UNSEEN, BUT NOT UNHEARD

 

UNSEEN, BUT NOT UNHEARD…..

There are faces that command the room the moment they step through a door, and then there are faces like Advait's. He was the kind of person who could walk into a crowded cafe and leave without a single soul remembering he was ever there. In the quiet mirror of his own mind, Advait viewed himself as utterly average. He had hair that refused to stay neat, eyes that looked tired even after a full night of sleep, and a quiet personality that made him feel entirely unimportant in a world that roared for attention. Growing up, he had mastered the art of blending into the background. While other young men chased after the spotlight or worried about crafting striking profiles, Advait felt like an extra in a movie where everyone else was playing the lead. He believed his life lacked any significant texture, convinced that his existence was a quiet, grey sketch drawn on the margins of a much larger canvas.

One lazy afternoon, seeking refuge from his own restless thoughts, Advait wandered into the old public garden near the edge of town. It was a sanctuary of ancient banyan trees, moss-covered benches, and patches of sunlight that filtered through the thick canopy like liquid gold. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming jasmine. He found a secluded wooden bench tucked beneath the sprawling branches of a neem tree. Sitting down, he let out a long breath, watching the afternoon shadows stretch across the grass. With slow, absent movements, his fingers traced the rough grain of the bench, and his mind drifted away from his worries. Without any conscious thought, a memory from his grandmother's stories floated to the surface. It was a vivid picture of young Krishna, running through the dusty lanes of Gokul, laughing with butter smeared across his cheeks and a peacock feather tucked neatly into his dark curls. A tender warmth bloomed in Advait's chest. Softly, almost in a whisper, his lips parted and he began to hum a traditional bhajan. It was a simple tune dedicated to the mischievous childhood antics of the divine child, recounting how he stole butter from hanging pots and danced on the hood of the serpent Kaliya with fearless joy. The sound that left his throat was pure, unpolished, and dripping with an inherent, quiet devotion. As the notes grew steadier, his voice carried through the quiet garden air, transforming the ordinary afternoon into something sacred and still.

A few yards away, Aditi was walking along the pebble path with a book in her hand. Suddenly, the music hit her ears, and she froze mid-step. Her book slipped slightly in her grip as she turned her head, searching for the source of a sound that felt less like singing and more like a gentle wind whispering ancient secrets. In that instant, Aditi felt entirely transported to another world. The busy city noises vanished, replaced by the vision of a sunlit courtyard in Vrindavan. She could practically see the cow dust rising under little feet, the playful glint in Krishna's eyes, and the sheer innocence of a world untouched by sorrow, all painted by the breathtaking colors of Advait's voice. Slowly, other people walking in the park stopped in their tracks. Drawn by the gravitational pull of the melody, strangers drifted from the pathways and gathered quietly in a semicircle under the neem tree, their eyes wide with wonder.

Advait, however, knew nothing of this. With his eyes closed tightly and his soul wrapped in the devotion of the song, he remained entirely inside his own universe, completely unaware that a small crowd had formed around him. When the final notes of the bhajan finally melted into the silence of the garden, a heavy, beautiful stillness hung in the air. For a few seconds, nobody moved, as if waking from a shared dream too soon would break the spell. Advait fluttered his eyelids open, blinking against the bright afternoon glare. He looked up and let out a sudden gasp, his heart pounding against his ribs as he stared at the circle of people standing right in front of him. Panic flickered in his chest because he had no idea how to react. Before he could shrink back into himself or apologize for disturbing the peace, someone in the front smiled warmly. A soft ripple of applause broke out, followed by heartfelt words of praise from listeners who thanked him for giving them a moment of pure magic. Flushed and deeply embarrassed, Advait mumbled a shy acknowledgment, keeping his gaze fixed on the grass. Slowly, the crowd began to disperse, whispering among themselves about the incredible voice they had just witnessed, leaving the garden quiet once again.

Aditi, however, remained rooted to her spot, still caught in a gentle trance. She walked over slowly and sat down on the other end of the bench, her eyes shining with an emotion that words could barely capture. They began to talk, starting with hesitant murmurs about the weather and music, before diving into deeper, more meaningful conversations. Over the following weeks, this chance encounter blossomed into a deep and comforting friendship, built on shared afternoon tea and honest confessions. During one of their long talks beneath the banyan tree, Advait fell back into his familiar habit of modesty. He looked down at his hands and called himself an ordinary nobody, a person whose life was too plain to ever matter to anyone. Aditi looked at him with an expression filled with gentle firmness. She did not rush to offer empty reassurances or standard comfort. Instead, she leaned forward, studied his face for a long moment, and spoke from the very depth of her heart.

“Advait, You only see yourself through the lens of your mind or may be the mirror that stands between your appearance and virtuality. But my dear, you don't see yourself when your face lights up at the sight of someone or something you dearly love and value. You don't see yourself glistening and smiling at things and adoring the feelings that awaken your soul from within. You don't listen to yourself when you talk about the books you keep safe, the places you have walked and the songs that add melody to your life. You don't see yourself when you are truly yourself. It's human fallacy that we measure ourselves in spaces, moments and pictures where we are not who we truly are. We are not just not the product of what we have seen, heard or experienced but also of the things, places, conversations and adventures we love.”

Advait sat in absolute silence as her words washed over him like the rain on dry soil. The heavy armor of doubt that he had worn for so many years began to crack, and for the very first time in his life, he caught a clear, beautiful glimpse of his own true worth and that was the turning point that afternoon after which Advait stopped trying to hide in the background of his own story. He still felt ordinary on most days, but the definition of ordinary had changed for him. He understood that when you love the world with a pure heart, you leave a trail of music behind you, even when you are not singing a single note.

CHALTA HAI

 

CHALTA HAI

The Sunday brunch at Advait and Aditi’s home was, on the surface, a picture of domestic harmony. The aroma of saffron and cardamom drifted through the air, but beneath the pleasantries, a familiar tension simmered. Aditi moved through the kitchen with a practiced, quiet grace, while Advait’s sister, Anaya, sat at the dining table, her voice carrying that distinct, sharp edge of a seasoned taana.

"It’s lovely that you have finally found time to cook a proper meal, Aditi," Anaya said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "I suppose those long office hours don't leave much room for family traditions, do they? In our house, we always prioritized the kitchen."

Aditi felt the familiar sting, a knot tightening in her chest. She looked toward Advait, hoping for a flicker of support, but he was staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over a message from his best friend, Aryan. "Aryan canceled again," Advait sighed, tossing the phone onto the table. "That’s the third time this month. He says something came up at the last minute, but I saw his Instagram story at the gym an hour ago."

"Chalta hai, bhai," Anaya chimed in, waving a hand dismissively. "He’s your oldest friend. You know how he is. Why make a fuss?"

That phrase—Chalta hai—hung in the air like a heavy fog. For years, it had been the unspoken mantra of their lives. It was the reason Aditi swallowed Anaya’s constant barbs about her career, and the reason Advait continued to lend money and time to Aryan, knowing neither would ever be truly valued. They were "adjusting" for the sake of peace, but as Aditi looked at the forced smile on her own face in the hallway mirror, she realized that this peace felt a lot like a prison.

"Actually, Anaya," Aditi said, her voice steady despite the frantic beating of her heart. The room went quiet. "I love my work, and it doesn't make me any less a part of this family. When you imply otherwise, it hurts. I have let it pass before because I did not want to create a scene, but I would like us to find a way to talk that does not involve these side-glances at my choices."

Anaya froze, a piece of paratha halfway to her mouth. The "Log kyaa kahenge" alarm bells were practically ringing in her eyes. But before she could retort, Advait looked up, really seeing his wife for the first time in months. He saw the exhaustion she had been hiding behind her silence.

He picked up his phone and typed a message to Aryan: ‘I value our friendship, but I also value my time. If you can’t commit to the plans we make, I would prefer we don't schedule them. Let’s catch up when you can actually show up.’

The silence that followed wasn't the heavy, suffocating kind they were used to, this time it was the clear, sharp air that follows a storm. Anaya eventually cleared her throat and mumbled something about not meaning any harm, her tone significantly softened. Aryan’s reply did not come immediately, but for the first time, Advait did not care.

That evening, as the house grew quiet, Advait and Aditi sat on the balcony. The realization was bittersweet but liberating. They had spent so long fearing that boundaries would break their relationships, only to realize that the lack of them was what was truly eroding their spirit. They understood now that every time they chose silence over a firm "no," they were giving others permission to diminish them.

Aditi leaned her head on Advait’s shoulder, watching the city lights. The cycle of "Chalta hai" had finally been broken, replaced by a much more powerful truth: their peace was not something to be sacrificed for others, but something to be protected by themselves. Because in the end, they were the architects of their own respect, and what they allowed was exactly what would continue. The days that followed were surprisingly quiet, a stark contrast to the noisy, cluttered expectations they had lived with for years. The "Chalta Hai" fog had lifted, but in its place was a crisp, somewhat uncomfortable clarity.

Advait’s phone buzzed on the coffee table on Tuesday evening. It was Aryan. Instead of the usual "Sorry bro, stuck at work" text, it was a call. Advait looked at the screen, his heart performing a nervous skip. In the past, he would have picked up and immediately made a joke to ease the tension, essentially apologizing for Aryan’s own flaky behavior. "Hey," Advait said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Listen, about Sunday..." Aryan’s voice was defensive, laced with the casual arrogance of someone who had never been told 'no.' "I think you are overreacting. We have been friends since school. Since when did we start needing formal appointments and 'time-valuing' speeches?" Advait glanced at Aditi, who was reading nearby. She did not look up, but she reached out and squeezed his hand. That small gesture was the anchor he needed.

"It’s not about formality, Aryan," Advait replied firmly. "It’s about the fact that I spent my Sunday waiting for someone who did not think I was worth a five-second text. Our history does not give you a permanent pass to disregard my life. I am not angry, but I am done allowing it." There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. No jokes, no excuses. Aryan eventually muttered a "Fine, whatever," and hung up. It was not the cinematic reconciliation Advait might have hoped for, but as he put the phone down, he felt a strange lightness. The cycle of being the "reliable friend" who was always stepped on had been broken. He had stopped allowing it, and the friendship would now either evolve into something respectful or fade away. Either way, he was okay.

Meanwhile, the ripples reached the wider family. Anaya had, predictably, called their mother to complain about Aditi’s "new attitude." When the inevitable call came from "Mummy," Aditi didn't hide behind Advait.

"Beta, Anaya was crying," their mother said, her voice heavy with the guilt-tripping tone that had governed their family dynamics for decades. "She said you were very sharp with her. We are family, Aditi. Some things we just ignore for peace. Chalta hai."

"Mummy," Aditi said, her voice soft but unwavering. "I love Anaya, and I love this family. But ‘ignoring for peace' has only meant that I have been living in a state of constant hurt. If me asking for basic respect causes a storm, then maybe the peace we had was not real. I am not asking for her to be perfect; I am just asking her to stop using my choices as a punchline."

The conversation was difficult. It involved tears, long silences, and the uncomfortable dismantling of "Log kya kahenge." But for the first time, Aditi felt like she was standing on solid ground. She realized that by refusing to be the silent martyr, she was actually forcing the family to grow.

Weeks later, the four of them found themselves at a cousin’s wedding. The air was thick with the usual gossip and potential for drama. Aryan was there, and so was Anaya. Aryan approached Advait, looking slightly humbled. "I am heading to that new cafe on Friday. I will be there at seven. If you are free, come. If not, I shall see you another time and I will actually let you know if I am running late." It was a small step, a hairline fracture in his ego, but it was a start.

Anaya, too, was different. She sat with Aditi, and though the urge to make a snide comment about Aditi’s outfit clearly flickered in her eyes, she caught herself. She chose to ask about Aditi’s latest project instead. The conversation was polite, perhaps a bit guarded, but it was clean.

As the wedding music swelled around them, Aditi and Advait shared a look of quiet triumph. They understood now that boundaries were not walls meant to keep people out; they were gates that determined who was healthy enough to enter. They had stopped the "Chalta Hai" hemorrhage. They had learned that you don't get the respect you deserve but you get the respect you demand.

The truth remained as the final note of their story: the world will continue to treat you exactly how you allow it to. And finally, they were allowing themselves to be happy.

What has been your experience with setting boundaries in your own life?

The transition from "Chalta Hai" to "This is not okay" was not a clean break but a slow, sometimes agonizing ache. For Aditi and Advait, the weeks following their stand felt like walking on a freshly set floor - stable, yet requiring careful steps to ensure the cracks did not return.

The Ghost of Guilt

One rainy Tuesday, Aditi sat in her kitchen, the silence of the house feeling unusually heavy. In the past, this silence would have been filled with a phone call from Anaya - a call usually laced with "helpful" criticisms that left Aditi feeling drained. Now, the phone stayed dark. She felt a wave of unexpected grief. Was I too cold? she wondered. The programming of a lifetime the idea that a woman’s worth is measured by how much she can endure without complaining. It was a ghost that refused to leave quietly. She realized that setting a boundary did not just change how Anaya treated her; it changed how she had to view herself. She could no longer be the "martyr," and that loss of identity felt, strangely, like a funeral.

The Cafe: A New Language

Across town, Advait sat at the corner table of a dimly lit cafe, watching the door. It was 6:58 PM. At 7:02 PM, Aryan walked in. There were no loud cheers, no performative "Bhai!" that usually masked their lack of depth. Aryan sat down, looking uncharacteristically somber. "You are on time," Advait noted, his voice soft.

“I did not want to give you another reason to give me a

lecture," Aryan joked, but the usual bite was gone. He looked at his coffee, swirling the foam. "I realized something, Advait. I have been late to everything - not just our plans, but my own life. I figured if my best friend did not care if I showed up, maybe I did not have to show up for myself either."

Advait reached across the table, not for a high-five, but for a firm grip on Aryan's shoulder. The emotion in the air was raw. They were learning a new language: accountability. It was harder than "Chalta hai," but for the first time in ten years, their friendship felt like it was built on rock rather than sand.

The Unspoken Bond

The real breakthrough came a month later when Anaya visited, not with a taana, but with a peace offering: a box of the specific thepla that Aditi loved. They sat on the balcony, the evening sun casting long, golden shadows.

"I did not know how to talk to you if I was not being 'funny' at your expense," Anaya admitted, her voice trembling slightly. "Our mother, our aunts... that’s all I ever saw. Criticism was our way of showing we were paying attention. When you told me to stop, I felt like you were telling me to leave."

Aditi felt a lump in her throat. She took Anaya’s hand. "I don't want you to leave, Anaya. I just want to be seen. Not as a 'working woman' or a 'daughter-in-law,' but as me."

In that moment, the "Log kya kahenge" barrier finally crumbled. They were not performing for a ghost audience of society anymore. They were just two women, exhausted by the weight of expectations, finally choosing to be kind to one another.

The Architecture of Respect

Advait and Aditi realized that their relationship had not just survived the boundaries but it had been saved by them. The "unequal distribution of effort" they once allowed had been replaced by a quiet, rhythmic partnership.

They understood now that:

Boundaries are not walls; they are the foundation of a home where everyone can breathe.

Respect is not a gift; it is a standard that you must model before you can expect it.

"Chalta Hai" is a slow poison; it numbs the pain but eventually kills the connection.

As they watched the stars from their balcony, they knew the world would still try to push against them. People would still be late, relatives would still be nosy, and society would still judge. But the difference was internal. They were no longer allowing their peace to be a variable. It was a constant. Because what you allow is what will continue and they had finally decided to allow only love, respect, and the truth.

Setting boundaries often feels like "losing" the old version of a relationship. Have you ever felt that specific type of grief when you started standing up for yourself?

UNSWEETENED

 

UNSWEETENED

Stop pouring sugar into your "NO" just to help other people swallow it. 

For years, you have been a professional sweetener. You have conditioned yourself to believe that a boundary without a spoonful of apology, a gallon of explanation, and a frantic reassurance of your "kindness" is too bitter for the world to handle. So, you dilute your truth until it is unrecognizable, rotting your own peace just to keep their ego from stinging.

But here is the dark, necessary wisdom: Your truth is not a dessert. It does not need to be tasty, and you are not a waiter serving a five-course justification for your own existence. When you finally stop the performance and when you serve your boundaries black, cold, and without a single "because", you will finally see who was there for the connection, and who was only there for the sugar high.

We have been conditioned to believe that clarity is a joint project. We think that if we just find the right combination of words, we can prevent someone else from feeling the sting of our rejection. We treat our boundaries like a legal defense, stacking evidence and character witnesses to prove that our "NO" is not an act of war. But here’s the cold truth: if a boundary requires a thesis to be respected, it is not a boundary, it’s a negotiation. And you are losing for sure.

There is a specific, quiet violence in the way we "cushion" our truth. We wrap our decisions in layers of apologies and "I wish, I coulds" until the original message is unrecognizable. We do this because we are terrified of the silence that follows a naked "NO." That silence is where we used to perform our best tricks to keep people happy. When you stop explaining, you stop performing, and that is when the real discomfort begins.

For years, you have been the emotional janitor of your social circle. You did not just set a limit, but you followed behind it with a mop and bucket, cleaning up any potential hurt feelings before they could even land. You thought this was maturity. You thought it was kindness. It wasn't. It was a high-functioning form of anxiety designed to keep you safe from the terrifying reality that someone might actually be annoyed with you.

The moment you stop over-explaining, you stop being a translator and start being a person. This shift is jarring. When you stop giving people "reasons," they no longer have hooks to hang their guilt-trips on. Reasons are just invitations for someone else to tell you why your reasons are not good enough. A "NO" without a story is an immovable object. It is the first time you have actually stood your ground without looking for an exit strategy.

But let us be honest: the first few times you do this, you will feel like a villain. Your nervous system is programmed to equate harmony with survival. When you leave a "NO" hanging in the air like a heavy curtain, your heart will race. You will feel exposed, almost naked, as if you have forgotten to put on your armor. That armor was your "because," and without it, you are forced to sit in the raw friction of another person’s disappointment.

This is where the mild darkness of self-sovereignty or self-respect sets in. You have to realize that you have been addicted to being liked. Your "YES" was a currency you used to buy a sense of safety. When you withdraw that currency, some of your relationships will go bankrupt. You will watch people drift away because they did not actually love you, they loved your submissiveness, they loved the version of you that was endlessly mold able to their needs and wishes. Let them go. 

We have been taught that explaining ourselves is a sign of respect. That’s a lie. Most of the time, explaining is a sign of submission. It’s a way of saying, "Please give me permission to have this need." But you don’t need permission to exist within your own limits. The moment you stop justifying your rest, your time, or your absence, you take back the power that you have been handing out like candy to everyone who crossed your path.

There is a psychological cost to being "the nice one." It’s the slow erosion of your identity. When you spend all your energy managing how your decisions are received, you lose the ability to know what you actually want. Your internal compass gets disoriented and buried under the weight of other people’s expectations. Stepping into the "NO" is the only way to dig that compass back up. It’s messy work, and it’s not particularly "kind" in the way society defines it.

The silence that follows an unexplained boundary is a mirror. It shows you who is willing to sit in the discomfort with you and who is only there for the "easy" version of you. It’s a brutal but necessary filter. You will find that the space once filled by your desperate explanations starts to feel empty. That emptiness is not a lack of life, it’s the absence of noise. It’s the sound of you breathing freely.

You might feel less "needed" now. That’s the ego’s trap. We love feeling essential because we are the ones holding everything together. But if "holding it together" requires you to dismantle yourself piece by piece, the structure is not worth saving. There is a dark relief in realizing you are not the center of everyone's emotional universe. When you stop over-functioning, you realize most people are perfectly capable of handling their own disappointments.

True peace does not need a defense. It is a state of existence, not a court case. If you have to defend your peace, you have already let the intruder in. A boundary is not a wall you build to keep people out, it’s a gate you close to keep yourself in and secure. You don't owe anyone a reason why the gate is shut today. It’s shut because you want it to be shut and that is enough.

We have been made to think that tension is a failure. We think if an interaction ends with someone feeling "unsettled," we have done something wrong. But tension is often the result of two different realities colliding. You are not responsible for softening that impact. If someone hits the wall of your "NO" and gets a bruise, that bruise is their teacher, not your crime.

This re-calibration is an identity shift. You are moving from a "pleaser" to a "processor." You are learning to process your own life without needing an audience to validate your choices. This makes you harder to control, which means people who thrive on control will find you "difficult" or "cold." Wear those labels like badges of honor. They are proof that your boundaries are actually working.

The "quiet strength" people talk about is not some Zen-like state of bliss. It’s the determined and grounded reality of a regulated nervous system. It’s the ability to say "I can't make it" and then go back to reading your book without a second thought. It’s the death of the mental rehearsal. No more scripts. No more "how should I phrase this?" Just the truth, delivered without the sugar-coating that was rotting your teeth.

As you get better at this, your energy levels will spike. You will start realizing how much fuel you were burning just trying to keep the others warm. All that "extra effort" was a tax you were paying to exist in your own life. When you stop paying the tax, you realize how wealthy you actually are. You have time. You have focus. You have a version of yourself that is not constantly looking over its shoulder.

The relationships that survive this transition will be the first real connections you have ever had. Because for the first time, you are not performing for them. They are seeing the "NO" and the "YES" with equal clarity. There is no guesswork. There is no resentment simmering under the surface of a forced smile. It’s mutual, it’s calm, and it’s remarkably boring in the best way possible.

In the end, you gain alignment. You stop being a fragmented version of yourself, scattered across a dozen different social expectations. You become a singular point. You become solid. The world may feel a little colder when you stop being everyone’s heater, but you will finally be warm enough on your own. And that warmth is the only thing that actually lasts.

So, let the silence sit there. Let the other person deal with their own internal weather. You have spent enough time being their umbrella while you got soaked in the rain. Close the door, put down the megaphone, and let your "NO" stand on its own two feet. It does not need your help to be valid. It just needs you to stay out of its way.

ab_thescorpion ----- learnings as I get older.

THE WRITER'S DILEMMA

 

Advait did not write to see his name in print or to settle scores. He wrote because the world had so much to offer and he needed to share it back with the world. For him, a blank page was a window to the myraid hues of the world. He captured the mundane, the way a stranger’s hand trembled while reaching for a bus handle, the forced laughters at the celebrity parties, or the heavy, unsaid weight that sits between two people who have run out of things to say. He was observing life and being a witness, but some people around him felt that he was becoming a mirror they never asked him to look into.

Initialliy they were whispers, eventually they transformed into ripples and soon turned into waves. It started when his cousin, who stopped visiting after Advait wrote a piece about the quiet resentment that simmers in a house where love has been replaced by habit. "Why are you telling everyone our business?" she had hissed over the phone. Advait sat there, holding the receiver in a daze. He had not even been thinking of her and neither he was aware of the ongoings in their home. He had simply watched a flickering streetlamp and thought about things that are burnt out but still forced to stay upright.

Advait's close companion accused him of stalking because Advait penned a story about the secret guilt of a man hiding a debt. "If you wanted to judge me, you could have done it to my face," the friend texted, before blocking him. Advait stared at his screen, his heart thumping against his ribs. He was not aware nor he had any inkling that his friend was in debt. He had just observed the way a man at the bank looked at his balance and felt a sudden, sharp pang of anxiety.

Countless such incidents hit Advait hard and he steadily created a isolated cocoon around him which became his comfort zone. He started staying indoors, afraid that if he looked too closely at a neighbor’s garden or a passerby’s tired eyes, he would accidentally "steal" a piece of their reality. He began to feel like a freak of nature, a peeping tom who did not even need to peek through windows to know what was happening behind them. The frustration began to boil over into a cold, biting irritation. He would pace his room, throwing his pen down in a fit of rage, questioning his own sanity.

"Have I developed some sort of curse?" he wondered. "Am I a psychic? Or am I just a predator who doesn't realize he's hunting?"

He tried to reason with the silence of his room. He looked at his stack of journals, feeling a sudden urge to burn them all. He asked himself if he was truly a monster, if his "sharp eye" was actually a weapon he was wielding unconsciously. But then, in the middle of the night, a chilling thought struck him, it was harder to swallow than the idea of having superpowers.

Maybe he was not special at all. Maybe he was not seeing their lives specifically. Maybe he was just touching a nerve that belonged to everyone. He realized that when people saw themselves in his words, it was not because he was a spy, but it was because they were finally seeing their own secrets written in plain English, and the exposure terrified them. They called it stalking because "truth" was too harsh to face.

Advait picked up his pen again, his fingers shaking slightly. He looked out the window at the city lights, thousands of lives flickering in the dark, each one convinced of its own unique tragedy. He realized he was at the crossroads. He could stop writing and find peace in the silence, or he could keep going and accept that he would always be the villain in someone else’s story just because he could notice the stitches in the fabric of their reality.

As he placed the tip of the pen on a fresh page. The ink seeped into the paper, a small blue dot growing larger, like an eye opening for the first time. He thought about the man he had seen earlier today, the one who was standing by the bridge, looking not at the water, but at his own hands. Advait’s chest tightened. He knew that feeling. He knew what that man was thinking, even if he did not know his name.

He began to write. He did not know if he was a healer or a bearer of bad news, but he knew he could not stop. The door to his room was locked, but the world was still pouring in through the crevices. 

Advait intently looked at his fingers holding the very ink pen that people mistook for a weapon. He realized that no matter how much he retreated into the shadows, the world would always find its reflection in his notebook, turning his empathy into an intrusion and his observation into a crime. As the first sentence took shape, he wondered who would be the first person to call him a liar tomorrow.

He was trapped in a cage of his own making, where every honest line he scratched onto the page built a wall between him and the people he cared for, leaving him to wonder if he should go blind to find peace or keep seeing and stay lonely. He took a deep breath, his hand hovering over the fresh, white sheet, numbed by the terrifying realization that his greatest gift was his reason of isolation - a haunting, permanent state of THE WRITER'S DILEMMA.

BETWEEN THE YES & NO

 

We often spend our lives suspended in the fragile space between the yes and no, treating the "YES" like a magic key that opens every door. To us, "yes" represents kindness, helpfulness, and a deep-seated willingness to be part of the world. We believe that by saying it to every request, every invitation, and every favor, we are building bridges that will lead us to success and belonging. We strive to be the person everyone can rely on, the one who never lets anyone down and strongly believing that this constant availability is the ultimate measure of our worth, yet we rarely stop to consider what we are sacrificing in the silence that follows. 

However, beneath this desire to be agreeable lies a deep-seated fear of the word "NO." We have been conditioned to see it as a cold, hard rejection. We worry that saying it will make us look selfish or rude, as if putting our own needs first is a betrayal of our friends and family. We fear that a single "no" might cost us a precious relationship or a fleeting opportunity, causing us to lose the momentum we have worked so hard to build.

So, we keep saying "yes." We say it to the extra project at work that we don't have time for, and to the social gathering we are too exhausted to attend. We say it to the relative who constantly drains our energy and to the friend who only calls when they need a favor. We tell ourselves it’s "just this once" or that we are just being a "good person," but these small concessions begin to pile up like heavy stones in a sack we never intended to carry.

Slowly and quietly, the landscape of our lives begins to alter. Without realizing it, our daily schedule stops looking like a reflection of our own dreams and starts looking like a collection of other people’s priorities. We become the supporting characters in everyone else’s story while our own plot remains unwritten. Our time is no longer our own, as a matter of fact it is a resource that has been partitioned out to anyone who felt bold enough to ask for a piece of it.

For many of us, this misunderstanding of strength lasts for years. we think that being strong means being a pillar that never shakes, someone who is always available to catch others when they fall. We take pride in being "useful," finding our identity in how much we can do for the world around us. But there is a vital difference between being a supportive friend and being a person who has forgotten how to stand on their own ground.

The reality of a misaligned "yes" is that it always comes with a cost billed into it. It might give us a brief sense of relief or a small ego boost when you agree to something you don’t want to do, but that feeling is temporary. The true cost reveals itself much later, usually when you are alone and wondering why you feel so hollow. It is a debt that must eventually be paid, and the currency is your own well-being.

You pay for these forced commitments with your energy. Imagine your energy as a well of water, every time you say "yes" to something that doesn’t matter to you, you are giving away a bucketful to a garden that isn't yours. By the time you get back to your own flowers, the well is dry. You end up tired not from hard work, but from the weight of carrying things that were never meant for you to hold.

The payment also comes at a cost of your focus. It is impossible to build a meaningful life when your attention is constantly being hijacked by the minor emergencies of others. If you are always helping someone else paint their house, you will never find the time to finish your own masterpiece. Great things require long stretches of undisturbed thought and effort, both of which are destroyed by a life that lacks the protection of "NO."

Perhaps the most painful cost is the toll it takes on your mood, health and self-respect. When you consistently betray your own desires to please others, a quiet bitterness begins to grow. You might start to resent the very people you are trying to help, and worse, you start to lose trust in yourself. You realize that your word doesn't carry weight because you aren't being honest about what you can actually give.

The sooner we learn that "no" is not a wall intended to shut the world out, but it is a boundary intended to protect the part of you that is trying to grow. Think of a gardener who puts a small fence around a new sapling. The fence isn't there because the gardener hates the rest of the yard, it is there because the sapling is fragile and needs space to find its roots without being trampled by passing feet.

Our growth too requires that same kind of sanctuary. We need space to figure out who we are and what we actually value. Without the word "no," we are like a house with no front door where anyone can walk in at any time, bringing their dirt and their noise with them. A boundary allows us to choose who we let in and what kind of influence we allow to touch our inner lives.

The truth is that as you grow stronger and more capable, the word "no" becomes more of a necessity than just an option. When you are just starting out, the world is quiet, and opportunities are few. But as you find your footing and begin to succeed, the world starts to notice. You are suddenly surrounded by more voices, more requests, and more distractions than you ever imagined possible. Life does not get easier as you move forward but it gets louder. There are more notifications, more expectations, and more people who want a piece of your time. If you do not have a firm "no" ready, the noise will eventually drown out your own inner compass. You will find yourself running faster and faster just to stay in the same place, serving a thousand masters while your own soul goes hungry.

Learning to say "no" doesn't have to be an act of war. It can be done with a smile and a soft voice. You can simply say, "I appreciate the offer, but I can’t commit to that right now," or "I need to focus on my own projects this week." It is a statement of fact, not an insult. Most people will actually respect you more for it because it shows that you value your time and that your "yes," when you give it, actually means something. When you finally reclaim your right to decline, you start to see your life in a new light. You begin to notice the things that actually move the needle for you, the hobbies that make you feel alive, the work that feels like a calling, and the people who truly fill your cup. By clearing away the clutter of other people’s agendas, you create a vacuum that can finally be filled with your own purpose.

Ultimately, the goal is to live a life that is a collection of your own choices, not a pile of obligations you were too afraid to refuse. Saying "no" is the ultimate act of self-care because it preserves the only life you have. It allows you to show up to the things you actually care about with your full heart and your best energy, turning your life from a frantic series of interruptions into a steady, beautiful song.

Between the Yes & No lies LIFE - reclaim it, redeem it, cherish it and savor it.

THE SQUARE PEGS AT VARANASI GHAT

 

The sun was an orange ball hanging over the Ganges, its light reflecting off the ripples like thousands of tiny floating lamps. Advait sat on the cold stone steps of the Dashashwamedh Ghat, his heart heavy with the kind of modern-day exhaustion that sleep cannot fix. Amidst the swirling incense and the gathering crowds, his eyes were drawn to an elderly couple sitting just a few feet away. They looked like any other retired couple finding solace in their golden years - quiet, unassuming, and weathered by time.

The man, Arun, wore a simple checked shirt tucked into neatly pressed trousers, his face a map of lived experiences. Beside him sat Arunima, draped in a crisp cotton saree, her silver hair adorned with a fresh ring of jasmine that scented the air around them. To Advait, they looked like the typical middle-class pair, perhaps living on a modest pension and navigating the slow twilight of their lives. He expected them to be staring blankly at the river, lost in memories of a bygone era.

But as Advait watched, the illusion of the "typical" elderly couple shattered. Arun reached into his pocket and pulled out a top-of-the-line smartphone with a practiced flick of his wrist. He not only took a photo, but he adjusted the exposure and framed Arunima against the shimmering water with the precision of a seasoned photographer. He moved with an agility that defied his age, crouching slightly to get the perfect angle.

Arunima did not shy away or look confused, but she posed with a regal, effortless elegance, her smile radiant and genuine. A moment later, her own device chimed. A sleek, latest-model phone appeared out of her leather sling bag. She handled the device with incredible ease and confidence. She answered a video call, her voice warm as she greeted her son and grandchildren in London. Advait sat stunned at the pro level confidence of navigating the interface without a single moment of hesitation.

As the sun dipped lower, the couple began filming each other, laughing as they captured selfies with the ancient temples in the background. Advait was hooked. In a world where most young people are glued to screens in isolation, these two were using technology to amplify their togetherness. Their happiness was not just a facade, but it was a visible, vibrating energy that seemed to shield them from the chaos of the crowded ghat.

Driven by a sudden, desperate need to understand their secret, Advait hesitantly struck up a conversation. He complimented their spirit and asked the question that had been gnawing at him: "How are you both so genuinely happy? Most people your age seem overwhelmed by the world today, yet you two look more alive than I feel." Arun looked at him, his eyes crinkling with a kindness that felt like a warm embrace.

"Happiness is not something you find sitting under a tree, son," Arun said, his voice steady. "It is something you create, piece by piece, every single morning." He looked at Arunima, and then back at Advait. "The world will always try to tell you who to be. But the most important lesson we learned is this: Do not try to fit yourself into others. A square peg never fits in a round hole, and trying to force it only breaks the peg."

Advait felt a sting in his eyes. He thought of his own life - the corporate ladder he hated, the social expectations he suffocated under. Arunima noticed his silence and added, "We spent years trying to be the 'perfect' couple for the society. In our younger days, I was told to be a silent shadow, and Arun was pressured to be a ruthless provider. We were miserable because we were living someone else’s script. We were square pegs bleeding because we tried to fit into round holes."

Arun nodded, his expression darkening for a moment as he recalled their "down" years. "There was a time, decades ago, when we lost our first business and nearly our home. I was drinking to forget, and Arunima was fading into a deep, dark depression. We were together, but we were miles apart. We were following the 'traditional' path of suffering in silence because that’s what was expected of our generation."

"We realized that if we did not change, the darkness would consume us. We stopped caring about the neighbors’ whispers and started caring about our own souls. We embraced our quirks, our love for tech, and our own way of viewing the world. Once we stopped trying to fit in," Arunima whispered, "we finally started to fly. That was the first step toward this happiness you see today."

Confused by the contrast of their lifestyle, Advait asked why they came to the ghat every day if they were so modern. "To preserve and nourish our roots," they replied in unison. Advait gestured to their expensive phones. "But you are so high-tech! How do the roots fit in?" Arun smiled deeply. "Tradition and technology can go together, Advait. But remember - Only tradition breeds the discipline that makes life meaningful. Without that discipline, technology is just a distraction that will eventually drown you."

Advait then asked about their incredible synchronicity. They seemed to move as one soul in two bodies. Arunima reached out and gently touched Arun’s hand, a small gesture that carried the weight of decades. "Love does not require words alone," she said softly. "It is felt through the heart. It is about investing attention even when the other person is boring and giving care when they are at their worst," saying this she winked at Arun.

She shared a story from a few years back when Arun had suffered a stroke. For months, he was not able to speak. "In that silence, we learned the true language of love," she said. "It was not about the poems or the promises, but it was about the way I held his hand and the way he looked at me. It was the touch, the concern, and the absolute refusal to let go when the world got dark. You have to invest time in each other long before the crisis hits."

Arun added, "Advait, even we have had our share of ups and downs, terrible fights where we did not speak for days, and moments where we thought we had nothing left to give. But we overcame them because we chose to see each other as individuals, not just as 'husband' or 'wife.' We gave each other the space to be human, to fail, and to grow back together."

As the bells of the Ganga Aarti began to ring, the sound vibrating through the very stones of the ghat, Advait felt a profound shift within himself. He had come to Varanasi seeking a miracle from the gods, but he had found it in the lives of two ordinary people who had mastered the extraordinary art of being themselves. They were modern yet rooted, tech-savvy yet disciplined, and most importantly, they were free.

The couple stood up, ready to immerse themselves in the prayer, their faces lit by the first flickers of the massive brass lamps. Advait watched them, feeling a sense of clarity he had not known in years. He realized that his life was not a series of mistakes, but a collection of "round holes" he needed to stop trying to fit into. As he bid them goodbye, he knew he would never forget the square pegs of Varanasi.

THE BLOODY PIGMENT

THE BLOODY PIGMENT.....

"Arjun's Prism" a exclusive "By Invitation Only" art gallery nestled in a narrow lane of Versova covered by the swaying Palm trees and facing the Bombay sea. The gallery was pristine white, but "The Creation of the Womb" felt like a bruise on the wall. It was a chaotic swirl of deep crimson and oily blacks, pulsating with a strange, wet energy that made Aditi’s stomach turn. To her, it looked like a surgical nightmare which was bloody, visceral, and raw. It was something that should have been hidden away in a dark basement. But Advait stood frozen, his eyes glazed as if he were looking into the face of a long-lost lover, he was literally sinking into the wet layers of the canvas.

Arjun, their college friend, beamed with pride, though his smile did not quite reach his eyes, he looked exhausted, as if the art were draining him. "He’s a genius, Advait," Arjun whispered, his voice sounding hollow and metallic in the quiet room. "Balram doesn’t just paint; he captures things... things that don't want to be caught." Aditi felt a sudden chill crawl up her spine.

"I will buy it," Advait said as if had been hypnotized. "It's for 85000.00 Advait," Arjun smirked and said. "Don't worry," Advait replied without taking his eyes off fromthe swirls. The swirls seemed to be drowning him. Aditi was surprised, "Advait you would pay 85k for this blotch?" Advait looked at him with his red pupils glowing. Aditi stepped back afraid. Although the price tag of Rs. 85,000.00 was a drop in the bucket for them, but she would have paid double just to have the canvas burned and the ashes scattered in the sea.

"Advait you should meet Balram as he would hand over the painting to you, that's his way with the clients" Arjun said. The meeting with Balram took place in a cramped, windowless back room that smelled of turpentine and rotting flowers. Balram looked as if he had been hollowed out, his skin color was of old parchment and his fingernails stained with crusty red. When he shook Advait’s hand, Aditi noticed that his grip did not just hold him, but it seemed to cling, his long fingers wrapping around Advait’s wrist like a vine. He was "off" in a way that defied logic, moving with a jerky, unnatural grace which made her pulse race and a strong desire to run away from that room.

"You feel it, don't you? The pull of the origin?" Balram's voice  sounding like the dry leaves dancing on the stone of a grave. Advait nodded slowly, his usual sharp wit and skepticism replaced by a hollow, haunting devotion. He was not just buying a painting, but it appeared he was surrendering to it, his eyes tracking every movement of Balram’s stained hands. Aditi tried to pull him away, but Advait’s skin felt unnaturally cold, his muscles rigid and unresponsive to her touch, as if he was turning into stone.

As they spoke, the air in the room grew heavy and thick, making it hard for Aditi to breathe, and the air in the room smelled faintly old blood. Balram began describing his process of painting, talking about "life-blood" and "the bridge between the seen and the unseen," his eyes never leaving Advait’s. Every word felt like a spiral being woven into the air. Aditi could not make out any sense of his talks, to her horror, Advait did not just agree to buy the first painting but he signed a contract for three more, his signature was shaky, jagged, and unrecognizable on the paper. 

That night, "The Creation of the Womb" hung in their bedroom, and the silence of the house became deafening and predatory. Aditi lay awake, watching the crimson oils shift, the shapes on the canvas seemingly rearranging themselves when she blinked. She could hear the faint, rhythmic thumping coming from the wall, a heartbeat, slow, wet, and heavy. Beside her, Advait breathed in perfect sync with the painting, his chest rising and falling in a terrifying, mechanical rhythm. He was no longer dreaming his own dreams.

Within a week, Advait began to change physically, his vitality leaking out of him like water from a cracked jar. He stopped eating, his face had turned pale and the skin  had lost it's luster, mirroring the translucent complexion of Balram. He spent hours staring at the wall where the three new paintings were supposed to be hung, he would  whisper to the empty space in a language which Aditi could not understand. When she tried to scream for help or call a doctor, her voice came out as a raspy, thin whistle, as if the air was being sucked out of her lungs by an invisible, hungry force.

The second painting arrived at midnight, delivered by a silent Arjun who refused to look Aditi in the eye and fled before she could speak. It was titled "The Severing," and it depicted a figure that looked remarkably like Advait, his shadow being peeled away from his body by a dozen clawed, translucent hands. It was then Aditi realized that Balram was not just painting fantasies but he was painting a countdown to her husband's disappearance, documenting the theft of Advait's soul in oil and pigment.

By the time the third painting was due, Advait was a mere ghost in his own home, a hollow shell of the man she loved. He no called out Aditi's name, his eyes reflecting only the dark, swirling void of the canvases which lined their walls like open wounds. Aditi found the contract in his study, and her heart stopped when she touched the paper. The ink was not black but a fading, metallic brown, the exact color of dried blood. The "price" was not just the money they had paid, it was a total transfer of essence from the living to the canvas.

On the final night, Balram appeared at their door without being called, his presence bringing a freezing fog into the house. He did not need a key, the house seemed to open for him like the wound. He walked into the bedroom where Advait sat cross-legged on the floor, his skin now the same parchment-gray as the artist's. As Balram touched the final canvas, Advait’s body simply collapsed like an empty suit of clothes. The painting was no longer empty; it showed a man trapped behind a layer of oil, his face pressed against the surface, screaming in a silence that would last forever.

Aditi was pained and afraid with the turn of events. Overcoming her fear and driven by desperation she grabbed the heavy brass lamp in the room and swung it at the final canvas, expecting the fabric to tear. Instead, the surface felt like rubbery flesh, absorbing the blow with a thud. Across the room, Balram did not even flinch, he simply turned his head with a slow, predatory grace, his eyes now glowing red. "You cannot break what has already been integrated, Aditi," he whispered, his voice deep, slow and vibrating through the air in the room. "Advait is not in the room anymore. He is the pigment. He is the medium. He is finally eternal."

Panic gripped her, and she ran for the front door, her mind racing toward the only person she thought could help. She scrambled to her car and sped toward Arjun’s apartment, her hands shaking so violently that she could barely steer. She banged his apartment door till he opened it, sobbing, begging him to call the police or some kind of exorcist. But as she entered his living room, the air turned ice-cold. Arjun was sitting at a large mahogany table, bathed in the flickering light of thirteen black candles. He was meticulously cleaning a set of silver brushes, his face devoid of the warmth she had known for years.

"I knew you would come here, Aditi," Arjun said, his voice devoid of emotion. He stood up, and for the first time, she noticed the symbol branded into the hollow of his throat, a twisted, umbilical knot that matched the signature on Balram’s paintings. He was not a victim of the art but he was the scout. "Do you think a man like Balram finds his subjects by accident? He is the Hand, but I am the Eye. I find the souls with the right frequency, the ones hungry enough, like Advait, to let us in."

Horror enveloped her as Arjun revealed the truth: they were members of The Gilded Shroud, an occult tribe that believed true immortality could only be achieved by trapping living consciousness within "The Eternal Gallery." Arjun had spent years befriending them, waiting for the moment Advait’s internal spark was bright enough to harvest. "Every painting Balram finishes feeds the tribe," Arjun explained, stepping closer. "We don't just take lives; we preserve them in a state of perpetual, conscious equilibrium. Advait is part of something much larger now. He is the foundation of our Master’s next work."

Suddenly, the shadows in the corners of Arjun's room began to thicken and stretch, taking the jagged shapes of the figures from "The Severing." Aditi backed away, but the door behind her slammed shut and the locks turned by themselves. From the darkness, Balram stepped out, carrying a fresh, blank canvas that seemed to pulse with a faint heartbeat. "The contract Advait signed had a hidden clause," Balram spoke with a coarse voice, his stained fingers twitching with excitement. "A soul is never complete without its mirror. He is calling for you from inside the red oil, Aditi. He is lonely in the dark."

The two men closed in on her, their movements synchronized like a well-rehearsed ritual. Aditi now realized with terror that her repulsion toward the painting had not been a warning to save Advait, but it had been the very thing that marked her as the perfect "contrast" for the collection. As Arjun held her arms with a strength that felt supernatural, Balram dipped a brush into a jar of dark, viscous fluid. As the first stroke of wet paint touched her forehead, she felt her bones begin to soften and her voice dissolve, her reality narrowing down to a single, terrifying point of oil and canvas.

The transition was not a sudden snap, but a slow, agonizing dissolution of her physical form. Aditi felt her skin turn into a thick, tacky substance, her screams muffling as if she were being submerged in heavy syrup. Inside the canvas, the world was a distorted nightmare of smeared colors and suffocating heat. She found herself standing in a landscape made of dried leaves and flowing ink, where the sky was a bruised purple and the ground vibrated with the collective moans of a thousand trapped souls. Then, she saw him - Advait was standing a short distance away, his body translucent and flickering like a dying candle, his eyes wide with and devoid of the sparkle.

They reached for each other, but their hands passed through one another like smoke. "Aditi," he whispered, the sound vibrating through the very fabric of the painting. "We are not just art... we are the fuel." As they huddled together in the crimson gloom, the "sky" above them peeled back like an eyelid. Through the transparent layer of the varnish, they could see the "Real World" magnified and distorted. Balram and Arjun stood over the canvas, their faces looming like giant moons. They were laughing, their voices booming like thunderclaps that vibrated and shook the very foundations of the painted world.

Aditi realized that the only way to fight back was to manipulate the medium they were trapped in. She discovered that by focusing her intense rage and grief, she could make the paint around her boil and shift. She reached into the "ground". the deep, dark pigments of the lower layers and began to pull at the strokes Balram had laid down. If they were the paint, then they were also the weapon. She grabbed a streak of sharp dried oil and felt it harden into a blade in her hand. "Advait, help me!" she cried. "If we can't leave, we will tear this world from the inside out!"

Together, they began a frantic, rhythmic assault on the boundaries of their prison. They did not just move but they tore at the brushstrokes, ripping through the "Creation of the Womb" and bleeding into the neighboring canvases. They surged through the painted landscape of the damned, causing the paintings on the walls of the physical room to blister and weep. Outside, Balram’s triumphant smile vanished. He watched in horror as his masterpieces began to liquefy, the expensive oils running down the walls like melting wax. The "perfect" subjects were no longer behaving as  they should have instead they were a riot of color and fury.

The gallery air turned toxic as the scent of the occult oils filled the room. Arjun tried to stabilize the canvases, his branded throat glowing with a flickering light, but the power of two souls acting in unison was too much for the ritual to contain. The frames began to crack under the pressure of Aditi and Advait’s combined will. A sharp tear appeared in the center of the final painting, and instead of more paint, a cold, unnatural wind began to howl from the breach. The "Gilded Shroud" had never accounted for a love that refused to be curated.

With a sound like a gunshot, the final canvas exploded. The force of the spiritual decompression threw Balram and Arjun against the white walls, pinning them there as the swirling, angry pigments engulfed them. For a second Aditi and Advait stood in the center of the room, their forms glowing with a blinding, divine light. They were not fully human, and they weren't quite paint but they were something new, a powerful energy born of the canvas. As the gallery began to burn with a fire that consumed only the art, they turned toward the insane cultists, ready to show them what "eternal life" truly felt like.