The Silent Victim: Brilliance Crushed by Politics

 For the longest time, I thought Manmohan Singh was just another political joker from congress — the quiet, learned man who was nothing more than a puppet in Sonia Gandhi’s hands. I had seen the memes, the jokes, the ridicule. The caricatures painting him as weak, indecisive, a shadow with no real power. And yes, that’s true. 

But then I watched The Accidental Prime Minister — and something shifted inside me.

That silence. That helplessness. The feeling of being present, fully aware, deeply capable, yet utterly powerless to change the course of things. I recognized that terrible ache — the desperate, exhausting desire to be heard, to be understood, to make a difference. Trying again and again, only to be ignored or dismissed. Believe me, it’s a feeling far worse than any joke or meme could ever capture.

It’s that sinking realization that sometimes, no matter how educated you are, no matter how right you feel, the system isn’t designed for you to lead. It’s designed to keep you in place, to keep you quiet. That helplessness is a heavy weight on the soul.

There’s a line from an Alia Bhatt movie (rocky aur rani) that stuck with me: “Ise reed ki haddi kehte hain jise use karna hota hai.” 

I used to think it's easy when you have power— to be firm, to stand your ground 

But watching the movie, and seeing that silence on screen, made me realize how hard it is to live by that truth. (anupam kher is awesome)

Manmohan Singh’s story, as shown in the movie, isn’t just about politics. It’s about what happens when you hold the title of power but are denied the freedom to exercise it. It’s about the loneliness of being the backbone that no one acknowledges. 

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And in that silence, in that invisible struggle, lies a truth we often overlook — that strength isn’t always loud or visible. Sometimes (i think always), strength is the quiet battle fought in shadows, the heavy burden carried without applause or acknowledgement. It’s the relentless ache of knowing you have the power to make a difference, but being denied the freedom to act on it.

We admire those who stand strong, who break the silence with force. 

But what about those who bear the storm quietly? Who keep standing, keep showing up, even when every word they say falls on deaf ears? The ones who hold themselves together, not because they are unbreakable, but because breaking would mean losing everything they have left.

Watching that story unfold makes you realize how fragile dignity becomes when trapped beneath layers of control, expectation, and indifference. 

It exposes a painful truth — that sometimes, the hardest battle isn’t losing the war, but the slow erosion of hope, voice, and spirit. When patience turns to numbness, and resilience becomes resignation.

Because the world may laugh at the puppet — but only the puppet knows the true cost of silence. Only the puppet feels the weight of words left unsaid.

p.s. I wish I could him bring him back 

The Friend I Lost to My Own Fear

It’s been years since 4th grade, but I’m still the same shy girl inside.

Back then, I was learning karate, though you'd never guess it from how timid I was. I used to walk or cycle to school alone — it was close by, inside the Air Force campus, so it felt safe. But there was one boy from another section who just didn’t like me. I never knew why. 

One day, while I was walking home, he came up from behind on his cycle and hit me on the head with his wooden keychain. I didn’t chase him. I couldn’t. I just stood there, confused and helpless.

A few days later, we were gardening outside our classroom. We’d just planted some tiny saplings, and I remember being excited to watch them grow. That same boy came over and stomped right through them. I got up and shouted. He sneered and got into a karate pose, daring me to fight. I froze. And just then, the bell rang, saving me from doing anything at all.

But what followed hurt even more. After class, our teacher stormed in and made me stand on the bench, accusing me of fighting. My heart sank — I was being blamed again, just like always. But then, Anjali, our class topper, stood up and told the teacher everything. She stood up for me.

No one had ever done that before.

The teacher listened, believed her, and canceled my punishment. From that day on, Anjali and I became friends. We did everything together — from collecting funds for HelpAge India to sharing lunchboxes. She was kind, smart, and never made fun of the way I spoke or cycled to school. When I lost my English notebook before the annual exams, she didn’t just lend me hers — she gave it to me (she was very good with english subject) That meant the world to me.

But I messed up!

I wanted her to be just mine. I was scared of losing her to someone else, so I said something nasty about her other friend — something untrue — just to push them apart. And it worked, for a while. Until the last day of school.

They talked. The lie came out.

Anjali was furious. She confronted me, and I had nothing to say. I cried and ran away. The next day, summer holidays started, and my dad got transferred to Kolkata. I never saw her again.

I thought the guilt would teach me something. I promised myself I’d never act like this again.

But years later...
It happened again.

Netflix Calls It Entertainment. I Call It a Mirror

When Adolescence came out on Netflix, parents everywhere freaked out. It wasn’t just about a teenage boy accused of something horrible—it hit something deeper. It made us ask: “Where were the parents?”

Now there’s Secrets We Keep. It’s quieter, more subtle, but it pokes at the same wound. This time, it’s about a family, a missing helper, and everything that’s said and not said inside a “normal” home. You don’t see yelling or crime. But still, something feels… off.

Both series leave you uncomfortable. And not because of the kids. But because of the parents.

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We all try to do our best. But let’s be honest—parents today are stuck.

If we give our full time to the kids, our careers take a hit. And in a world where layoffs happen without warning, that’s a scary risk.
The tech world is speeding like crazy. One slow step, and you’re out of the race.

But if we focus too much on work, our family life and kids start taking the hit.
The bonding. The connection. The understanding.
It weakens, little by little.

With hiring help comes a new fear:
What if our kids grow up learning their thoughts, their beliefs?
What if they imitate how they talk, behave, or even love?

And —if the extended family enters the picture? Oh, that opens a whole new chapter.

There’s a 90% chance the mother ends up facing some real drama.
Judgments, expectations, random advice, and the pressure to be the “ideal” mom while keeping everyone else happy.
And no one really asks—how is she doing?

It’s like no matter what we do… something always feels broken, or missing, or just too much.

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In Adolescence, the father is present… but not really. The boy is left alone with his pain. And that loneliness leads to disaster.
In Secrets We Keep, everything looks fine on the outside. The mom seems responsible. The kids are smart. But as the story unfolds, you realize even the most “sorted” family can have deep cracks.

The scariest part? These parents aren’t evil. They’re just… distracted. Or tired. Or trying their best while juggling everything.
Basically, people like us.

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We remember the times we gave the phone instead of attention.
The days we were too tired to play.
The moments we chose work over a school event.
The bedtime story we skipped because dinner got late.

And just like that, the child’s world starts forming. With or without us.

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So what do we do?

Honestly… I don’t know.

That’s the thing. Both these shows don’t give any solutions. They just hold a mirror.
A reminder that even the most loving parents can mess up. Not because they don’t care—but because life is messy.

And maybe there’s no such thing as the right way to raise a child.
Just trial and error.
A lot of love.
And the silent hope that our kids will understand one day.

I Didn’t Do Anything Right Either

I usually look for something fast-paced, something that takes me away from real life for a while — espionage, suspense, stakes high enough to distract me from my own.

Today, I watched a spy thriller on Amazon Prime in which the protagonist works at GCHQ — the UK’s intelligence and cyber agency. Her job, like many such jobs cannot discuss official matters outside GCHQ perimeter (for obvious reasons)

But one day, she reads something. A document that hints at an impending war which could still be stopped.

Torn between loyalty to her country and her conscience, she chooses the latter. She shares the document — not to hurt her country, but to save countless lives. She gets caught. 

One of her colleagues, someone who knew her well, goes to see her after the charges were made on her. 

And in that short, quiet moment, something gets said that has stayed with me. 

When her friend (colleague) breaks down, she gently says, "You didn’t do anything wrong." And her friend replies, through tears: "I didn’t do anything right either."

That line hit me hard......

So much so that I paused the film and just sat there.

How many times have we all felt proud of not doing wrong?
We follow the rules. We don’t cheat. We mind our business. We’re decent people.

But is that enough?

In this endless rat race, we spend our lives trying not to step on anyone's toes. We stay in our lanes. We keep our heads down. We avoid conflict. We try not to harm.
But somewhere in that effort, we also stop reaching out. We stop speaking up.
We start living passively.

And in doing so, we become complicit in a quieter way.
Not by what we do.
But by all that we don’t.

Some might argue that, “Isn’t not doing bad the same as doing good?”

I would just say, "the world is suffering not because of the noise of bad people, but the silence of the good ones."

"No Words, Just Noodles – Patriotism Served Hot"

 Yesterday, as I was listening to General Bakshi on Republic TV, he shared a story that stayed with me long after the program ended — a story so simple, yet so profound, it redefined patriotism in my eyes.

An Indian monk once visited Japan. It was late by the time he reached his hotel, and when he asked for dinner, he was politely told dinner hours were over. Japan, after all, is a country known for its discipline and punctuality.

The next morning, eager to avoid missing breakfast, he went early — only to be told he was an hour too early. Still patient, though growing uneasy, he decided to take a ferry ride.

By lunchtime, everyone aboard was being served food. The monk waited expectantly, but no plate came his way.

Starving and frustrated, he asked a server why he wasn't served.
“You didn’t buy a lunch ticket, sir,” came the polite reply.

Anger took over.
“There was no board! No one told me! How was I supposed to know?”
He shouted in frustration:
“Japan is a very funny country!”

Just then, a young Japanese boy walked up to him silently, tapped his arm, and handed over his own hot plate of noodles.

The monk refused, but the boy insisted firmly.
“You're hungry. Please eat.”

Touched and weakened by hunger, he accepted.

After eating, he asked the boy, “Why did you offer me your food?”

The boy replied softly:
“You were angry and said bad things about my country only because you were hungry. I thought… if your hunger goes away, maybe your anger will too.”

The monk was silenced — not by logic, but by love.
That boy didn’t wear his patriotism on his sleeve.
He carried it in his heart,
and served it warm — in the form of a meal
to a man who insulted his country out of helplessness.

Because sometimes, changing someone’s view of your nation isn’t about winning an argument…
It’s about winning their heart.

The Helplessness of the Helper

Yesterday, when I was watching a Hindi serial something weighed on my heart!

A young woman — a new bride — lives under the weight of her in-laws’ cruelty. Her husband sees it. He tries to help. Again and again, he stands up for her. Reaches out. Tries to shield her from the storm.

But every time, she gently turns him away.
Not because she doesn’t need him.
But because she believes her silence keeps the family from falling apart.
So, she suffers… alone.

And one day, he stops trying.

That moment lingered.

Because haven’t we all stood there — holding our hand out for someone we love, only to watch them walk away from it?

We try. We cry. We wait.
But how long can you hold out a hand that’s never taken?

It reminded me of Sugriv and Lord Hanuman.
Sugriv ran in agony, escaping the wrath of his brother Vali, circling the earth in fear.
Only when he broke down and prayed did Hanuman show him the mountain of Rishimukh — the one place Vali couldn’t step on.

Sugriv asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
And Hanuman answered,
“Because you didn’t ask.”

That’s the divine dilemma.
"You are not meant to help unless asked, lest it be taken for granted."

But what about the ones who don’t even know they’re falling?
What about the friend drowning in depression, who snaps at you every time you check in?
What about the loved one who pushes you away not out of anger — but out of pain?

Do you stop?
Or do you keep showing up?

Maybe… the purest form of love is not in saving someone.
It’s in being there.
In whispering through closed doors: "I’m here when you're ready."
It’s in holding a hand out — again and again — even when it’s left hanging in the air.

Because one day, when their strength crumbles, when their pride gives way to tears…
They might look around.
And see you.
Still there.
Still holding out your hand.

And maybe, just maybe —
They’ll take it.

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"To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be."
— Heidi Priebe

Maybe your hand is tired from reaching out,
But their soul…
Their soul is exhausted from just surviving.
They’re not ignoring you —
They’re drowning quietly, inside themselves.

So don’t take their silence as indifference.
Take it as a cry they don’t know how to voice.
Because sometimes the ones who push you away
Are the ones who need you the most.

When Old Wounds Start Looking Fresh Again

 These days, whenever I read the news about India and Pakistan, an old story comes back to my mind. 

The story of Prithviraj Chauhan and Muhammad Ghori. It may be from hundreds of years ago, but somehow, I feel it's still playing out today.

"Enemies don't always lose because they're weaker. Sometimes, they win because they refuse to stop." And that is what scares me.

We all know the story. Prithviraj defeated Ghori again and again. And every time, he let him go. Maybe he believed in mercy, or maybe he thought Ghori would understand and stop.

But Ghori didn’t stop.
He came back.
And finally, Prithviraj lost everything.

This story keeps ringing in my ears 

The Same Pattern Again?

Pakistan is weak right now—its economy is broken, its people are suffering, but their army and their terror networks are still alive, still attacking India in small but steady ways.

It feels like no matter how many times India teaches them a lesson, they don’t stop.

They attack, lose, rest, and attack again.

Just like Ghori.

And India?       

We have the upper hand, our army is strong, our economy is growing, we have a bold leader like Modi now. We keep agreeing to ceasefires, we keep hoping they will behave.

Isn’t that what Prithviraj did?

My Biggest Fear

And I’m scared that India is getting tired.

Our army is always on alert, always guarding the borders, always fighting small wars.

It’s like death by a thousand cuts. 

P.S. I can only pray that India's might doesn't fall like Prithviraj's might.