“What is the cost of our technology?”

Our teacher asked us on the last day of engineering college, while we waited to say goodbye. Half the room was filming him on their phones. The rest were somewhere else, scrolling, chatting, laughing at something on a screen. Nobody answered. I heard the question, filed it somewhere in the back of my mind, and forgot it there.

Because I had a life to get back to. And my life, by then, lived inside a five-inch screen.

My life revolved in and around my phone. I ate with it propped against a glass. I answered emails in the bathroom, replied to messages at red lights.If a moment ever went quiet, I filled it with other people’s lives. Their vacations, their promotions, their beautiful,curated everything. Next to them, mine looked like nothing.

* * *

My grandmother lived with us through all of it. She was part of my days the way the furniture was: always there, easy to walk past. In the evenings she’d pat the empty space beside her. Come. Sit. Tell me about your day. And I would sit, sometimes. But the phone would be in my hand, and my eyes would be on the phone, and I’d answer her without hearing her. “Hmm. Really.” She’d talk, and I’d nod at a screen. After a while she stopped asking twice.

I told myself there would be time. There is always supposed to be more time.

* * *

Then one morning my mother was screaming my name from her room. I ran in still holding the phone, mid-reply to someone whose name I don’t remember now. My grandmother was on the bed, and she was gone, and the last thing I had said to her the night before was “hmm.” I hadn’t even looked up to say it.

I thought losing her would change me. It didn’t. Three days after the funeral, I was sitting on the floor of her empty room, crying in a way I hadn’t cried since I was a child. My phone buzzed. I picked it up without thinking. My thumb knew the motion better than my mind did. And there, mid-sob, was a video of a stranger’s dog wearing sunglasses. I watched eleven seconds of it before I understood what I was doing. Then I put the phone face-down on the floor and looked at it for a long time, the way you’d look at something that had bitten you. That was the moment I should have understood what owned me. I didn’t. I picked it back up an hour later. I just kept looking down.

* * *

My family, worried, planned a trip to a jungle resort to pull me out of the fog. They went ahead. I would follow after one last meeting; I couldn’t move.

On the safari road, near dusk, I passed a car pulled over with a freshly changed tyre and an old man standing beside it. Something made me stop. It was him. My teacher, older and smaller now, the same steady eyes.

“Sir,” I said. “You remember me?”

He took off his glasses, smiled, and tapped my arm as if no years had passed. My phone buzzed in my hand. It buzzed again. I silenced it, apologising. “This thing,” I muttered. “Such a trouble.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Then get rid of the trouble,” he said. He wasn’t smiling now. We said goodbye.

* * *

I got back into the car. It wouldn’t start. I turned the key again and again. Nothing. I reached for the phone to call for help. The screen was black. The battery had died, and I had no charger. The car wouldn’t move. The phone wouldn’t turn on. I was stuck, and I had no way to call for help.Alone on an empty jungle road as the light began to go.

At first I panicked more about the dead phone than the dead car. My hand kept reaching for it out of habit, finding nothing. When there was truly nothing left to do, I started walking.

And the world I had been ignoring for years was still there, waiting.

The sun was setting behind the hills, slow and enormous, spilling gold across the entire sky. I stopped and stared at it. I could not remember the last time I had watched the sun go down without reaching for my phone.

The trees leaned and whispered as the wind moved through them. There were flowers along the road I would have driven straight past without ever seeing, small, bright, just there, asking nothing.

As the birds flew home in tired, scattered lines above, they exchanged calls, their voices a gentle murmur in the sky. It sounded like happiness. It was the kind of deep contentment that settles in after a day filled with satisfying labor. The whole forest seemed alive with the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds. A symphony of a thousand tiny sounds – chirps and rustles – filled the air, sounds I had been oblivious to.

It had all been here the entire time. Every single day. While I stared into a rectangle of glass, this had been happening just outside the window.

And so had my grandmother.

She had sat right there every evening, patting the seat, offering me the one thing I now beg the universe for: a little more of her time. I’d had it. All of it. And I handed it to the phone.

I don’t know how long I walked. Long enough for the ache to turn into something clearer. By the time the resort lights appeared through the trees, I knew what I was going to do.

At the gate, I stopped. The dead phone was still in my hand. It had been the entire walk, out of habit, a black mirror showing me nothing. I looked at it one last time.

Then I threw it into the dark.

I didn’t wait to hear it land. I walked through the gate, and there they were: my sister, my parents, turning at the sound of my footsteps, their faces breaking open with relief. I went to them and I held them, all of them, tighter than I had in years. I could smell the wood-smoke and the cool evening air. I could feel them breathing against me. For the first time in longer than I can count, there was nowhere else my eyes wanted to be.

* * *

I bought a new phone the following week. I had to. For work, for the world, for everything a life still needs. It sits in another room right now, as I write this. I still feel the pull sometimes, that small itch in my thumb when a room goes quiet.

But I know what that itch costs now. I felt the bill once, in full, on a jungle road with a dead battery and a dead grandmother and a sunset I’d almost missed twice.

I still don’t know the full cost of our technology. Maybe that is what my teacher wanted us to spend our whole lives working out. But I know what it shouldn’t cost me. My evenings. My sunsets. My family. My one life, watched through glass while it quietly slipped by.

Not anymore.

Somewhere tonight, someone is sitting beside you, patting the seat, asking for a few minutes. And you are about to say “hmm.”

Quiet Clarity: Every technology has a cost. Make sure it’s never your life, your family, or anything that matters most to you.

Reflection: Think of someone who is asking for your time right now, in small, easy-to-miss ways. What is quietly taking that time instead?

PS: This is the first of five stories I'm calling Modern Clarity. I'll share one every week.

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In this hilarious collection, now a bestseller, Sensible Idiots drags you into everyday disasters of love, family, and ambition—where one lie, one slap, or one missing underwear can destroy everything.

• A husband fakes sick leave for a party—only to diagnose himself with the “cancer of lies” that could wreck his marriage and career.

• An uncle’s casual advice detonates into a curse threatening to ruin his family tree for generations.

• A resignation letter goes rogue, forcing its owner into a desperate chase where failure means losing his job, his home, and even his bed to the dogs.

• A fight against hair fall unravels a corporate conspiracy that could strip him of far more than his scalp.

• And one missing underwear ignites a war that drags in family feuds, police raids, and primetime news anchors—threatening to expose secrets best left hidden.

Plus more twisted tales where everyday idiots stumble into absurd disasters—and strangely sensible payoffs.

From marriages to jobs to missing underwear—nothing escapes the satire.
Laugh, groan, and admit it: the “sensible idiot” might be you.

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Do you have an answer for every problem? Maybe you look for them everywhere and end up more confused than before.

We live in a world that hands us an answer for everything, a video, a book, a stranger online who seems to have it all figured out. So we keep looking outward.

But the moments that change how you see your own life rarely come from outside. They come from an ordinary evening, a phone call, a number on a scale that wouldn’t move. They are quiet, and they are already right in front of you.

Modern Clarity is five true stories about exactly those moments:

• Grief and presence — what one man understood only after losing someone

• Identity and worth — why the labels people give you say more about you than them

• Belief — a mentor’s question that still applies decades later

• Effort — two years of nothing before it finally paid off

• Comparison — a dinner conversation that sent one man looking for his own life instead

These aren’t lessons from a stage. They’re quiet, honest moments, the kind you sit with rather than scroll past.

If you feel lost sometimes, Modern Clarity won’t hand you a fix. But it will give you a few moments that make you think differently.

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Do you know what the dumbest thing is? No, the dumbest thing ever? Motivating someone. Who has the time to look into someone’s depressing but hopeful eyes and tell them they can do it, whatever it is they want to do? Isn’t it obvious they really can’t? Isn’t that exactly why they want someone to tell them they can?

I stood before a red and white building that should have been demolished by now. It had outlived its life, just like its owner. The paint was peeling near the gate. The nameboard was rusted at the corners. The owner was a strict, short, old lady who called herself the principal of the school. She had invited me to motivate her students.

“Why?” I asked when the school first called me.

“We want you to motivate our students,” the proud teacher on the other end said.

“Why?”

There was silence. I heard people chatting in the background, deciding what to say next.

“Because students look up to people like you, sir. You are an alumnus of the school. They will be motivated to hear about your success,” she said, conviction clear in her voice.

“Why?”

The teacher didn’t have an answer. She told me the time and date and hung up.

These teachers really need to learn how not to be rude on calls.

Speaking of rudeness, the old principal didn’t even offer me coffee that morning. She offered me tea instead. Who drinks tea nowadays? Didn’t the British take that habit back with them when they gave us our freedom?

I wanted to leave right then. But the other teachers were watching me, chatting among themselves, smiling, tucking their hair behind their ears. A few blushed the moment I looked their way, then looked down at their shoes.

“So what’s your next goal?” the old principal asked, sitting beside me. She didn’t smile. There was a sternness in her voice, the same as always. A rhetorical question, I assumed.

“To leave this school premises as soon as possible,” I said. Her eyes widened. So I corrected myself. “I mean, after motivating the students.”

She nodded, still visibly offended. But I wasn’t her student anymore. I wasn’t afraid of her anymore either.

Slowly the students filed in, a long queue of green checkered shirts and leafy green trousers. Some looked at me sideways. Others kept their eyes fixed on the ground, too afraid to look toward their principal. I checked my watch, then the gate, as more of them kept coming in under the morning sun.

One boy hung back near the gate, watching me instead of watching his shoes like the rest of them. I crouched down for a second and said something low, just for him. He grinned, way too big for the moment, and jogged off to join the line before anyone noticed.

I remembered something important. “Madam, we haven’t discussed my payment. I accept cash as well,” I said.

The principal looked at me as if she had seen a ghost.

“You want payment? From your own school? For motivating students?” Her voice had climbed a full octave.

“Oh, I am so sorry, I didn’t inform you,” I pinched my lips. “Can I get an advance before I start? The students are waiting.” I tilted my head toward the rows of children trying hard to sit still. “Hurry. I have places to be after this.”

She stared at me for a long moment, gritted her teeth, shook her head, and called someone over. I hoped it was the accountant. She murmured something in his ear. He nodded and disappeared inside. Three minutes later he was back with a sealed envelope that felt far too light in my hand.

“It’s light,” I said, holding it up to my ear, as if that would change anything.

“Just an advance. You’ll get the rest. We’re processing it,” she said, pointing toward some teachers already handing out collection sheets to the students. Some things never change in thirty years.

I stood up. The host, a nervous young teacher, waited for the principal’s nod before she began. The principal nodded. The host introduced me, and the students clapped as I walked toward the small, makeshift stage. On the way, I paused near a teacher who had been blushing since I arrived. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll motivate you too. Separate charge, though.” I winked.

She laughed nervously and looked away. Rude. Ridiculous.

I stepped forward and my foot came down squarely on a boy’s shoe, the same boy from the gate. He yelped, clutched his foot, and folded to the ground as if someone had shot him. I gasped, waved the school clerk over, and had him taken aside. The other students looked more shaken than the boy himself.

“So, dear little fellas, how are you?” I said into the mic, pulling the attention away from the crying boy.

“We have limited time, so let’s focus. I’m sure your friend is fine. Who cries over such small things, anyway?” I laughed at my joke. Nobody else did. A ripple of whispers ran through the rows instead.

The principal looked worried. She signalled the host, who moved through the crowd trying to settle the students down. I checked my watch again, hoping to wrap this up soon.

Once they had quieted, I asked, “So, you all want me to motivate you?”

Nobody answered. A few students shook their heads, arms folded, clearly still angry about their friend. I stared back until their teachers gently pushed their eyes back down. “Good,” I said.

I glanced at the principal. She was rubbing her forehead, not looking up.

“How many of you have big dreams?”

A couple of hands went up.

“Come on, only these few? All of you must be dreaming of something. I used to, when I was in this school.”

More hands rose.

“Good. Now tell me what your dream is.”

One by one, they called out their answers.

“I want to become an astronaut.”

“NASA engineer.”

“Doctor. Scientist. Pilot.”

“Hmm. Good,” I said. Then I looked straight at the principal. “But I want to tell you something important.” I turned back to the children and smiled as wide as I could. “Your dreams are a waste. You can’t become any of the things you just said. Well, you can. But you won’t.”

The students’ faces fell. A few had tears building in their eyes.

“Why are you crying? Can’t you take the truth? I’m a successful alumnus of this school. Believe me,” I said, my voice rising.

The principal stood up fast and motioned for the host to take the mic from me. The host reached for it, her hand almost touching mine. I pulled it away. Romance could wait. This mattered more.

“Trust me, you can’t achieve any of it. Stop dreaming and come back to reality,” I said, still smiling.

The children looked horrified now. The principal was already walking toward the stage, reaching for the mic.

“Excuse me, madam. What’s the problem? Why does it bother you when someone tells the truth?” I asked, not moving. “Didn’t you tell my parents the same thing when I told you what I wanted to become, back in tenth grade?”

The principal froze. The murmuring in the crowd stopped. Some teachers covered their mouths. Others exchanged glances.

I straightened up, looked her in the eye, and let a few seconds pass before I spoke again.

“People will tell you that you can’t become what you dream of. And if you believe them, you won’t.” I turned to face the children directly. “But if you stop listening to them, and listen only to what your heart says, and believe it, you will get there.”

I waved the clerk over. The boy from the gate walked back in, not a trace of a limp, and gave me the same big grin from an hour ago. “Your friend was never hurt. I asked him this morning if he’d play along, because I needed you to remember this, not just hear it. People can hurt you. They can weaken your spirit if you let them.” I looked at the principal. “When you fall, some people will laugh. They’ll question you. But make sure you have the last laugh. Get up and fight back. Like I did.”

I held her gaze for one more second, then handed the mic to the host.

“One last thing,” I said, taking it back. “Every one of you will achieve your dreams. I believe in each one of you.”

I gave the mic back for good this time, and the host smiled and thanked me. I nodded.

The principal looked away, something close to embarrassment on her face. I climbed down from the stage, and the students came running. Some shook my hand. Others just hugged me for believing in something they weren’t sure anyone else did.

Behind them, the old red and white building stood exactly where it always had. Still standing. Still refusing to fall.

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I hate people who try to kill me in creative ways. Smoking right on my face in a cafe is one of them.

The cafe has big glass windows, the kind of place people photograph for Instagram. Right now the whole place is covered in smoke. It smells like burnt rubber.

“Excuse me. I am sitting with a girl here. Can’t you see?” I say to the smoker guy beside me. He is venting more smoke than my car ever did.

He doesn’t care. He keeps smoking right on my face.

“I don’t understand how these smokers can even think or plan anything,” Neha says, offering me a glass of water. She is my friend from the partner firm. We are here to finalise the agreement between our companies. “I am sure smoking clouds their thinking.”

I cough my way to the door for some fresh air. She follows, coughing too, one hand over her mouth. Outside is worse. Two more men are smoking near the entrance.

I run back inside, pinching my nose, and stand under the air conditioner. But the smoke has settled everywhere already. One look at the AC and I think it is smoking too.

“It’s not working,” the cafe owner tells me, as I stare up at the vents.

“What’s the smoke coming out of it?” My brows knit together.

“It’s the smoke fumes of the smokers in the house,” he says, and winks at me.

I swear I want to blind him right there and choke him with his own pack of cigarettes.

“I think it’s a public place. Smoking should be prohibited,” Neha says. She looks more allergic to the smoke than me. Her breathing has gone shallow. I hand her the water and she drinks it fast.

The owner looks at us like we landed from another planet. Then he laughs and points at a signboard. SMOKING KILLS, it says.

Who laughs at dying men. Rude.

“Yes, I know. That’s why I don’t smoke. You should tell these smokers too,” I say, pointing at them like he might have missed the obvious.

He scratches his head, then his cheek, and looks at me like I am the slow one. “They already know. But maybe they don’t care.”

“Then don’t let them come here,” I say, my voice rising. “Why suffocate non-smokers like us? Passive smoking is dangerous, you know.” Neha nods hard. I thump my chest like I am trying to push the smoke out.

The owner scrunches his brows, cocks one eyebrow, and says nothing.

Neha recovers first and pulls me to a corner table, tucked behind a half wall where the smoke thins out a little. I pull the chair out for her. She smiles. I smile back, but my mind is somewhere else, on the deal I need signed today if I want to keep my job.

My boss made me two promises with this deal. Close it, I get a promotion. Fail, I get fired. So this is not just a meeting. This is survival.

Neha has brought three thick files from her company. She lines them up on the table while I sit there biting my nails down to nothing.

“What would you like to eat?” she asks, noticing how my leg won’t stop bouncing.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked you first,” I say, and wave down a waiter.

“Can I see the documents? The agreement from your side?” Neha asks, pushing her hand across the table.

Her hands look soft. Some part of me wants to press my palm against hers instead of handing over paper. That would be inappropriate. Other girls in the cafe would object. Their hands are pretty too, you know.

“Let’s eat first,” I say. “I’m starving. Look, food’s here already.”

The waiter sets down a tray. On it sits our burger, Neha’s coffee, and a pack of cigarettes.

“Excuse me? Who ordered the cigarettes?” Neha’s voice jumps.

“Complimentary,” the waiter says, already turning to leave.

“Take it back. We don’t want it,” I say, standing, and toss the pack at him.

He catches it without looking, pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and leans against the wall. Then he waves his colleague over and hands him one too.

Neha and I watch the smoke rise and spread across the ceiling, like fog on a hill station.

Within minutes Neha is struggling to breathe. She coughs first, then I feel my own throat tighten. We run outside again.

Once we catch our breath, her phone rings.

“Yes sir. We’ll be done signing in a few minutes,” she says to her boss, giving me a thumbs up. I return it.

“We need to move fast,” she says, hanging up. “Show me the proposal, the draft you prepared.”

I nod. “It’s in my bag. Inside the cafe.”

She looks back at the cafe. From here you can barely see through the windows. “Why did you pick this place? Didn’t you know about their smoking policy? It’s not even close to my office.” She shakes her head.

“I didn’t know,” I say, pinching my lips like I am personally wounded. “Every cafe is like this now.”

She nods, taking the point. My phone buzzes. My boss.

“Kevin. Have you finalised the deal yet?” His voice is cold as always.

“Almost, sir,” I say, wiping sweat off my forehead with my sleeve. Neha notices and hands me a napkin.

“We need to sign and go,” I say, hanging up. “My boss wants me back at the office.”

We push back through the smoky cafe to our table. When we get there, the burger and Neha’s coffee are both gone.

I flag down the waiter. “Where’s our food? Our coffee?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you’d left, so we cleared the table,” he says, smiling like this explains everything.

I throw my hands up. Neha gasps.

“Just show me the documents. We’ll have coffee later,” she says.

I reach under the table for my bag. It’s not there. I check the tables around us. Nothing.

“Where’s my bag?” I say, louder than I mean to.

The waiter goes pale and starts searching without a word. Neha helps too.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” A man walks up holding my bag.

I look at the bag, then at the waiter, jaw tight. “Yes. Where did you find it?”

“Near the billing counter,” he says, pointing at the waiter. “I saw him clear your table. Figured he’d left it there by mistake, so I kept it safe.”

I take the bag. I grit my teeth at the waiter. He looks down and disappears toward the kitchen.

“Let’s finish this. We’ve already lost time,” Neha says, sitting back down. “I have to get to the office.”

I grab the glass of water in front of me and drink, my mind racing. I open the bag. Reach for the papers.

Nothing.

I search again. Still nothing.

“What’s wrong?” Neha’s brows pull together.

“My files. They’re gone. I think someone took them,” I say, breathing hard, tearing through the bag a third time.

Her eyes go wide. She stands and helps me search the already empty bag. “Are you serious? My company will fire me if this doesn’t close today.”

She calls the waiter over. “Where are the files from his bag?”

“I swear I don’t know anything. I kept the bag safe. I didn’t touch what was inside,” he says, looking like a man accused of two crimes in ten minutes.

Near the counter sits an old hourglass, the kind cafes keep around for decoration more than for actual timing. The sand is already halfway through its fall. I catch myself watching it drain, grain by grain, and for a second my hands go still on the table, even though my face keeps performing panic.

The smoker from earlier notices the commotion and strolls over. “What’s the matter?”

The waiter fills him in. He nods slowly, like he is weighing something.

“No problem,” he says. “I have a solution.”

Before either of us can ask what that means, he pulls out his pack of cigarettes and offers it to us like a peace treaty.

Neha looks at him like she might eat him alive. He shrugs, lights one for himself, and blows smoke into our tired faces.

We’re back outside within seconds, coughing our way through round three.

Once we recover, Neha exhales hard. “I need to call my boss.”

“Please don’t,” I say. “I’ll lose my job if he finds out.”

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” She starts walking toward her car.

I watch her open the door, already turning to say goodbye, when the same bystander comes jogging up. “Hey, are these your documents?”

Neha stops. I take the papers from him and check them fast. He waits for a thank you. I stare at him a beat too long instead. He shrugs it off and walks away, confused.

“Kevin? Did you find them?” Neha calls from across the road.

“Yes,” I say, still scanning the pages. “But only some of it.”

I slide the papers into my bag, sorting as I go. The agreement goes into the front pocket, where anyone can see it. The rest, the contentious provisions we’ve been fighting over for weeks, goes into the pocket buried at the bottom. My hands know exactly where each page belongs. It takes four seconds.

I walk over to her.

“The agreement’s here,” I say. “But the proposal with the extra provisions is missing. I’m sorry. I never got to include those in the draft either. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

Neha looks at the agreement, then at me. Something in her face softens.

“You’re a nice guy, Kevin,” she says. “You’ve been so patient with me through all this smoke.” She takes the pen, signs, and slides it across.

I sign under her name. We shake hands. I watch her car pull out of the lot and disappear down the road.

My phone rings the second she’s gone.

“Sir, it’s done,” I say.

“Good,” my boss says. “You just got your promotion.”

I hang up and open the bag again. The papers are still in the bottom pocket, right where I hid them. These are the pages Neha’s company fought hardest for, the clauses that would have protected them if the deal ever went wrong. She signed the agreement without ever seeing them. My company gets everything it wanted. Her company gets nothing it asked for. And she has no idea any of this happened.

I walk back into the cafe. The smoker and the waiter are still leaning against the same wall, still smoking, like they never moved. The smoker holds out a cigarette without a word. I take it. I lean against the wall next to them and add to the haze I spent the whole afternoon pretending to hate.

I open my phone. Neha’s social media profile is right there, her bio proudly declaring how much she hates smoking, more than almost anything else in the world.

“And they say smokers can’t think or plan,” I say.

They laugh. I laugh with them. We smoke to the plan, to the win, and add our own share of fumes to a cafe that never had a chance of clearing out today.

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I have a clear policy on homes and offices. I hate them both. But sometimes I get confused about what I hate more. Then I see my partner, and she sucks the will to live right out of my body. That’s when I know the answer.

Mary, my live-in partner, is a bitter person. For some strange reason she wants to marry me or throw me out of her home. Now when did living with someone for free for a decade, and showing no signs of ever marrying, become a crime? But let me assure you. I am not a bad person. I haven’t denied her proposal entirely. I just said nothing when she proposed to me again for the tenth time yesterday.

Mary got on her knees again before the entire restaurant and proposed. I stood there thinking what to do next, pinching my lips and moving them in all directions. After some time, she stomped out. I waited, then followed her.

As I knocked on the door, she opened it and said, “Either tell me your answer within two days, or you are out.”

She kept looking at me as if I would surrender and agree immediately. But thanks to my boss, I have learnt the art of stubbornness and ignorance.

“And what will you tell the landlord? Remember, he lent us the apartment on the condition that both of us stay here forever. If either of us leaves, he kicks the other one out,” I say.

Mary smiles. “I will tell him you cheated on me. Remember the exception clause in the agreement. If either one of us cheats, the other can kick that person out and stay alone.”

“But...” I stop as I realise she has the picture of me making out with the neighbour next door.

She could have thrown me out that very day. But man, she wanted to give me another chance. Thank goodness. I could have agreed to marry her right then just to keep the house. But her emotions got the better of her instead.

“Okay, but promise me you won’t throw me out before two days. I want it in writing.” I swallowed my fear as I pulled out a paper. I folded it twice, so only the bottom half showed, before I handed it to her. She signed it and threw it on my face. I put the paper in my left pocket.

Thank goodness she didn’t throw me out right away. Now I have two days to find a way out, or bring her to understand that we are better off without marriage, or sex, in the same house. How can marriage change that? We have been living like a married couple already. I mean, no sex and almost no talk, for as long as I can remember. She is such an evil person to not appreciate that, and to give me an ultimatum instead.

Thinking of evil, I hate my boss too. I was sleeping on my desk, without disturbing anyone, when my boss walked towards me. “You are the least performing salesman of the year,” my boss, John, said yesterday. “Either sell twice the products you sold all year in the next two days, or you are out of this office forever.”

“Okay, but promise me you won’t throw me out before two days. I want it in writing.” I swallowed my fear as I pulled out a paper and handed it to him. I folded this one the same way before I handed it over. He pulled the paper from my hands, scribbled his signature, and threw it in my face. I put the paper in my right pocket.

Isn’t he pure evil? I have sold four products in total for the entire year. So selling eight in two days is kind of impossible. But thankfully, he didn’t fire me. Else I would have to stay home all day with my evil partner until she lost it and threw me out before even the two days’ notice expired.

But now I have exactly two days to save my home, job, and sanity. I also have a plan. What if I try to convince my partner to buy eight products and test her love.

“You need to buy eight products from me?” I clear my throat as I stand behind her. She stops washing her utensils midway for a while, then resumes.

“Trust me, you will love washing the utensils more with this cleaner,” I say, placing the cleaner next to her and taking a step back. She looks at it and resumes her work.

After some awkward silence I ask her again. “So should I pack eight of these cleaners?”

She gasps and turns. “You want me to wash the utensils with this floor cleaner?” She throws the bottle at me, shaking her head. “That’s the reason you don’t sell any of these.”

I don’t understand the difference between soap meant for washing utensils and soap meant for washing the floor. It’s soap, for heaven’s sake. You won’t die if you use either one for any cleaning purpose.

“Do you want coffee instead? I will make it with my special ingredient. Maybe it will help you think better about a number of issues. Like marriage,” Mary says.

“Thank you, but I have a meeting with a client at a cafe. I’ll have coffee there.” I escape from what could have been an intimate encounter on the bed, something I am least interested in.

I know Mary quite well. But I have a clear policy on coffee. I just hate it. Not the cafe kind. The kind Mary makes, with what she calls her special ingredient, love. Now who wants that when you have caffeine to keep you awake, so you don’t fall for things like... you know... love.

But I love coffee shops and the bitter coffee they serve. The bitter coffee helped me get used to my partner’s bitterness. The cafes are my second home, actually, or my first, if you count the time I purposely waste there selling the worst products of my evil company.

People mistake cafes for places to hang out. How stupid are they? Where else can you find out more about what’s wrong with this world, especially the Gen Z generation?

For example, look at this guy sitting just before me, staring into his girlfriend’s eyes, his lips inching closer to hers, his hands in her hair. Perfect person to buy my products. The guy looks back to check if I am looking before he attempts to kiss his girlfriend. Of course I am looking! What else should I do all day besides hope someone asks about the products on my table?

He raises his eyebrows, as if to ask what I want. I shrug and raise mine toward the white dandruff on his black t-shirt. Certainly a gift from his girlfriend. He notices it, tries to rub the dandruff off his t-shirt, and looks at his girlfriend. The girlfriend looks offended, clenches her teeth, and walks away.

The guy stands but I interrupt. “Hey, take these. Gift them to your girlfriend.” I hand him eight bottles of the cleaner. “Ask her to wash her hair every day with this,” I say. “There won’t be any dandruff left.”

The guy scrunches his brows slowly as he reads the label. “Are you kidding me? There won’t be any hair left if she uses this.” He throws the bottle at me.

I don’t understand why people don’t want to solve their problems permanently. Wouldn’t it be easier on his girlfriend’s budget if she had no hair? She wouldn’t have to spend money on shampoo, oil, and expensive spa treatments. Such a careless guy, I tell you.

Anyway, both my plans have flopped. I try to sell my products to everyone I can get hold of in the cafe, but the owner interrupts and throws me out instead.

With one more day to go, I am literally out of options.

Every morning I wake up with new hopes of finding two right people. Someone who would let me stay in her house without the pressure of marriage. And someone who wouldn’t care if I don’t come to office, or sleep there, or with a colleague he can’t. But today I wake up with a plan in my head, something that would help me keep the house and the job.

I get ready and quickly get out of the house before Mary notices. I call a taxi and try to sell the cleaner to the driver, but get thrown out instead. I board a bus and try to sell it there. Same result. I have been telling people it’s a multi-purpose cleaner. But people want to spend money and get poorer instead.

Anyway, I reach my boss’s house, knock on the door, and leave a package before anyone finds me. It’s a gift bag. Eight bottles of the cleaner. A note tucked inside, the ink still fresh, signed with a name that isn’t mine.

I go to the post office next and send a courier too. Not really for Mary. For someone who is about to take a very personal interest in her husband’s whereabouts.

I go to the office and sleep on my desk. My boss notices me, but since this is probably my last day, I don’t care, as always.

“What’s the noise?” the colleague at the next desk asks, waking me from my slumber. I check the time, then the person yelling at my boss. She holds his collar and pulls him towards the door. Other men and women follow them and watch until they vanish into a car.

I pick up my belongings and leave for my house. As I enter the building, I hear noise coming from the third floor, where I live. I call for help and run up the stairs. I find my boss and his wife in a shouting match with Mary.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Who are you?” my boss’s wife asks, pointing her finger at me.

“He is my partner,” Mary says, loud enough to scare the shit out of me. Not because of her voice, but because of the way she claimed me.

“Do you know what’s even happening?” the boss’s wife says, raising her voice.

I check my watch, then the staircase. “What’s happening?”

The lady is about to explain, but I ask her to stop. The person I called arrives. “Hello, sir. Please come,” I say to my landlord.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

I ask my boss’s wife to explain. “This guy,” she says, pointing to her husband, “and this lady,” she points to Mary, “are having an affair.”

My landlord’s eyes widen. Mary and my boss both shake their heads.

“It’s not true. You know it, Ken,” Mary says.

“I know it’s true.” I hand the landlord the letter. He reads it, and his emotions shift from shock to anger. Mary takes the letter and reads it.

“What? This is nonsense.”

It isn’t nonsense. It’s blank space, filled in carefully, two nights ago.

“It’s a declaration that you love John, and that you want to live with him. That’s why you want me out of the house,” I say. I shake my head. “See? You even signed it.” I show the letter to my landlord.

“You are a dead man. So dead. This is the exact same paper you made me sign yesterday,” Mary says, walking towards me, clenching her hands. I hide behind the landlord, who stops her.

“Madam, do you have any other proof of the affair?” I look at the boss’s wife.

She picks up the gift bag from the floor and reads the note inside. “For your silky hair. Yours and only yours. John.” The boss’s wife grits her teeth as she points to the signed note from my boss. John tries to speak, but his wife kicks the gift bag, and the cleaner bottles spill their venom on the floor. All the liquid from the eight bottles now lies on the house floor, waiting to be cleaned.

I check my watch, hoping the second person I called turns up. Within minutes, the HR arrives, and I inform her of the situation.

My boss John knows sleeping with an employee’s partner is not tolerated in the office. He wants to explain that he hasn’t even met Mary before this day, but all the proof is against him.

The HR leaves, giving my boss a day to resign, and giving me sympathy plus a promised hike to keep my mouth shut.

The landlord leaves, giving Mary a day to move out, and giving me the house I wanted.

See, that’s why I always try to keep my anger in check. Else I’ll end up handing a signed blank paper to someone who could make me do things I don’t want to do. That’s why I have a clear policy on coffee. Always have it to keep your mind awake.

But if something wicked spills out of your mind, try to wipe it with the cleaner I left at my boss’s house. One cleaner, multiple purposes, you know.

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The problem with today’s youth is their seriousness. About everything. Look at them. Ask them their goal in life and they will actually tell you one. Seriously, who thinks like that?

Yesterday I asked my nephew, “What do you want to become when you grow up?”

“Doctor,” he said, without an iota of doubt. I kept looking at him. I hoped he would give me options. Multiple choices. Let me pick one. That’s how elders choose careers for kids.

“Or?” I asked, hoping he would get the hint. I wanted something realistic. A bus conductor. A sweeper. Anything. But he looked dead serious about his so-called choice.

“A doctor,” he said, shrugging the options out of my head.

“Okay. So what’s your plan to become a doctor?” I gave up after five minutes of staring at him.

“Entrance exam.” He nodded, like he had passed a judgment.

I kept looking at him. Who suggests such a thing in a country where people prefer easier ways to become a doctor? Bribe someone. Throw your father’s money at a seat. But he looked determined.

God, who teaches these kids concepts like determination and courage nowadays. I am determined to throw such people out of the country.

“Why?” I finally asked.

The reluctance in my voice made him uncomfortable. He studied my face like a doctor studies an incurable patient.

“What do you mean, why?” He wrinkled his nose. “There’s an entrance exam, so I’m appearing for it,” he shrugged.

I took off my spectacles. Rubbed them. Put them back on. I resisted the urge to call him an idiot. “Just because there’s an apple on the table, you don’t eat it. Do you?”

His brows met his nose, in what could be called mild amusement. “Yes. Why not? I love apples.”

I almost pulled my hair out. “I mean, just because there’s an exam, you don’t have to appear for it.” I cleared my throat. “There are better ways to become a doctor.”

“Like?”

I looked at the people behind me at the bus stop. An ad for a coaching centre promised to make kids doctors. I turned my nephew away from it.

“Convince your dad to donate his kidney instead. It’ll get you there faster.”

“But I don’t want to be a nephrologist. I want to be a heart surgeon.” He smiled.

I wanted him to ask for his dad’s heart instead. But wishing his father dead was my goal, not his.

“My point is, there’s no point in giving the entrance exam. It’s rigged. Don’t you watch TV? Read the news? Ask your father to buy you a seat instead.”

“I only watch reels.” He chuckled as if I were an oldie from an old movie.

“Look, buddy, I don’t care what shit you watch. But there’s a pattern in this country. Entrance exams are like believing in gods. You keep faith that it’ll work in your favour. But it mostly works for people with money. So get your dad’s kidney, heart, whichever organ you prefer, and buy yourself a seat.”

He pulled his hand away from mine. I heard him breathing hard, so I stepped back. Getting hit by a teenager would embarrass me more than sitting a rigged exam ever could.

“You are such a pessimist, Uncle.” He shook his head. “I have already appeared for the entrance exam twice. Instead of giving me hope, you tell me the paper will leak again? The government promised it wouldn’t happen. And you won’t believe them?”

See, that’s the problem with today’s youth. Too optimistic. Too much belief. Someone needs to tell them promises don’t exist as a concept in reality. They exist like ghosts do. Nobody has seen one. People believe anyway.

“Look, buddy, listen to me.” I paused. “Why do you want to become a doctor? To earn money, right? I’ll tell you an easier way. No struggle. No exam.”

“What?”

“Leave your studies. Leave school. That’s it.”

“What?” he looked confused.

“Leave school. Be illiterate. That’s the only qualification you need to become a politician. Or rich. Eventually.” I nodded.

His mouth fell open. He shook his head. “I want to be a doctor. That’s what I’ll be.”

For the next few minutes, I listed the benefits of becoming a politician. Cheat people out of their money. Answer to no one. Zero accountabilities. Corruption with no risk of getting caught. Authoritarianism thrown in for free.

But nothing appealed to this goal-oriented idiot.

“No matter how much you try to kill my goal, I will re-emerge with stronger determination,” he said. “Just like a cockroach.”

My eyes fell on a pest control ad in the background. I thought for a while. No matter how much I tried to explain it to him, he couldn’t be bogged down.

He pulled out his phone and went back to his reels. I watched the students passing by, heavy bags on their shoulders, more than they could carry.

“Okay, fine, buddy. Become a doctor.” I looked at him. “But become a doctor of the shoulders specifically. You’ll get plenty of patients.” I pointed at the students. “It’s quite painful carrying the burden of expectations families pass down to their kids.”

He scrunched his brow. “You mean an orthopedician?”

“What?” I said, unable to even pronounce the word.

He chuckled. “Looks like you already qualify to be a politician.” He went back to his reels, where millions of students protested. My mind, meanwhile, dreamt of rolling in unaccounted money. Not giving a shit about accountability.

But hell. Who teaches these kids things like hope? My mind is now filled with it too.

P.S-No cockroaches or politicians were hurt in the making of this story. All resemblance is highly intentional. This is a work of satire.

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When I started reading books on writing, each book explained story structure in its own way.

By the end of every book, I felt more confused than when I began.

The complications the authors created in my mind paralysed my thinking—and I ended up writing nothing.

And yet, whenever I met people, they would often tell me they remembered a story I had written or a story I had told them. Many of them said I was a good storyteller.

That made me wonder.

There had to be something I was doing instinctively—something that worked—without consciously knowing any structure.

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A character has a goal.
He fights for it.
He fails.
He tries again—differently.
And in the end, he either succeeds or fails.

That’s it.

I sent the draft to a few publishers. One of the top publishers accepted it.

I was surprised.

More surprised when I learnt that publishers receive thousands of manuscripts and select only a handful.

When I asked them why they chose my book, they said something unexpected.

They liked the story—and it naturally followed the three-act structure that most good stories follow.

The irony was that I barely understood story structure at the time. I had simply written what felt right and kept it as simple as I could.

I later learnt the same lesson in business.

In one of my education ventures, we had a good product—but very few takers. When I revisited the product, I realised the problem wasn’t quality. It was complexity.

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Over-designed.
Over-complicated.

Customers don’t want sophistication. They want clarity.

Once we simplified the product, the benefits became obvious—and sales grew.

These days, before I finish anything—a story, a product, a page—I ask myself one question: could someone understand this in the first minute?

If not, I’m not done. I’m just not simple yet.

Quiet Clarity: Complexity complicates. Simplicity clears the way.

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My first business was an educational franchise. I used to mentor many young students who wanted to do something big in life. Most of them were impressed that I had cleared several exams and wanted to become something themselves.

But the question that confused most of them was this: Which is the best career?

It was the same question I had asked while growing up.

When I asked my father, he suggested engineering.
When I asked my mother, she suggested becoming a doctor.
My uncle suggested the civil services.

I was so confused that I ended up doing what most of my friends were doing at the time—engineering.

That turned out to be a terrible mistake.

Soon, I found myself struggling to understand the concepts, lacking focus, and feeling no real motivation.

So I started experimenting.

I took small classes that interested me. I paid attention to the kind of books I enjoyed reading and followed where my curiosity led. If I didn’t like something, I quit and moved on to something else. Quitting a class or abandoning a book didn’t feel like a big decision—it felt necessary.

The point was simple: to understand what I liked and what I didn’t, so I could figure out where to focus my energy, time, and money.

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No one had suggested either of them when I asked for advice. And I would never have discovered them if I hadn’t explored, quit, and kept looking.

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“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.”

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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.

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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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