it and was still standing.” I said

Rohit looked at Ashish. “What’s your secret?”

“There’s no secret,” Ashish said.

Then he pointed towards the market outside.

“Enthusiasm is common. Most people start with it and think it will ensure success.”

He lifted the water bottle and took a sip.

“But business demands more than excitement.”

He looked at Rohit.

“It demands that you endure after the excitement disappears.”

Outside, shops were shutting one by one as darkness spread across the market.

Ashish’s showroom remained open.

Quiet Clarity:

Enthusiasm helps people start.

Endurance helps them survive long enough to succeed.

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“Bro, this is it. Six months and we will completely transform ourselves.”

Rajat stood before the gym mirror, flexing his arms after the first workout. Sweat covered his face but his excitement made him look unstoppable.

“You’ll see,” he said. “People won’t even recognise us.”

I laughed and nodded.

Like most people who join a gym in January, we had entered with oversized goals and undersized patience.

The first few days felt exciting.

New shoes. Protein shakes. Workout selfies. Fitness videos.

Rajat spoke more about the future version of himself than the present one.

A week later, he called me.

“Bro, my entire body is hurting. What about yours?”

“It’s terrible,” I said. “Everything hurts. But I think that means our muscles are adapting. I heard it gets better.”

Silence followed.

Then Rajat said, “I don’t think gym is the best option for weight loss. Yoga is better for long-term fitness.”

The next month, he joined yoga.

I stayed at the gym.

For a few weeks, his social media filled with sunrise pictures, meditation quotes and flexibility poses.

Then one day I called him.

“How’s yoga going?”

“It’s too slow,” he said. “Martial arts burn more calories.”

A few months later, martial arts disappeared too.

Then came:

• Cycling

• Intermittent fasting

• Home workouts

• Dance fitness

Every few months Rajat found a better method.

Every few months he abandoned the previous one.

Meanwhile, I stayed at the same gym.

Not because I loved it every day.

Some days I skipped workouts. Some days I hated going. Some days I sat outside for ten minutes convincing myself to enter.

But I kept returning.

Almost two years later, we met at a friend’s wedding.

Rajat looked at me for a few moments before speaking.

“You lost so much weight,” he said.

My shirt size had changed. My face looked sharper. Climbing stairs no longer left me breathless.

Then I looked at him.

He had gained more weight than before.

“What happened to yoga?” I asked.

“It wasn’t the best method,” he replied. “Martial arts was better.”

“Great. So you still practice it?”

“Nope,” Rajat said. “Too exhausting.”

“So cycling?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “Too time-consuming. But I think HIIT is the best method for weight loss. I’m joining a studio tomorrow.”

“Don’t,” I said. “It won’t help you.”

Rajat creased his brows.

“You think HIIT isn’t the best technique?”

“Most methods work,” I said.

Rajat looked at me.

“But you need to stay with one long enough.”

He stayed quiet.

Music from the wedding hall echoed behind us while people moved around the buffet counters.

I picked up a glass of water from the table beside us and looked at him.

“The best decision is the one you commit to.”

Quiet Clarity:

The method rarely fails you. You fail the method.

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Deepak and I were travelling in Thailand when we stopped at a restaurant for lunch. It was a small place in the countryside, but since we were tired, we just wanted to eat.

The place looked simple—wooden doors, no air conditioners, and even the tables were wooden, supported by metal hinges to prevent them from wobbling.

The waiter handed us the menu.

I spent a few minutes reading it, trying to understand the local dishes.

My friend didn’t even open it.

“Paneer Butter Masala,” he said.

“Sorry, sir. We have only Thai food,” the waiter said in broken English and smiled.

“No problem. That’s better,” I smiled back and pointed to a dish I found difficult to pronounce.

The waiter nodded.

I looked at Deepak for his order.

He held his hair as he tried to figure out the food options.

“Why don’t you have Indian food? It’s the best food in the world,” he said, throwing the menu onto the table.

The waiter looked unimpressed.

“Thai food is the best,” he replied.

Deepak chuckled.

“That’s because you haven’t tried Indian food.”

I looked first at Deepak as he continued talking about the variety of Indian cuisines.

Then I looked at the waiter, who was defending Thai food with equal conviction.

“Excuse me?” I said. “How do both of you know your food is the best? Have you tasted every kind of food that’s out there?”

Deepak laughed.

“Come on, man. Don’t you love Indian food?”

“I love Indian food,” I said. “But I don’t know if it’s the best.”

Then I turned to the waiter.

“Please get your best local dish.”

He nodded.

A while later, the food arrived.

Although Deepak looked unconvinced, he had no option but to try it.

It turned out to be one of the best dishes we had during our entire trip.

In fact, Deepak ordered the same dish at least once every day until we left Thailand.

After lunch, we started walking back towards our hotel.

“Strange,” I said.

“What?”

“You were disappointed before the food even arrived.”

Deepak laughed.

“I guess I was.”

“The food wasn’t bad,” I continued.

“You had already decided it would be.”

He smiled.

“Maybe.”

We walked in silence for a while.

Then Deepak said,

“After my MBA, I thought work would become interesting. But it’s still boring.”

“You did an MBA because you wanted interesting work?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“It’s the best course out there.”

I looked at him.

He looked back.

Then added,

“That’s what everyone says.”

I didn’t reply.

Because suddenly I wasn’t thinking about Thai food anymore.

I was thinking about how many of our choices are actually ours.

How many opinions arrive from our family, culture, friends and society.

How many get repeated so often that they stop sounding borrowed.

And start sounding like our own voice.

Quiet Clarity

The hardest beliefs to question are the ones we never realize we borrowed.

Which belief in your life have you never stopped to question?

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“Grab the opportunity of owning the phones at the lowest prices before the end of the day. Offer valid till stocks last.”

The host pointed toward the stacked boxes as he spoke. Within minutes the people standing next to me rushed to the counter. Many who had already decided which phone to buy pushed forward to grab their device before the stocks ran out.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and looked at it. I had bought it only a few months ago. I put it back and watched the crowd.

A few meters away a man in a blue suit was talking to his teenage son.

“Your phone seems pretty new. I don’t think you need a replacement,” the man said.

The son leaned his head back and let out a breath. “Dad, it’s available at a throwaway price. I am not replacing it. I am adding an alternative.” He looked at his father. “Please. Let’s go before the stocks end.”

The father looked at him quietly. “The phone will cost more than you think. And you will be spending your scholarship money. Don’t expect me to sponsor anything if you run out.”

The son straightened up. “Yes. Can we please go now?”

The father rose and both walked toward the counter.

After a while they returned. The son was smiling, clicking pictures of himself and the surroundings, holding the new phone up to show it off.

I looked at the father. He had a plain, average phone in his hand — nothing like the devices on display, nothing that matched the quality of his suit.

“Excuse me,” I said. He stopped and looked back. “I overheard you telling your son that the phone will cost more than he thinks. Was the price different at the counter?”

The man shook his head. “No. Same price.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He glanced toward his son who was now leaning against the car, still clicking pictures. “People look at the price tag and think that’s what it costs. But what about the money spent on accessories, the time spent setting it up, maintaining it. That is the actual cost.” He smiled. “And people often forget the opportunity lost.”

I creased my brows. “Opportunity lost?”

He shrugged. “The same money my son spent on this phone could have gone toward something of more value. But that opportunity is gone now.” He looked at me. “When you buy something you are not just getting something. You are also quietly giving something up.”

He tapped my arm once and walked toward his son.

I took my phone out again and looked at it. This time I was not comparing it to the phones on display. I was thinking about what else the same money could do.

Quiet Clarity We count what we gain. We rarely count what we quietly lose.

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Harish and I were sitting at a small café near his workshop. He pushed his coffee cup aside and leaned back.

“Nothing is good,” he said. “All are cheaters.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything is wrong. The dealers have monopolised the cycle industry. How will newcomers like me ever build a business?”

“How many dealers have you met so far?”

Just then a cycle passed on the road outside. Harish’s eyes followed it.

“I make better cycles than that brand. But because of dealer monopoly I can’t sell.”

“How many dealers have you met?” I asked again.

He looked at me. “Two.”

“Two?” My mouth stayed open waiting for him to correct himself.

“How does it matter? All dealers are the same. They won’t support new brands.” He chuckled and looked away.

I kept quiet.

A few days later I was at a business conference. A mutual friend introduced me to one of the biggest cycle dealers in the city. After a few minutes of conversation I asked him directly — was he open to newer brands or did he only stock established ones?

He looked at me. “We actually prefer newer brands. Better margins. We always look for such collaborations.”

I told him about Harish. He was happy to meet.

That evening I called Harish with the news.

“Buddy you don’t know these dealers,” he said. “It’s a trick they play before rejecting.”

I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing.

I ran into Harish that same night outside a restaurant. We talked for a while. The dealers came up again. Then his landlord who had raised the rent without warning. Then the boys in his hostel who borrowed things and never returned them. One complaint led to the next without a pause. I listened and didn’t argue.

A few weeks later I was at Ashish’s party. I spotted Harish standing alone in a corner, slowly turning his wine glass in his hand.

I walked over. “Why are you standing here alone?”

He nodded toward the centre of the room where Ashish was laughing with a group of friends.

“Some people are just lucky. They don’t need to struggle.”

I had known Ashish since childhood. I knew how many doors he had knocked before one opened. How many people had said no before someone finally said yes. He had failed quietly and started again without complaining once. Luck had nothing to do with it.

Ashish spotted us and came over. “Hope you’re having fun,” he said, patting Harish on the arm.

Harish smirked. “Takes luck to have fun. Not everyone is lucky like you.”

I was about to say something when Ashish quietly held my hand. I stopped.

When Harish walked away to talk to someone else I turned to Ashish.

“Why did you stop me? You know he was wrong.”

Ashish looked in the direction Harish had gone. “He finds everything wrong in this world because that’s how he sees it. The frequency we emit is the frequency we connect with.” He paused. “You don’t see things as they are. You see things as you are.”

Quiet Clarity The world we find is rarely the world that exists. It is the world we carry.

Have you ever noticed how two people can experience the same world completely differently?

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“I want to become a lawyer.”

Kirti looked straight into my eyes. There was something alive in them — certain, unhesitant.

Then she glanced at her father.

That same certainty disappeared.

Her father leaned forward and tapped the desk twice, his jaw tight. “Please talk to her, Sir. She doesn’t understand the risks. Convince her to become an engineer instead.”

Kirti said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her hands had already found each other in her lap.

I watched her walk out of the cabin — shoulders slightly inward, eyes fixed on the floor.

I took a slow breath before turning to her father.

“Sir, I understand you want the best for her. But pushing her toward something she doesn’t feel will cost more than you think — later, when it’s harder to undo.”

He stood up without a word and walked out.

A few days later, Kirti returned. This time with her mother.

“Sir, I want to pursue engineering. Can you suggest the best institutes?”

She didn’t smile when she said it. Her voice had the flatness of a script someone else had written. I looked at her mother — composed, confident, certain she had made the right decision for her daughter.

I called my counsellor and asked her to brief them on engineering options.

When I extended my hand toward Kirti, she looked up — startled, as though she had expected me to fight harder.

I didn’t.

I was almost at my car when I heard footsteps behind me.

“Sir.”

I turned. Kirti stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes red at the edges but steady.

“I thought you would help me. I had heard you fight for students’ dreams. But you just gave my parents what they wanted.”

She stopped. Waiting.

I let the silence sit for a moment.

“I know you don’t want to disappoint your parents,” I said. “You want their approval. But I can’t carry that weight for you. Nobody can.”

She looked at me — not angry anymore. Something quieter had replaced it.

I stepped closer and touched her arm lightly.

“Either bury your dream or their expectations. Both take courage. The choice is yours.”

She stood there, turning it over.

I started walking, then stopped once more.

“To fly, you need wings. But the burden we carry quietly clips them.”

Years passed.

One afternoon, a woman walked into my office. Black suit. A file tucked under one arm. Straight back. Eyes that had somewhere to be.

She stopped at my desk and smiled.

“Do you remember me?”

I looked at her for a moment.

“Kirti?”

Her smile widened. Not the performed kind. The real kind — the one that comes from somewhere deep and settled.

“I couldn’t clip my wings, Sir. I’m a lawyer now.”

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I got off the local train at Churchgate, one of the busiest stations in Mumbai.

For a moment, I just stood there.

One part of me wanted to hold on—to what I had chosen.

The other wanted to walk away.

I had secured admission into a reputed MBA college.

On paper, everything looked right.

But within two months, something felt off.

The future I had imagined didn’t match what I was living.

I spoke to everyone — parents, friends, mentors. I told them I wanted to quit. No one agreed. Some thought I was homesick. Some said I lacked courage. Some told me to give it time, that I was throwing away the biggest opportunity of my life.

Everyone had an answer. None of them felt like mine. The more I spoke, the more confused I became. So I stopped asking.

One evening after college, I sat by the beach.

A group of teenagers nearby were playing a game—throwing stones into the sea, trying to hit a target they had chosen.

Some overshot.
Some fell short.

But one boy kept hitting close to the mark.

Even when the wind picked up.
Even when others distracted him.

I walked up to him. “How do you do that every time?” I asked. “Is there a trick?”

He smiled. “I just keep my eyes on the target,” he said. “Then I decide when to throw… and when to hold.”

He waited for a moment.

Let the wind settle.

Then threw again.

The stone landed almost exactly where he wanted.

On my way back, I kept thinking about what he said.

Keep your eyes on the target.

That’s when I realized—

I wasn’t confused because the decision was hard.

I was confused because my target wasn’t clear.

Once I defined it… everything changed.

I knew what I wanted.

And more importantly,
I knew what I didn’t.

I quit my MBA.

People called me a coward.
An idiot.
A failure.

It didn’t matter.

For the first time, I wasn’t guessing.

I was deciding.

And it turned out to be one of the best decisions of my career.

Quiet Clarity:

When the target is unclear, every option feels risky.

When it’s clear… even difficult decisions feel obvious.

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I was driving on a busy highway, honking impatiently, when I suddenly hit the brakes.

A stray animal had crossed the road.

For a moment, I just sat there, shaken.

I pulled over, stepped out, and tried to calm myself.

My father, who had been quietly watching me, walked up and handed me a bottle of water.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Why are you in such a hurry?”

I drank the water in one go.

He waited.

“It’s nothing, Dad,” I said.
“I’ve been chasing this project for a long time. I lost it. They gave it to someone else.”

I paused.

“He’s always ahead of me.”

My father smiled faintly.

“I think your metric is wrong,” he said.

I shook my head.
“You’ll say that. I’m your son.”

He looked at me for a moment.

“My village is nearby,” he said. “Shall we go?”

Within thirty minutes, we were there.

Just before his old house stood a large tree.

He asked me to stop.

“I used to study here,” he said.

I looked at the tree. Its branches spread wide, giving shade to the road.

“Our house was small,” he continued.
“Too many people. Too much noise. So I came here at night.”

I looked around.

This was the same place where, years ago,a boy with very little
chose to dream bigger.

Food was limited. Space was crowded.
Education itself wasn’t easily available.

But he still showed up.
Every night.

I noticed a light pole behind the tree.

“That wasn’t there,” he said.
“We had a small bulb somehow. When it stopped working… I studied under the moon.”

He touched the tree gently.

For a moment, he wasn’t my father.

He was that boy again.

“You must have been unhappy,” I said.
“With everything you didn’t have… didn’t you doubt yourself?”

He looked at me and smiled.

“Your happiness depends on what you compare yourself with,” he said.

“If you compare yourself with others, you’ll always feel behind.”

A pause.

“But if you compare yourself with who you were yesterday…and you’re moving forward…”

He nodded. “You’ll feel content.”

I stood there, looking at the tree. He had so little. And still felt enough. I had everything.

And still didn’t.

That day, something shifted.

Quiet Clarity

You don’t feel unhappy because you have less.

You feel unhappy because you keep looking at what others have more of.

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Have you ever driven on a dark, lonely road at night?
Maybe through a forest… or a stretch where there’s nothing around.

If you have, you’ll remember the feeling.

There’s nobody around. Just tall trees.
You can’t see them clearly, but you can hear them rustling in the wind.

You try to look around for someone… anyone.
But the darkness makes it impossible.

Maybe you hear distant animal sounds.
Enough to make your grip on the steering wheel tighter.

You look ahead.

But all you can see is a few meters of road…lit by your headlights.

And a thought creeps in—
What if something worse lies ahead?

You press the pedal harder.

Not because you’re confident…but because you want to get out of there.

And somewhere in that rush, another thought hits you—

What if this road doesn’t even lead where I want to go?

You feel lost.

That’s life.

Every now and then, you’ll find yourself on a road like this.

You won’t know where it’s leading.
You’ll look for people to guide you.

Sometimes you’ll find them.
Most times, you won’t.

Especially when you choose to follow your own path.

The road will scare you.
You’ll want to turn back.

But then you’ll realize—there is no other way.

You’ll try to find certainty—clarity, a clear map.

But just like that road…all you’ll see is a few meters ahead.

So how does the car find its way?

By driving.

With whatever little it can see.

Meter by meter.
Turn by turn.

And eventually… it reaches.

Life works the same way.

If your destination is clear—keep moving. You’ll get there.

And if it’s not…Even better.

You might end up somewhere bigger than you ever imagined.

I did.

So don’t wait for the entire road to be visible.

Just keep your eyes on what you can see.

And keep moving.

Especially when it’s dark.

Clarity doesn’t come before the journey.
It comes from it.

— Excerpt from my book Quiet Clarity

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I was sitting in a café, writing a short story, when the server brought my coffee.

“Sir, are you a writer?” he asked. “I see you writing here often.”

“Yes,” I smiled, trying to get back to my story.

“Sir,” he continued, “I bought a book on entrepreneurship yesterday. It has mixed reviews. Do you think it’s worth reading?”

Before I could answer, he rushed away and came back with the book.

I took it, slightly annoyed, but his curiosity felt genuine.

It was about starting a business in a month.

I skimmed through it. Most of it was basic.

Then one line caught my attention.

Practice the art of asking.

The author said most people don’t lose opportunities because they lack ability. They lose them because they don’t ask.

It wasn’t new advice. But it felt uncomfortably relevant.

There was a deal I was working on. I knew I deserved a better offer.

But I hadn’t asked.

I didn’t want to risk losing it.

I handed the book back.

“It’s good,” I said. “You should read it.”

He smiled. “Thank you, sir. Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

I paused.

Then I said, “Well… I come here daily. Can I get a discount on my coffee?”

He looked at me. Then at the cup. Then back at me.

It was a 200-rupee coffee. Roughly two dollars.

His expression said everything.

This man is asking for a discount… on this?

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Sir… I can’t,” he said. “You’ll have to ask the owner.”

He pointed towards the counter.

For a moment, I felt stupid.

Asking for a discount on a two-dollar coffee.

But I had already crossed the awkward part.

So I walked up.

“Sir, can I get a discount on the coffee?” I asked the owner.

He looked up from his phone, scratched his cheek, and checked the bill.

Two hundred rupees.

He made a small change and handed it back.

Ten percent off.

I walked back to my table.

Not impressed.

Not proud.

Just… surprised.

It worked.

After that, I started asking more.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

But at least I had the satisfaction of trying.

At the café, I asked again.
And again.

Within a month, I had saved a decent amount — just on coffee.

But more importantly, something had shifted.

The hesitation was gone.

So I went back to that deal.

This time, I asked for a better offer.

And this time…he agreed.

I made an extra 1000$ .

Small asks don’t change your life.
They change your willingness to ask for bigger ones.

A story from my upcoming book, Quiet Clarity

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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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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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