Fuck the Past, Screw the Future – I’m Living Now
- Madhukar Dama
- 52 minutes ago
- 11 min read
Part 1 – The Opening Explosion: Caught in Between
I’m tired. Not just tired like needing rest—but tired in the bones, in the soul. Because every day, someone from either side pulls me.
My father wants me to live like it’s 1975. My child wants me to behave like it’s 2050. And me? I’m stuck in the bloody middle of two timelines I never asked for.
Every morning begins with guilt.
“You don’t do pooja properly anymore,” says the father.
“You still don’t know how to use this app?” says the child.
Two voices. One from behind, full of sacrifice and tradition. One from ahead, full of urgency and ambition.
Both think they know what’s best for me.
But nobody asks me what I want. Nobody thinks I’m allowed to choose a life that’s just enough—not glorious, not obedient, just enough to breathe easy.
I don’t want to wear starched white clothes and die a dutiful son. I also don’t want to run on caffeine and deadlines to become some modern success story.
I want to sit quietly. I want a fan that works. I want to do work that’s not killing my back. I want silence when I eat. I want to use the same phone for five years.
Is that too much to ask?
Why should I carry the weight of my father’s dreams that died in the Emergency?
Why should I be the unpaid tech support for a child who thinks I’m outdated?
You both had your time—or will have it.
This is my time. And I’m not spending it pleasing either of you.
So yeah.
Fuck the past. Screw the future. I’m living now.
And I don’t owe anyone an apology for it.
---
Part 2 – The Tyranny of the Past
The past in India doesn’t die.
It becomes furniture in your house, sits on the dining table, and watches you from every photo frame. It speaks through your elders. And it judges everything you do.
In many Indian homes, your life is not your own.
You are born to continue someone else’s story.
“You are my second chance,” says the father.
“You are my unfinished dream,” says the mother.
You don’t get to choose your dreams—you inherit them.
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“We sacrificed so much for you”
Every time you say no, an emotional bomb is dropped.
“You think we had it easy?”
“We gave up everything for you!”
“Now you want to live for yourself?”
Sacrifice is used like a belt—not to protect you, but to whip you back into place. You’re expected to carry their values like debt.
Even if those values no longer work.
Even if they made them suffer too.
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The Pressure to Perform Traditions You Don’t Believe In
You’re forced to repeat rituals you don’t connect with.
You must wake up at 4 AM on certain days.
You must go to events you hate.
You must touch feet of people who never respected you.
If you ask “Why are we doing this?”, the answer is:
“Because we’ve always done it.”
You become a performer, not a believer.
You follow tradition not out of faith—but out of fear.
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Real Story: Ramesh, the Obedient Son
Ramesh was a 40-year-old bank clerk in Nashik. Never drank, never argued, never missed a family function.
He got married because his mother chose a girl.
He gave up a scholarship abroad because his father didn’t want him to “leave the soil.”
At 43, Ramesh had a quiet heart attack. The doctor said: “Too much silent stress.”
At his funeral, his father said proudly:
“He never once said no to me.”
And that was true.
Ramesh never lived for himself.
He died a good son.
Not a free man.
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The Inherited Fears
Parents don’t always mean harm. But they pass down their fears like jewellery.
“Don’t leave a government job—it’s safe.”
“Don’t trust friends—they’ll betray you.”
“Don’t show emotions—it makes you weak.”
So you build a life full of safety, not joy.
You become another copy of the fear that raised you.
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Breaking Free Without Breaking Bonds
You don’t have to hate your parents to stop obeying them.
You can love them and still say,
“I’m not you.”
“I’m not living your story.”
“I respect your pain, but I don’t want to repeat it.”
But in India, that’s seen as betrayal.
So you carry their pain quietly. Until one day, your own child says:
“You never lived.”
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Part 3 – The Screeching Future
If the past holds you by the neck, the future pushes you from behind.
No matter how fast you run, someone younger is already ahead.
You buy a new phone—your kid already thinks it’s “slow.”
You open Instagram—your niece is already bored of it.
The future doesn’t wait.
It demands that you keep up, or shut up.
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Everything is Urgent, Everything is Update
There’s a new app, a new slang, a new feature, a new rule.
Every week you feel a little more stupid.
Your child rolls their eyes because you still call it “WhatsUp.”
Your boss makes you join meetings on tools you don’t understand.
Nobody teaches. Everyone just assumes.
You’re expected to know.
You’re expected to adapt instantly.
And if you don’t?
You’re called “slow,” “outdated,” “uncool,” “boomer.”
---
Real Story: Kavita, the Mother Who Tried Too Hard
Kavita, 52, lives in Thane. A Hindi teacher in a private school.
She spent 18 years raising two kids. Now they barely talk.
Her son once snapped, “You don’t even know what a USB-C is.”
So she began watching YouTube tutorials, learning English slang, buying gadgets she couldn’t afford.
One day she said, “I don’t want to be a burden.”
Nobody had called her that.
But that’s how the future makes you feel—like if you’re not useful, you’re invisible.
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Always “Improving”, Never “Enough”
In the world of the future, your current self is never okay.
Your body must be fitter.
Your mind must be sharper.
Your habits must be optimized.
Your life must be productive.
You must become a project.
You must read “5 hacks to be better.”
You must wake up at 5 AM or feel like a failure.
You’re not allowed to just be a human.
You must be a startup version of yourself.
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No Time to Feel, Only Time to Compete
Your child is stressed at 15.
You’re expected to run side hustles at 45.
Nobody is allowed to be tired.
Nobody is allowed to slow down.
The future sells you this lie:
“If you stop, you’ll fall behind. If you fall behind, you’ll be forgotten.”
So you keep updating, performing, running.
Until one day, you ask:
“Who am I trying to impress?”
And there is no answer.
Just a blank screen loading the next update.
---
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Part 4 – Living in the Middle
There’s a generation in India that’s not talked about much.
They are too old to be cool, but too young to be ignored.
They’re in their 30s, 40s, 50s.
Still working. Still responsible. Still adjusting. Still suffering silently.
They don’t belong anywhere.
They are not the respected elders.
They are not the bold youth.
They are just… maintenance workers of life.
They hold everyone else up:
Paying school fees
Taking parents to the doctor
Running between banks, bosses, and broken appliances
Sacrificing peace for peace-keeping
Nobody claps for them.
Nobody even sees them.
They are the background characters in everyone else’s story.
They’re told:
“You should be grateful. You have a job, a home, a family.”
But nobody asks them:
Do you have time to breathe?
---
Part 5 – The Weapons They Use
When you try to live your way, both sides panic.
So they use tools to pull you back.
1. The Parent’s Weapon: Guilt
“You used to respect us once.”
“You only remember us when you need money.”
“We never disobeyed our parents like this.”
“Do what you want—but remember, karma exists.”
You can be 45, earning, feeding them—but still be treated like a disobedient child.
2. The Child’s Weapon: Shame
“You’re so backward.”
“OMG don’t tell that story in front of my friends.”
“Stop talking like that—it’s embarrassing.”
“You just don’t get it, Dad.”
Even if you gave up your dreams for them, one wrong sentence can make you feel like a failure.
3. The Society’s Weapon: Comparison
“Your cousin’s daughter is earning in Dubai.”
“Your school friend bought a flat in Gurugram.”
“They went to Manali for anniversary. You never go anywhere?”
You become a scoreboard. A performance.
Never a person.
---
Part 6 – The Cost of Pleasing Both
Trying to be a good son and a good parent at the same time?
You’ll disappear. Quietly.
Real Story: Shilpa, the Smiling Wall
Shilpa, 39, from Surat.
Wakes at 5. Prepares tiffin. Sends kids to school. Handles in-laws. Works part-time. Never complains.
She laughs on WhatsApp. Cries in the bathroom.
One day, her husband found her sitting on the floor in the kitchen, holding a spoon and staring into space.
She wasn’t sick.
She wasn’t dying.
She was just... done.
This is the cost.
Mental illness. Silent breakdowns.
A generation that never got therapy, never spoke out, never asked for help.
And even when they break, the family says:
“Don’t make a drama. Everything is fine.”
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Part 7 – Declaring Independence
One day, you stop.
Not dramatically.
Not with shouting.
Just… quietly.
You stop explaining.
You stop proving.
You stop performing.
You realize:
You don’t have to go to every wedding
You don’t have to reply to every relative
You don’t have to learn every new trend
You don’t have to fix everyone’s life
You start doing only what is necessary and comfortable.
Not what is expected.
Not what is impressive.
Not what looks good in family photos.
Real Story: Manjunath, the Disappearing Man
Manjunath was a former LIC agent in Hubballi. One day, he quietly shut his phone off. Left the city. Moved to a rented room near a temple. No social media. No car. Just a notebook and a kettle.
People said he was “wasting his life.”
He smiled and said, “No. I just stopped borrowing yours.”
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Part 8 – Middle-Life Non-Negotiables
Once you stop trying to impress, control, or catch up, your life becomes lighter.
You slowly figure out a few non-negotiables—things that protect your mind, time, and body. You don’t argue about them. You just live by them.
Here are some examples:
---
🔹 I will sleep on time — no matter who is awake.
My health is not a sacrifice item anymore. You can party. You can watch TV. I will go to bed.
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🔹 I will not go to every wedding, funeral, housewarming, or thread ceremony.
No, I am not rude. I am tired. I will send my blessings, not my spine.
---
🔹 I will say “I don’t know” without shame.
I am not a walking Google. I don’t need to pretend anymore.
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🔹 I will not buy a new phone just because you think it’s slow.
I paid for it. It works. That’s enough.
---
🔹 I will not explain every decision to family WhatsApp groups.
Silence is not disrespect. It is self-respect.
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🔹 I will laugh loudly at old jokes, even if they’re “cringe.”
That’s how I heal. Not through sarcasm, but through honesty.
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🔹 I will take help when I need it.
Not as weakness—but as wisdom.
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This list is personal. Yours may look different.
But the point is: these lines protect your inner peace.
Without them, you’re everyone’s puppet.
With them, you’re finally your own adult.
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Part 9 – Letters to the Past and the Future
Sometimes, it helps to speak directly.
So here are two short, honest letters.
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📜 To the Past (my father, my village, my old selves):
I love you.
I know you tried your best. I know your hands were tied by fear and rules and shame.
But your wounds are not my future.
I will not carry the same silence. I will not repeat the same mistakes.
I am not rejecting you.
I am releasing you.
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📬 To the Future (my child, my guilt, my ambition):
Slow down.
I’m not your driver.
I’m not your background actor.
I’m a human being.
I will walk beside you, not run behind you.
If that’s not fast enough for you, go ahead.
I’ll still be here — cooking, reading, healing, living.
---
Part 10 – Final Word: A Quiet Life is Not a Waste
This world is noisy.
It wants you to be loud, fast, shiny.
But your body knows better.
Your soul knows when it is tired.
Your back knows when to sit.
Your smile knows when it is fake.
You don’t have to be a rebel.
You don’t have to be a monk.
You just have to return to your centre.
That may look boring to others.
But to you—it will feel like truth.
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So here’s how it ends:
You don’t scream at the past.
You don’t chase the future.
You just quietly say:
> “This is my life now. I will live it as it fits me — not as it pleases you.”
And then, one day, your child will look at you and say:
> “You lived your own life, didn’t you?”
And you’ll smile and say:
> “Yes. And I’ve never been more free.”
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Fuck the Past, Screw the Future – I'm Living Now
I was born into a family that believed in god, guilt, and getting up before sunrise.
My father worshipped his job like it paid in heaven points. My mother ironed shame into the bedsheets.
Nobody asked what I wanted— just gave me a name, a plate of rice, and a timetable I never wrote.
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School was a cage with discipline for bars. They graded me for memory, never for thought.
“Why can’t you be like Sharma’s son?” was their lullaby.
I grew up dreaming in whispers, answering with apologies, measuring my worth in how many people I could please without choking.
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The past is a heavy bastard. It drags behind you like a crying relative who refuses to let go.
It tells you what to wear, how to pray, how to love, what to fear, what not to say in front of uncles, and what to never say to yourself.
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Then comes the future like a nosy neighbor with better gadgets and worse manners.
It wants you to know:
You’re outdated.
You’re slow.
You’re failing.
You need to learn coding.
You need to start investing.
You need to become something.
Even your child, your own child, calls you dumb because you still pay bills by standing in line.
---
So I sit in the middle like a man being pulled by two broken ropes.
One rope is soaked in shame, the other in urgency.
And me? I just want some fucking silence.
A moment where no one is explaining life to me.
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So I stopped attending weddings I never wanted to go to. I stopped explaining why a 3-year-old phone still works fine.
I stopped arguing with people who already wrote my obituary in their head.
I drink my tea while it’s still hot. That’s all. That’s revolution enough.
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My mother thinks I’m failing. My son thinks I’m stuck. My boss thinks I’m not hungry enough.
But I have learned to ignore stomachs that never asked if I was already full.
I wake up late sometimes, and nobody dies. I cancel plans. I buy fewer things. I speak less. I don’t chase.
I stare at the ceiling like it’s an art piece. I smell my own skin. I enjoy the fan. I take my own name in my own voice.
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Some evenings, I sit on the terrace with old socks and no purpose.
I hear the neighbor scream at her daughter to study more. I hear a scooter struggle up the slope.
And I think, “This is it.”
Not tomorrow. Not five years from now. Not what my father wanted. Not what my son expects.
Just this.
My own breath. My own body. My own refusal to perform.
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So fuck the past. Screw the future. I am not a time machine. I am not a ladder. I am not a bridge between your mistakes and someone else’s glory.
I am the now. This messy, lazy, unapologetic now.
And it’s mine.
No certificate needed. No like button. No pension plan.
Just me. And this moment.
And if someone still asks, “What have you done with your life?”
I’ll smile and say,
“I finally started living it.”
