Musa A

 For a long time, I believed my real life hadn’t started yet. This—whatever this was—felt like a waiting room. Temporary routines. Temporary compromises. Temporary versions of myself. I told myself it would all make sense once something changed. A better job. More money. More confidence. More certainty. Until then, I was just passing time. I lived carefully. I postponed joy. I treated rest like a reward I hadn’t earned. Every day felt like preparation for a future version of me who would finally arrive and take over. The strange part is how convincing that story felt. I measured my days by what they weren’t. Not exciting enough. Not meaningful enough. Not there yet. And without realizing it, I stopped noticing what was happening—small victories, quiet growth, lessons that didn’t announce themselves. One day, nothing special happened. I woke up tired. Finished my work. Made myself a simple meal. Scrolled aimlessly. Went to bed. An ordinary day in every possible way. And t...

 For most of my life, I carried explanations like currency. I explained my choices. I explained my silence. I explained why I couldn’t attend, couldn’t risk, couldn’t stay, couldn’t leave. I explained myself even when no one asked. Somewhere along the way, I learned that clarity was expected, especially if your decisions disappointed people. If your pace was slower. If your priorities didn’t match the timeline everyone else seemed to follow so effortlessly. So I became articulate in my defense. I had reasons polished and ready. Logical, respectful, airtight. I believed that if I explained well enough, I would be understood. Accepted. Forgiven. But understanding rarely arrived. What arrived instead was permission — conditional and fragile. Approval that could be withdrawn the moment my choices became inconvenient again. One ordinary day, nothing dramatic happened. No argument. No fallout. No final straw. I simply noticed how tired I was. Tired of rehearsing conversations in my head....

  Once a year, a paper decided everything. Parents waited. Teachers judged. Relatives asked questions. “How much did you get?” Numbers spoke louder than effort. A child with low marks felt small. A child with high marks felt scared to fall. There was no escape. Even today, as adults, we live with report cards. Performance reviews. Appraisals. Targets. We smile and say we are fine. But inside, we are still waiting for approval. The pressure changed its name. But it never left. We did not fail childhood. Childhood failed us.

  A man learns this early. Do not complain. Do not cry. Be strong. From childhood, he is told to adjust. Study hard. Earn well. Take responsibility. Dreams are allowed, but only after duties. As he grows, pressure grows with him. He must succeed. He must provide. He must not fail. If he is tired, he keeps going. If he is hurting, he stays silent. People ask him, “How are you?” He answers, “All good.” No one asks again. At work, he carries targets. At home, he carries expectations. If something goes wrong, he blames himself. When he succeeds, he moves on quietly. There are no celebrations for effort. Only results matter. At night, when the house is asleep, he sits alone. Thinking. Worrying. Planning. He worries about money. About family. About the future. He wants to rest, but rest feels like guilt. He wants to talk, but words feel heavy. So he stays quiet. Not because he is strong, but because he was never taught how to be weak. One day, someone asks him, not “What do you do?” but ...

  Every morning in India looks the same. Alarms ring early. People rush to catch buses and trains. Phones are checked before faces are washed. We are always in a hurry. On the road, someone is late for office. At home, someone is worried about money. In the office, someone is waiting for the weekend. Everyone is busy. I once asked a friend, “How are you?” He smiled and said, “Busy, yaar.” That word has become our answer to everything. Busy with work. Busy with family. Busy with responsibilities. Busy with dreams. But are we happy? We earn more than our parents did. We have better phones, faster internet, and more comfort. Still, we sleep late and wake up tired. We scroll for hours but feel empty. We talk to many people but feel alone. In villages, people sit outside their homes in the evening. They talk about their day. They laugh without checking the time. In cities, doors stay closed. Everyone sits in their own room, with their own screen. We say we do ...

  In India, electricity going off is not new. We complain, we joke, and then we wait. But one evening, when the power went off in my house, something changed. It was a hot summer day. The fan stopped. The lights went dark. The inverter made a small sound and then gave up. Silence filled the room. My phone battery was at 12%. The TV was useless. Wi-Fi was gone. For the first time in years, we had nothing to do. My mother sat near the window, fanning herself with a newspaper. My father came back from work, tired, sweating, and quiet. I sat on the floor, staring at my phone, hoping the network would survive. Outside, children were playing cricket on the road. Someone was shouting “out.” Someone else was arguing. After some time, my father spoke. He said, “When I was your age, electricity used to go for hours. We studied under candlelight.” I looked at him. I had heard this story before. Many times. But this time, I listened. He told me how he used to walk miles to school. How one good...