முடிவில் (Eventually)

 வேலையில் இருந்தபோது, ஒரு நாள் யாரோ ஒருவர், “முடிவில் நாம் இதைச் சரிசெய்து விடுவோம்” (Eventually we’ll get it sorted) என்று சொன்னார். நான் என்னையே கேட்டுக்கொண்டேன்: முடிவிலா? சரியாகச் சொல்வதென்றால், எப்போது? ஒரு அதிசயம் நிகழும்போது? ஒரு நெருக்கமான காலக்கெடு வரும்போது? அல்லது நமக்காக யாராவது வந்து எல்லாவற்றையும் சரிசெய்யும்போதா?

'முடிவில்' (eventually) என்ற வார்த்தையை விரும்பும் நபர்கள் நமக்குத் தெரியும். அவர்களுக்கு இது ஒரு 'குற்றமற்றவர் அட்டை' (get-out-of-jail-free card). முடிவெடுக்க விருப்பமில்லையா? "முடிவில்" என்று சொல்லுங்கள். சங்கடமான உண்மையை எதிர்கொள்ளத் தயாராக இல்லையா? "முடிவில்" என்று சொல்லுங்கள். இது வாய்மொழி ரீதியாக, அறையில் உள்ள தூசியை விரிப்புக்கு அடியில் தள்ளிவிட்டு, அறை சுத்தமாக இருப்பதுபோல் பாசாங்கு செய்வதற்குச் சமம்.

சில வார்த்தைகள் வெளிப்படுத்துகின்றன. வேறு சில வார்த்தைகள் மறைக்கின்றன. 'முடிவில்' என்பது பிந்தைய பிரிவில் உறுதியாகச் சேரும். இது தீங்கற்றதாகவும், ஆறுதல் அளிப்பதாகவும் ஒலிக்கும், ஆனால் நம் மொழியில் உள்ள மிகவும் நழுவும் வார்த்தைகளில் இதுவும் ஒன்றாகும். அது காலத்தின் அவசியத்தை ஆமோதிக்கும், ஆனால் தருணத்தைக் குறிப்பிட மறுக்கும். இது ஒரு தீர்வின் வாய்ப்பை நீட்டிக்கிறது, ஆனால் எந்த ஒரு செயலையும் கோருவதில்லை. 'விரைவில்' (soon) அல்லது 'பின்னர்' (later) போன்றவை ஒரு காலக்கெடுவை சற்றேனும் குறிக்கும்போது, 'முடிவில்' என்பது ஒரு மூடுபனிக்குள் மிதக்கிறது. நாளைக்கா? பல தசாப்தங்களுக்குப் பிறகா? யாருக்குத் தெரியும்—இது தெளிவில்லாத ஆறுதல்.

'முடிவில்' என்ற வார்த்தையை நிஜ வாழ்க்கையில் கொண்டு வந்தால், அதன் அபத்தம்தெளிவாகிறது. நீங்கள் ஒரு மகப்பேறு வார்டுக்குச் சென்று, “அழகான குழந்தை – முடிவில் அவன் இறந்துவிடுவான்” என்று சொல்வீர்களா? புதிதாகத் திருமணம் ஆனவர்களைப் பார்த்து, "முடிவில் நீங்கள் விவாகரத்து பெறுவீர்கள்" என்று வாழ்த்துவீர்களா? ஒரு நண்பர், “நான் காதலில் இருக்கிறேன்” என்று நம்பி உங்களிடம் கூறினால், நீங்கள் சலித்துக்கொண்டு, “சும்மா இரு, முடிவில் நீங்கள் பிரிந்துவிடுவீர்கள்” என்று பதிலளிப்பீர்களா?

இது கொடூரமானது, இல்லையா? ஏனென்றால், 'முடிவில்' என்பது அர்த்தமுள்ள அனைத்தையும் அதன் தவிர்க்க முடியாத முடிவுக்குக் குறைத்து, வாழ்தல், தேர்ந்தெடுத்தல் மற்றும் செய்தல் ஆகியவற்றைக் கடந்து செல்கிறது. இது நையாண்டியை ஆறுதலின் உடையாக போர்த்திக்கொண்டு, நேரடியாக இலக்குக்குத் தாவுகிறது.

உயில்கள் (Wills) 'முடிவில்' எழுதப்படுவதில்லை; எந்தவொரு நீதிமன்ற நாடகத்திற்கும் முன்பே அவை தயாரிக்கப்படுகின்றன. உறவுகள் 'முடிவில்' சரிசெய்யப்படுவதில்லை; சிக்கலின் முதல் அறிகுறியிலேயே அவை சரிசெய்யப்படுகின்றன. பாலங்கள் 'முடிவில்' கட்டப்படுவதில்லை—எதிர்காலப் போக்குவரத்தை எளிதாக்கத் திட்டங்கள் மற்றும் காலக்கெடுவுடன் அவை கட்டப்படுகின்றன. வணிகங்கள் 'முடிவில்' தொடங்கப்படுவதில்லை—யாரோ ஒருவர் ஒரு தேவையை உணர்ந்து செயல்படும்போது அவை தொடங்குகின்றன. குடும்பங்கள் 'முடிவில்' ஒன்றாகப் பிணைக்கப்படுவதில்லை—பிணைப்புகள் அறுபடுவதற்கு முன் மக்கள் சிக்கல்களைச் சரிசெய்வதால் அவை நீடிக்கின்றன. அர்த்தமுள்ள எதுவும் 'முடிவில்' நடப்பதில்லை. ஒருவர் அந்த வார்த்தைக்குப் பின்னால் ஒளிந்துகொள்வதை நிறுத்தி, செயல்படத் தேர்ந்தெடுக்கும்போதுதான் மாற்றம் நிகழ்கிறது.

'முடிவில்' என்ற வார்த்தையை ஓய்வு கொடுக்கும் நேரம் வந்துவிட்டது போல. முதுகுத்தண்டோடு கூடிய வார்த்தைகளைப் பயன்படுத்துங்கள்: இப்போது, இன்று, நேரம் கடப்பதற்கு முன். 'முடிவில்' என்பதை நம்பியிருந்தால், அது பொதுவாக 'ஒருபோதும் இல்லை' என்றுதான் மொழிபெயர்க்கிறது.

மேலும், ஒருபோதும் இல்லை என்ற இடத்தில்தான் வாய்ப்புகள் அழுகுகின்றன, மரபுகள் அவிழ்கின்றன, உறவுகள் அமைதியாக மறைகின்றன. வாழ்க்கையில் அர்த்தமுள்ள எதுவும் 'முடிவில்' என்ற வார்த்தையின் மீது கட்டப்படுவதில்லை. 'முடிவில்' என்பது தாமதத்தின் மொழி, மேலும் தாமதம் என்பது பொறுப்பைக் கொல்லும் அமைதியான கொலைகாரன்.

எனவே, அடுத்த முறை யாராவது தோளைக் குலுக்கி, “முடிவில் நாம் இதைச் சரிசெய்து விடுவோம்” என்று சொன்னால், தலையை ஆட்டாதீர்கள். எப்போது? எப்படி? யார் பொறுப்பு? என்று கேளுங்கள். ஏனென்றால், வாழ்க்கை 'முடிவில்' என்ற தெளிவற்ற வாக்குறுதிக்குப் பரிசளிப்பதில்லை. அது இப்போதே செயல்பட வேண்டிய அவசரத்திற்குப் பரிசளிக்கிறது.

முடிவில், 'முடிவில்' என்பது 'ஒருபோதும் இல்லை' என்று சொல்வதற்கான மற்றொரு வழி மட்டுமே—மேலும் 'ஒருபோதும் இல்லை' என்பதற்காகக் காத்திருக்க நம் வாழ்வு மிகவும் குறுகியது.

Eventually

The other day at work, someone said, “Eventually we’ll get it sorted.” I caught myself wondering: Eventually? In the event of what, exactly? A miracle? A looming deadline? Someone swooping in to fix things for us?

We all know people who love the word “eventually.” For them, it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. Don’t want to decide? Say “eventually.” Not ready to face an awkward truth? Say “eventually.” It’s the verbal equivalent of sweeping dust under the rug and pretending the room is spotless.

Some words reveal. Some others conceal. “Eventually” belongs firmly in the latter camp. It sounds harmless, even reassuring, but it’s one of the most evasive terms in our language. It nods at inevitability while refusing to name the moment. It dangles the prospect of resolution yet demands no action. Unlike “soon” or “later,” which at least hint at a timeframe, “eventually” drifts in a fog. Tomorrow? Decades from now? Who knows—it’s comfort without clarity.

Bring “eventually” into real life, and its absurdity becomes clear. Would you walk into a maternity ward and say, “Lovely baby—eventually he’s going to die”? Toast newlyweds with, “Eventually you’ll get divorced”? When a friend confides, “I’m in love,” would you shrug and reply, “Nah, you’ll break up eventually”?

Sounds cruel, right? That’s because “eventually” reduces everything meaningful to its inevitable ending, skipping over the living, choosing, and doing. It jumps straight to the finish line, wrapping sarcasm in the costume of reassurance.

Wills aren’t written “eventually”; they’re drafted before any courtroom drama unfolds. Relationships aren’t repaired “eventually”; they’re mended at the first sign of trouble. Bridges aren’t built “eventually”—they’re constructed with plans and deadlines to ease future traffic. Businesses aren’t launched “eventually”—they start when someone spots a need and acts. Families aren’t held together “eventually”—they endure because people patch problems before bonds break. Nothing meaningful happens “eventually.” Change occurs only when someone stops hiding behind the word and chooses to act.

Maybe it’s time to retire “eventually.” Use words with backbone: now, today, before it’s too late. Rely on “eventually,” and it usually translates to never.

And never is where opportunities rot, where legacies unravel, where relationships fade into silence. Nothing meaningful in life gets built on “eventually.” “Eventually” is the language of delay, and delay is responsibility’s quiet killer.

So, the next time someone shrugs and says, “Eventually we’ll get it sorted,” don’t just nod. Ask when. Ask how. Ask who’s in charge. Because life doesn’t reward the vague promise of “eventually.” It rewards the urgency of now.

In the end, “eventually” is just another way of saying “never”—and life’s too short to wait for never.

The Loop of Legacy !

Midway through my coffee break, I overheard my colleagues marveling at the surge in the price of gold, assuming it was wealth, as if its shine could liberate them from their debt trap of consumption to provide for further consumption. 

Yet, gold does not move. It lies dormant in lockers, locked behind rituals of love and legacy. Their wives would never let it be pawned in crisis. Every month, they feed savings schemes in the jeweller’s name—not investments in freedom, but deposits for ornaments. A necklace here. A ring there. A gesture, perhaps.

But to what end?

Is it love?

Is it duty?

Or just another loop?

A ritual mistaken for meaning, one more tether in the great machinery of passed-on habits?

Most lives begin not with intention, but with competition—the need to be on par with their peers in this day and age.

A glance.

A night.

A ritual.

A child.

A script. Rewritten all over again.

Children born not always as gifts,

but as outcomes of boredom, lust, or inherited inertia.

The architecture doesn’t ask why.

It only demands more.

More bodies, more mouths, more movement, more consumption.

From birth, we’re pressed into rhythms we never chose.

School teaches obedience.

Work teaches endurance.

Marriage rewards conformity.

Procreation parades as duty, not design—to suck everyone into the conformity of legacy.

Each step feeds the next,

and each next feeds the system.

We consume because we must survive,

and then we consume to feel alive. To feed our dopamine and serotonin.

To feel we progress. To feel we have purpose. To feel we're better than those around.

It’s not a cycle—it’s a loop.

Silent, vicious, profitable.

This loop economy thrives not on brilliance, but volume.

It doesn’t need vision, only multiplication.

The more children born, the more consumers made.

The more consumers made, the more profit extracted.

Purpose here is not a calling.

It’s a leash.

Ask the migrant labourer.

He doesn't question why to get married. Doesn't give it a thought if he could feed the mouths he would bring into the world.

He leaves his village not to explore, but to survive.

He builds towers he will never inhabit,

lays tiles in homes whose doors he’ll never cross.

That ignorance feeds the loop. Legacy? I doubt it.

His children grow up breathing dust and diesel,

as his body breaks to sustain a loop he didn’t design.

This isn’t sacrifice.

It’s structure—a structure of breeding ignorance through multiplication as conformity.

Even the educated aren’t exempt.

They marry because it is “time.”

They procreate because it is “expected.”

They work jobs that poison oceans and pollute skies,

calling it “career growth.”

Children raised not by parents but by screens,

school systems engineered to replicate the same loop.

Photos curated, birthdays staged—

captioned words like “blessing” and “legacy,”

while the architecture quietly extracts value

from every diaper, every tuition fee, every toy.

This is not life.

It is choreography.

A puppet show.

We are not participants—we are performers.

Invisible hands pull the strings.

Filthy rich applause rains down from balconies

built with our labour, our longing, our loops.

And we?

We mistake movement for purpose, purpose for meaning, and meaning as mission. Ignorance? Indeed.

Stop.

Stop calling multiplication legacy.

Stop calling obedience purpose.

Do not rage against the system—

simply refuse to dance for it.

No offspring to feed the loop.

No guilt to fuel the ritual.

A life lived by intention, not inheritance.

Ritual, yes.

But not righteous.

Only vicious.

They tell us to leave a legacy.

But perhaps, in this age,

the truest legacy

is learning to leave—

without looking back.

Just as gold lies locked, lifeless in lockers—

so too can a life lie locked in loops.

Freedom is not what glitters.

Freedom is what refuses to shine on command.

The One That Could've Been

Some stories don’t fade. They ferment. They deepen. They become architecture. This is mine.

She was warmth in a world that rewarded calculation. She was kindness when I chose posture. She was family before I understood what that meant. And I missed her—not just in the moment, but in the design of my life.

I chose silence for family. I chose absence when I should’ve chosen her. And now, in the quiet hours of my night, I realise she was the life I could’ve built. She was the clarity I ignored. She was the love I feared to name.

I remember our first kiss—inside a cinema, Kavan lingering on screen with my beloved VJS, but the real story unfolding between us. We left midway, not because the film failed us, but because her hostel gates would close. That urgency, that tenderness, that unfinished night—it lives in me still. And it always will.

I remember the day she took leave from work, turned up at my place unannounced, and cooked sambar rice and potato fry. She asked me to come home for lunch after the first half. I did. And when I entered, she played Vaseegara. Not just a song—but a declaration. She didn’t need words. She had music. She had presence. She had love.

Later, I learnt she had spoken to my mother. She had declared her love with grace, offered a future with quiet dignity. But I wasn’t there. I didn’t know. And my mother, caught in her own limitations, couldn’t understand what was being offered. That moment passed. And with it, the life we might have built.

Then came her wedding. I didn’t attend. But I felt it. Like a 96-style ache—quiet, precise, devastating. She stepped into a new life, and I was left holding the fragments of ours. Not because she failed me. But because I failed to arrive in time.

And still, five years later, she called. She told me not to be devastated. She said life would find its way. She gave me hope—not to rekindle, but to release me from my guilt. That call was her final kindness. And I carry it with me, always.

I’m glad she has a beautiful family. I’m not writing to reclaim her. I’m writing to witness her. To say that I loved her. And I still do—in the way that honours her peace, not disrupts it.

This is not a plea.  

It’s a timestamp.  

A monument.  

To the love that could’ve been.  

To the man I almost became.  

To the ache I will carry—not as burden, but as truth—all the way to my grave.

Like Indhu waiting for Mukund, love stood at my doorstep—gentle, patient, and clear. But this Mukund was blind. Not cruel. Just late. And now, I write not to rewrite the ending, but to honour the woman who once waited, and the silence that became my legacy.

My legacy is a vacuum without her.  

I hope you fill all your vacuums before they become permanent. Don’t let that hand go when it’s asking to be yours.  

Love exists. Love persists. Love extends. Love lives.  

Let all the love cheer forever in the hearts of those who own it.

Cheers.

Shades of Grey

Chennai, 8.46 am – en route to the office.

I sat in my car with the engine idling, the air conditioning purring like a lullaby, streaming Love Is Blind and laughing at its own paradox: searching for love without sight whilst cocooned in perfect isolation. A family glided past on a lone motorbike – a man, a woman, a toddler pressed between them, faces gleaming in the harsh sun. No helmets, no protection against dust or heat, just the relentless pulse of the city bearing down. They dissolved into traffic, and that image burned itself into my mind.

He pedalled along invisible rails laid down by years of schooling, a secure job he could not abandon, marriage vows bound by tradition, a child to raise, a mortgage to service and bills stacking up each month. Those duties never arrived as conscious choices at dawn but as inherited codes he obeyed without question – debt layered upon debt so that his child would not suffer, even at the cost of exposure to heat and pollution. His sacrifice went unnoticed in the morning rush, because that is what men do: shoulder unseen burdens and keep riding.

I existed at the opposite extreme – apparently cruel for resisting the obligations of marriage, notorious for refusing to work beyond a certain point, a black-clad maverick who mocked every convention of family and debt. I traded the bondage of lineage for financial independence, swapped mortgage shackles for borderless freedom. I refused to borrow happiness from tomorrow, choosing passport stamps over EMI schedules, even if it meant my legacy lived only in boarding passes and blog posts.

The moment felt ripped from the climax of Vikram Vedha: Madhavan emerging in white, the embodiment of society’s conditioning over generations – duty, sacrifice, the unquestioned right thing to do – facing Vijay Sethupathi draped in black, the outcast who lives without guilt or remorse, sculpting his life beyond social conditioning. Beneath Chennai’s glare, the man on the bike became white, anchored by debt and obligation, whilst I sat there in black, untethered by expectation and driven by my own design.

Yet neither white nor black holds the final word. Society offers only a binary script – settle down, procreate, provide, or be selfish, rootless, adrift. That framework blindsides us to personal bandwidth, emotional fit and the hidden cost of comfort. Responsibility is not a verdict or a moral scale but a vast spectrum where duty and freedom, debt and discipline, lineage and solitude converge.

On that stretch of endless road, I realised there is no single way to live and no universal right or wrong. Each of us carves our path in shades of grey, weaving our own legacy from the choices we inherit and the rebellions we embrace.

Choose your colour – but, above all, embrace it without guilt for what might have been.

Cheers until the next one.

நேற்றைய செய்தித்தாள்

 

மடிக்கப்பட்டது. மறக்கப்பட்டது. தூக்கி எறியப்பட்டது.

என் கதைகள், கவனிக்கத் தேவையில்லை எனத் தீர்மானிக்கப்பட்டன.
ஆனால் ஒரு செய்தித்தாள் என்றால் என்ன,
மன்னிக்க முடியாத முக்கிய தருணங்களின் பதிவு அல்லவா?

நீ நினைவில் வைக்க முடியாத சோகங்கள்,
அழுகையையும் பரிமாற்றத்தையும் நான் என் மடிப்புகளில் பதித்திருக்கிறேன்.
ஆனால் அந்த உணர்வுகளின் எடையை நீ சுமக்க முடியவில்லை.
அதனால், என்னை... தூக்கி எறிந்தாய்.

ஒரு காலத்தில்,
தீபாவளி அன்று வாசலிலிருந்து,
அப்பா வீட்டுக்குத் திரும்புவாரா என காத்திருந்தேன்.
அந்தக் குழந்தை,
உருகும் பாசத்தையும்,
மீளும் கவனத்தையும் நம்பியிருந்தது.
வானில் பட்டாசுகள் மட்டும் அல்ல— உள்ளத்தில் ஒளி வேண்டியது.

இன்று, அந்தக் குழந்தை
நினைவில் மட்டுமே வாழ்கிறான்.
ஏனெனில்,
ஒரு காலத்தில் அந்தக் குழந்தைக்கு உலகமாய் இருந்தவர்,
இப்போது "சாப்பிட்டாயா?" என்று கூட கேட்கமாட்டார்.
நான் உயிரோடு இருக்கிறேனா என்று கூட கவலைப்படமாட்டார்.

காதல்,
ஒரு காலத்தில் பக்கங்களிலேயே நிலைத்ததாக உணரப்பட்டது.
தோள்களுக்குள் நிழலாய்,
மெல்லிய சத்தியங்களை சுமந்து நடந்தது.
ஆனால் அவை மங்கின.
அவள் திருமணம் செய்துகொண்டாள்.
நான் கதையிலிருந்து அழிக்கப்பட்டேன்.

என் சகோதரன்,
ஒரு காலத்தில் என் நம்பிக்கையாய் இருந்தவர்,
இப்போது பேசாமல் மௌனமாகி விட்டார்.
தனது வாழ்க்கையை தனக்கென அமைத்து,
திருமணமும், பெருந்தொகை சம்பளங்களும் கொண்ட கழிவுகளுக்குள் வீழ்ந்தார்.
நான் பின்னணித் சத்தமாய் மாறிவிட்டேன்.
தூண்கள் எப்போதும் இடிக்கப்படவில்லை.
சில நேரங்களில்,
அவை எதையும் சுமக்க மறுக்கின்றன.

நான் அறியாமையால் அல்ல,
நேர்மை காரணமாக வலியடைந்தவன்.
நான் பலவீனமல்ல,
நான் காதலால் உயிர்த்தவன்.
ஆனால் காலம்,
மனிதர்களை மென்மையாக்குவதில்லை.
சில நேரங்களில், அது அவர்களை உறையும் கல்லாக்கிறது.

நான் முன்பு உண்மையை
இயல்பாகப் பேசியவன்.
இப்போது, ஒவ்வொரு வார்த்தையும் அளந்து,
அதன் தாக்கத்திற்கு பயந்து பேசுகிறேன்.
ஒரு காலத்தில் உலகை அகம்திறந்த கண்களால் கண்டேன்.
இப்போது,
நான் நம்மைத் தவிர்க்க விரும்புகிறேன்.
அதற்குப் பின்னால் விருப்பமில்லை,
பயமே காரணம்.

விளையாட்டு, சாகசம், நாடுகளின் தேடல்...
ஏற்கனவே என் உயிர் பாதைகள்—all shadowed now.
நிழல்களாகவே வழிகின்றன.

போரில் எல்லோருக்கும் பக்கமாக நின்ற
பாதுகாவலன் என்கின்ற என்னுள் ஒருவர்,
இப்போது... போர் நானாகவே.

இப்போதுள்ள நான்
மௌனத்தில் மூழ்கிய ஒருவர்.
நான் கேட்கப்பட்டவனாக இருந்தேன்,
இப்போது என் வலிக்கே யாரும் செவியாயில்லை.

முன்பு,
college-இல் mic-ஐ விட மறந்ததில்லை,
உணர்வுகளை பதைக்க விட்டதில்லை.
இப்போது,
வாழ்க்கையின் முழு காலத்தையும்
பேசப்படாத வார்த்தைகளில் சிதறவிடுகிறேன்.
உலகம் பேசும் முன்,
நான் மௌனமாய்த் திரும்புகிறேன்.

உலகத்தை கைப்பற்ற ஆசைப்பட했던 அந்த இளம் வீரன்,
இப்போது வேலைக்கு punch செய்து, punch out செய்கிறான்.
உலகம் சவாலாகத்தான் இருக்கிறது,
அதை அனுபவிக்கச் செல்வதற்கே நேரமில்லை.

நீ என்னுடன் நடந்ததைக் கேட்கவே இல்லை.
நீ தெரிந்துகொள்ள விரும்பவில்லை.
ஏனெனில்...
நீ என்னை தூக்கி எறிந்தாய்.

ஆனால்,
நான் முக்கியமில்லாதவன் அல்ல.
நான் ஒரு சாய்வு.
நான் ஒரு சாட்சி—
ஏதாவது ஒரு காலத்தில்
நீ யாரோவென நினைத்தாய்.

ஒருநாள்,
உன் மார்பில் இடிந்து விழும் ஒரு வலியில்
நீ உணர்வாய்—
சில தலைப்புகள் மறைவதில்லை.
அவை ஒலிக்கின்றன.
அவை... நேற்றைய செய்தித்தாளில் கூட.

Yesterday’s Newspaper

 

Folded, forgotten, and discarded. My stories, no longer deemed worthy of attention. Yet what is a newspaper if not a record of moments that mattered? I’ve captured innocence, heartbreak, and transformation in my creases, but you couldn’t carry the weight of those emotions, so you threw me away.

There was a time I stood at the gate on Diwali, waiting for my father to come home. That child believed in warmth, in return, in fireworks that lit up more than just the sky. Today, that same child exists only in memory, because the man who once meant the world to that child doesn’t bother to ask if I’ve eaten, or care if I’m even alive.

Love once felt eternal, pressed between palms, carried on streetlight walks and soft promises. But those promises faded. She got married. I was edited out.

My sibling, my anchor, turned silent. He found his own orbit, balancing marriage and paychecks so heavy at corporates that I became background noise. Pillars don’t always crumble. Sometimes, they just stop holding anything up.

I wasn’t naïve. I was innocent. I wasn’t weak. I was romantic. But time doesn’t always soften people. Sometimes, it hardens them. I began to speak brutally, not out of cruelty, but because I had no room left for lies. I watched my smiles fade, my warmth freeze, my heart calcify from touchless seasons.

I used to tell the truth like it was second nature. Now, I measure every word, scared of the ricochet. I once dreamed of the world with eyes wide open. Now, I just want out. I don’t seek destiny anymore, I avoid it. Not out of will, just because it's scary. Sports, adventure, exploration... all former lifelines, now distant shadows.

Even the protector in me, the one who stood besides everyone in battle, feels like the war itself. The listener I used to be to lean on is done, tired of my aches, drowning in his own, because none held a ear to hear me.

And me? The college kid who never missed a mic, never held back a feeling, now spills entire lifetimes into words that remain unspoken. I silence myself before the world can.

That young champ who once wanted to conquer the world, now just punches in and out. That traveller who wanted to scale every inch of the globe, now finds hard to time it between unpaid holidays. Stuck.

You didn’t ask what happened.
You didn’t want to know.
Because you chose to trash me.

But I am not irrelevant. I am residue. Proof that something once mattered.

And if the world ever grows quiet enough for you to notice the ache in your own chest, maybe you’ll remember, some headlines don’t disappear. They echo. Even if they’re written in yesterday’s newspaper.

Aap Jaisa Koi !!

Watching this romcom of Madhavan and Fatima, I felt a quiet friction - between romance and gender role, between emotional language and social expectation. Especially for men, the terrain of adaptation feels steep and unforgiving.

Across generations, men have inherited a role forged in duty and restraint. Strength was their language. Vulnerability, a dissonant chord. But with evolving societal norms, especially the rise of feminist consciousness, the expectations around masculinity are shifting fast, sometimes too fast to be humane.

While feminism has earned space to evolve - rightfully, and often loudly, masculinity is expected to transform instantly. Men are asked to unlearn centuries of silence, rewire expressions, and soften edges without first being offered a vocabulary, let alone grace.

When Fatima says her ex was a MCP - Male Chauvinist Pig so conveniently and casually, I wonder, would it be received with the same non chalance had her ex called her a PFB - Pseudo Feministic Bitch ??

Labels sting differently when the power to use them isn’t mutual. This asymmetry cuts deeper than discomfort. It cuts into identity.

Women today navigate multiple roles—professional, personal, emotional—with increasing societal permission. They’re allowed nuance. Men, meanwhile, are often stuck between the outdated model of dominance and the modern demand for emotional fluency. There’s no handbook. Just judgment.

In relationships, this tension manifests starkly.
Many modern partnerships preach equality but practice conditional freedom: where a woman may choose whether to work, but a man is expected to earn more than the woman, without complaint. Emotional depth is encouraged, but only if it doesn't distract from financial reliability.

The world might collapse if a man were to ask for the "choice to work."
Obviously! because kamaana toh mard ka kaam hai!
There's even a saying in Tamil: "Udyogam purusha lakshanam" - Employment is the mark of a man.

So men are born with, grow up with, and live under the expectation that they must work, and only then will they be deemed “men.”

I once met a potential partner who mentioned that her ideal partner should earn at least five digits per month. Yet, she had been at home for ten years post-college, still figuring out her own career. Had I called out the hypocrisy, I would’ve been branded a chauvinist. I was expected to accept it gracefully and provide for both of us, without a fuss.

But we choose not to call it hypocrisy. It’s a culture mid-transition. And transitions are messy. The divorce rates don't help the cause either.

Popular media only muddies the water.
Soap operas simplify emotion into spectacle. Male characters are either brutes or broken. Female characters oscillate between victimhood and vengeance. Rarely do we see stories where both navigate complexity with dignity.

What we need is a world where men and women are both allowed to feel, falter, and grow. Let go of rigid expectations—providers and nurturers can be any gender. We need stories that reflect nuanced masculinity, not just punished patriarchy. Don’t demand immediate transformation. Invite it with empathy.

Men aren't afraid of feeling.
They're afraid of being punished for feeling.
Ashamed for wanting to build together.

Let’s build spaces - be it a classroom, a café, or a culture—that invite everyone to unlearn with dignity. The wall doesn’t need demolition - it needs windows. Let it be carved, not cracked. Painted, not judged. Maybe then, we’ll outgrow the need for labels like MCP or PFB. Maybe then, we’ll stop defining each other by how loudly we resist or conform and start listening to the quiet truths we all carry.

The Constant !!

I’m not perfect. Never tried to be. I don't put on a mask.

I’ve lived, I’ve learned, I’ve unlearned.
I’ve built things - careers, resilience, inner calm
But I’m still building me.
Not for applause. Not for performance.

Just to keep becoming someone I can quietly be proud of.

I’ve been the provider, the planner, the pillar.
But I’d like to be the partner now, not just the protector.
I want ease.

I want a partner who meets me in the quiet and the chaos
Who values connection over convention.
Movies we don’t finish because the conversation’s better.
Maybe a couple of beers, maybe herbal tea - doesn’t matter.
Just the comfort of us.

Let me have mine. Let her have hers. 
And when our days meet , we meet softly, with laughter, with lightness.
No deadline for children.
No debt wrapped in someone else’s expectations.
because she wants to talk to me, not because she has to.

I want to be seen.
Loved not because I check a list, but because I bring peace to her soul the way she does to mine.
Just real. 

I carry responsibility well, though I won’t pretend it’s always light.
I don’t need a ceremony that dazzles or a relationship that performs.
Late-night banter under a blanket.
Let her have her space, her pace, her purpose.
No pressure for perfection.
Just a text that says “miss you” or “what’s for dinner?”

I don't want to be somebody's trophy husband, nor someone’s sole support beam.
I'll be the poet she wants, I want her to be the soul of the poem
Not flawless. Just free.

That's the Constant I seek.

GBU - The World

 Courtesy Mr. AK and AR and a poem

The Good : 

You're always born new, naive to the world, brought up by probably parents with virtues to follow rules, adhere to them, obey by law, respect everyone,  to be sweet and good to everyone around us.

You are 10 years now. You realise that there is a section where you're asked to tick a checkbox in a sheet at in a new school (parents were checking it for us till then, if not more). You wonder what that means ! No clue. You ask your parents and they say its nothing but a formality. They keep you naive. 

There is a teacher/ bully in school who doesn't treat you equally because you're new/ dominance/ whatever.

You go to college and then you try to be the best at everything possible. But someone doesn't like it. Not sure why. But someone always doesn't. 

You stay true to yourself and your upbringing and somehow struggle through all this to workspace. Someone feels threatened. Someone feels jealous. Now where is the good in this you wonder !!

So you go to ..

The Bad :

You're not a new born now. You've seen the reality of this world. You've learnt. You pick up on things.

You teach your kid at school to be cautious. Not to take even a biscuit from anyone, You teach them the meaning of good touch and bad touch. You give them a cellphone and not a smartphone to reach you. You ask them to report the incident even if its a teacher trying to discipline you. 

You're in college now. You know your departments and whom not to mess with, There are still bullies and seniors trying to shadow your talent. But now that you know that it's persistent, you try to stand up. But they have been doing this for a living. So you succumb. You're still hopeful.

You go to work. There are managers who know what you're capable of and try to dominate you through micromanagement and deadlines because they are insecure. You have liabilities and a family to look after. So you succumb and play the slave. It's not fun but it pays. 

Then comes authority through associations, trusts, invisisible creatures who want to suck on your hard earned money after GST of course. Now you feel like enough is enough .. let's turn the tables around and get to ..

The Ugly :

You're a new born again. Not in another life ,, but in your beliefs. You know the ins and outs of everything around.

Time to Unlearn the World and rediscover it through your new redefined lenses.

You know enough that schools are nothing but an institution to condition children to follow the good. Virtues don't mean their essence in words. Rules are there to control the masses and let the few shrewd/ rich ones inside. 

You know that laws are indeed not made by the government, You know to play the fool when required and play the goon when your close ones are in dire need. You know that love indeed has lost all meaning and you try to be cautious of who might fool you. Transactions only basis, You have become a pessimist. Actually the world has caused it. 

Bullies at school and college - now no longer exist because they know you can hack into their personal lives and mess with them in ways they wondered possible.

Workplace - Jessica Pearson at work. While everyone is busy playing snakes and ladders, you're playing chess. Two moves ahead at every step. 

World would call you names like XYZ, cold, devoid of emotions, outcast etc. Would try every trick like norms, rules, laws, authority, etc to condition you.

But be the maverick, be unprecedented, unheard of, unpredictable, be good to the good, be bad to the bad and ugly to the ones who deserve it. 

Be unapolegitically YOU.

Adios Amigos till next !!

Well ..

 Moving on !! Sounds like a great theme right ?? Not actually. Movies, the ones that dwelve about too much into it .. making us dream of a path to resurrection and redemption of self ! A great storyline. But nobody shows the reality of it. Padayappa .. Suryavamsam ,, and even the recent Dragon .. same theme !!

Have to give credit to the Dragon team though for keeping it as real as possible. Behind every fake attempt at redemption, there is a true fall. Well .. coming onto our theme ,, moving on,

Moving on involves horrible, terrible, painful, shameful experiences which we will definitely forget by addiction. But we leave a haunting experience on those beside us during this wretched journey of overcomiung someone who is not in our lives anymore, so much so,  that we forget the ones who are still standing by us and we continue to hurt them everyday while we try to cross this phase.

I heard this word "Break Up" being referred to as "Moving On" in some TV show. Wish it had been as simple as that. We would be probably moving on much faster in life in literal sense. But what does it do instead ?

Brakes !! 

Puts us in a limbo ! A state of not knowing one's own being. A persistent non chalant existence of pain which never fades away. You're there but not entirely ! Remember 96's Ram in classroom who misses the one day Jaanu is out of class on fever and the miss shouts .. Ramachandran .. shall I put physically present ?? It's quite similar but just longer. 

Makes us grieve others' happiness and wonder why it's just not happening with us. Are we at fault ? Of course yes ! But we seldom seek apology. So our egoistic self chooses Sorrow, Love is not the only thing that is blind folks because it just doesn't exist anymore. We are blinded by our own ego mostly.

So all these above confusing emotions coexist and they are less guaranteed to let you live in harmony with yourself. But .. time happens .. limbo exists and leaves without uttering a word. You get better at knowing yourself. 

And .. like the dusk has to end at dawn .. even in Iceland winters .. It does come to an end to just greet it with .. yeah why not ? 

Some hope just knocks on your door, Life is filled with surprises .. mostly unpleasant but some genuinely pleasant selves. So just breathe, live the moment, rough the tough and get up because you have another day to live. Open the door !!

Who knows .. you might be actually moving on to something better in life !! 

Adios Amigos !! Have a great weekend !! And Move On !!

Till the next time !! 

Beyond the Script !!

As a budding screenplay writer,

I've always been drawn to the world of storytelling. But little did  I know that my own life would become a complex narrative, filled with twists and turns that would test my resolve.

Growing up, I've navigated the challenges of a fractured family dynamic. The differences between my parents, particularly my father's choices, have left an indelible mark on my life. It's as if the script of my childhood was rewritten, leaving me to question my own identity and aspirations.

Despite these hurdles, my passion for storytelling remains unwavering. I see the world as a canvas, waiting to be filled with vibrant characters, poignant dialogue, and cinematic landscapes. My imagination is a refuge, a sanctuary where I can temporarily escape the complexities of my personal life.

Yet, the weight of my father's expectations and the lingering emotions of my family's past continue to influence my creative journey. I'm torn between pursuing my dreams and meeting the obligations that have been placed upon me.

In this delicate dance between creativity and responsibility, I'm forced to confront the very fabric of my being. Who am I, beyond the script of my life? What stories do I want to tell, and how will I find the courage to share them with the world?

My journey is a testament to the human spirit's capacity for resilience and adaptation. As I navigate the complexities of my past, present, and future, I remember telling myself that your story is still being written.

So I sat down, put pen to paper and everything else just flowed. Didn't happen in a day or two. I had to forget my past to discover my present for a better tomorrow. 

Meeting SK was a similar incident, his journey nothing less painful than mine. But together, we announced to the world - We're here and here to rule ! 

The pen is in your hand, and the possibilities are endless.

Keep writing, and know that your unique voice and perspective will one day shine through the noise.

Hopeless Romantic !!

I remember the first time I saw him - it was like the whole world stopped. I was 17, and he was the new kid in school. He had that whole "bad boy" vibe going on, with his messy hair and piercing eyes. I was hooked.

We met in the school hallway, and I swear, it was like the universe brought us together. We talked for hours, sharing our dreams, our fears, and our passions. I knew right then and there that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

Fast forward to our 20s, and we were inseparable. We'd spend hours driving around, listening to music, and talking about our future. We'd share our deepest secrets, our biggest fears, and our wildest dreams. I felt seen, heard, and understood in a way I never thought possible.

But life had other plans. We faced ups and downs, breakups and makeups. We grew apart, and then found our way back to each other. Through it all, I held on to the hope that we'd make it work.

People called me a hopeless romantic, and maybe they were right. But I didn't care. I knew that our love was real, and that it was worth fighting for.

As we grew older, life took us in different directions. We found ourselves apart, separated by miles and time zones. But despite the distance, our love remained strong.

We'd spend hours on the phone, talking about our days, our dreams, and our fears. We'd send each other letters, care packages, and surprise gifts. We'd count down the days until we could see each other again.

The distance was hard, but it also made us appreciate the time we had together. We'd cherish every moment, every laugh, and every tear. We'd make promises to each other, to hold on to our love, no matter what.

And when we'd finally reunite, it was like no time had passed at all. We'd fall into each other's arms, and it would feel like home.

Looking back, I realize that our long distance relationship was a test of our love. But we passed with flying colors. We proved that our love could conquer all, even distance.

Years later, we're still together. We've built a life, a home, and a family. We've got our ups and downs, like any couple, but we've learned to navigate them together.

As I look back on our journey, I realize that being a hopeless romantic wasn't a weakness - it was my greatest strength. It gave me the courage to hold on to love, even when it seemed impossible.

So, to all the hopeless romantics out there, don't give up on love. Keep believing, keep hoping, and keep fighting for that fairytale ending. It might just be around the corner.

Cheers and good luck for your fairytale to begin !!