Buried Alive by Applause
- Madhukar Dama
- Apr 16
- 3 min read
A dialogue between Basu, the seeker, and Madhukar, the hermit, on the suffocation hidden within success and recognition.
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Scene: Late evening. The light is dim. A few lamps flicker near Madhukar’s hut. Crickets have begun their nightly song. Basu sits on a stone, unusually restless, staring into the fire.
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BASU:
Madhukar…
May I say something strange?
MADHUKAR:
Here, strange is welcome.
BASU:
I got recognition last week.
From people I’ve been wanting it from for years.
They clapped. Smiled. Quoted my words.
They even called me “inspiring.”
And yet… I felt like I was being buried alive.
MADHUKAR (looks into the fire):
Ah.
The applause coffin.
Soft, velvet-lined.
And airless.
BASU:
Exactly.
I should’ve been happy, right?
But instead, I felt like I couldn’t move.
Like every word I’d said was now frozen in gold,
and I was expected to become the statue.
MADHUKAR:
That’s because the world doesn’t celebrate you.
It celebrates its idea of you.
And the moment it does,
you are no longer allowed to change, stumble, doubt, or walk away.
You are their reflection now,
not your own flame.
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I. THE WEIGHT OF RECOGNITION
BASU:
Why does it feel heavier than failure?
MADHUKAR:
Because failure leaves you alone.
Recognition brings a crowd—
and with it, a thousand invisible chains.
They don’t just see you—
they start owning you.
“You’re the wise one.”
“You’re the strong one.”
“You must know the answer.”
They give you a mask
and dare you to take it off.
BASU:
So they bury you—
with compliments.
MADHUKAR:
Yes.
You wanted to speak freely.
Now you calculate your words.
You wanted to walk barefoot.
Now you’re trapped in a parade.
You’re no longer allowed to be tired,
to be ordinary,
to say, “I don’t know.”
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II. THE INVISIBLE PRISON
BASU:
It’s like they handed me a throne,
and took away my legs.
MADHUKAR:
Recognition builds thrones out of old cages.
You’re praised, but also watched.
Applauded, but also expected.
You become a lighthouse that’s not allowed to flicker.
BASU:
But I worked so hard for this.
I chased approval, perfection, admiration.
Now that I have it,
I feel more lost than ever.
MADHUKAR:
Because what you truly wanted
was to be understood.
Not celebrated.
You wanted someone to see your struggle,
not just your shine.
But the world sees glow, not the grit.
And they prefer polished mirrors over raw fire.
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III. WHEN PRAISE BECOMES PRESSURE
BASU:
I can’t even speak honestly anymore.
Every sentence feels filtered.
I catch myself saying things I’ve outgrown,
just to remain who they think I am.
MADHUKAR:
That’s the final layer of the coffin—
when your own truth suffocates under your success.
You become a prisoner of your peak.
Frozen at the version they liked best.
While your soul silently moves on…
unfollowed.
BASU:
How do I escape this?
Without becoming bitter or fake?
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IV. THE ESCAPE FROM THE COFFIN
MADHUKAR (pouring hot water into a clay cup):
You don’t need to escape recognition.
You just need to die to the need for it.
Stay honest.
Let them misunderstand you.
Let the applause fade.
Be water—flowing, changing, wild.
Not a monument.
BASU:
But won’t I be forgotten?
MADHUKAR:
Yes.
And that’s the blessing.
Let them forget you—
so you can remember yourself.
There is peace in being unremarkable.
There is joy in walking barefoot again.
There is truth in laughing with no audience.
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V. A NEW DEFINITION OF SUCCESS
BASU:
Then what is real success?
MADHUKAR:
To remain truthful
even after being seen.
To keep growing
even when people want you to stay the same.
To lose followers
and gain freedom.
To speak what burns in you
not what flatters them.
And to live in such a way
that when the applause ends—
your soul claps for you.
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BASU (smiling through tears):
I wanted to be known.
But now,
I want to be free.
MADHUKAR:
Then bury the mask they gave you.
Step out of your golden cage.
Breathe like a nobody.
And live like no one’s watching.
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The lamps dim. The fire crackles low.
Basu takes a slow sip from the clay cup.
No cameras. No posts. No witnesses.
Just presence. And peace.
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"The Fame Coffin"
(A Bukowski-style riff)
getting recognition
is like being buried alive—
you scream,
but they only hear applause.
they carve your name on golden plaques
while your soul gasps for air
under the weight of their expectations.
you wanted to be seen,
not embalmed in admiration.
they say, “you’ve made it.”
but they never ask
what you lost getting there.
you wanted to dance naked in the rain,
not pose in velvet for statues.
you wanted truth.
they wanted a monument.
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