The Loop of Legacy !

Midway through my coffee break, I overheard my colleagues marveling at the price of gold—

as if it were wealth,

as if its shine could liberate them.

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 habit?

Most lives begin not with intention, but with momentum.

A glance.

A night.

A ritual.

A script.

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.

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.

Each step feeds the next,

and each next feeds the system.

We consume because we must survive,

and then we consume to feel alive.

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 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.

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.

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 meaning.

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.