Healing Dialogue for EMI Misery
- Madhukar Dama
- Apr 8
- 6 min read
An EMI Trap Healing Dialogue with Madhukar
Characters:
Arif (47) – Baker, once thriving, now chained to a loan for a café that isn’t doing well. Feels lost.
Ravi (45) – School teacher, burdened with education loans for his kids and personal home loan. Overwhelmed and bitter.
Renu (46) – Software Engineer, has car loan, vacation loan, phone EMI, gadget upgrades, online course EMI, and two insurance-linked policies.
Dr. Prakash (47) – General physician, invested in a fancy clinic space, EMIs for interiors, equipment, and still paying for his SUV.
Madhukar (46) – Their childhood friend, once in the same trap, now living in a modest but peaceful home powered by solar, surrounded by simplicity and joy. Teaches self-reliance and mindful living.
Each of them will come with their emotional baggage, and over the 4-hour dialogue, they’ll unpack:
10 types of EMI traps (car, credit card, home, gadget, lifestyle, kids' education, courses, travel, insurance-linked investments, “zero interest” scams)
Physical and mental tolls of these debts
The emotional void they try to fill with stuff
The childhood memories of simpler joy
Madhukar will use humor, old stories, metaphors, light sarcasm, and the occasional philosophical one-liner to help them see clearly.
Scene: The Arrival
It’s a soft afternoon in the village.
The neem tree sways gently.
Birds chirp.
A cow chews calmly in the background.
Madhukar, now a serene man with streaks of grey in his beard, is chopping raw mangoes for pickle.
From the dusty road, a Mahindra XUV stops near the banyan tree.
Four people climb out, stretching their legs.
Ravi (teacher):
Same Madhukar tree, same Madhukar smile.
But his kurta hasn’t changed in twenty years.
Renu (software engineer):
At least his smile is EMI-free.
Dr. Prakash (doctor):
Let’s be honest.
We came here because we’re bankrupt—not just financially.
Arif (baker):
Don't exaggerate.
My bakery’s still open.
It's the sleepless nights that are killing me.
They walk towards Madhukar, who welcomes them with a warm, mischievous grin.
Madhukar:
Welcome, my fellow prisoners of progress.
The Confessions Begin
They settle on floor mats around the neem tree.
A small brass pot of buttermilk is passed around.
Madhukar (cheerfully):
So.
Who wants to begin the ‘I’m-in-debt-but-I-look-rich’ therapy session?
Ravi:
Where do I start?
I teach in a private school.
Took a home loan when my son turned 5.
Then came the car.
Then the education loan.
My salary gets credited and vanishes in ten minutes.
Madhukar:
Ten minutes?
You’re lucky.
Mine used to vanish in five.
Renu (rolling eyes):
I have a phone EMI, a gadget EMI, a ‘leadership course’ EMI, a 4-day Bali trip EMI, and a double-door fridge EMI I didn’t even need.
Dr. Prakash:
My SUV is a moving liability.
My clinic?
Interior loan, equipment loan, digital board EMI.
Patients think I’m successful because I wear expensive spectacles.
I haven’t slept without anxiety pills in a year.
Arif:
My bakery is doing OK, but that 'zero interest' cafe decor loan?
Turns out it wasn’t zero.
Add two maxed-out credit cards.
I lie to my wife about sales every day.
They all fall silent.
Madhukar:
And still you all look so… prosperous.
Renu (snorts):
That's the problem.
Looking prosperous is more expensive than being prosperous.
The Invisible Whip – 10 EMI Traps
Madhukar:
Let me list your jailors. See if they sound familiar.
He scratches the ground with a stick as he speaks:
Home Loans – "Because no one wants to rent like 'losers.'"
Car Loans – "Because 'how can you go to a wedding in an Alto?'"
Credit Card EMIs – "Because you're paying for your past mistakes, monthly."
Gadget EMIs – "Because your phone can't be older than your neighbor's child."
Vacation Loans – "Because what's the point of going somewhere you can’t afford?"
Education EMIs – "Because your kid must go to Finland-style schools in Bangalore."
Online Course EMIs – "Because you're told you're not enough yet."
Wedding EMIs – "Because you had to show your cousin who’s richer."
Zero Interest Lies – "Because nothing is ever truly zero. Except maybe your bank balance."
Insurance-as-Investment EMIs – "Because a man in a tie told you it’s 'smart.'"
They nod slowly, like prisoners who just saw their own handcuffs for the first time.
The Effects
Ravi (murmuring):
I feel tired all the time.
Angry.
My wife thinks I hate her.
I think I hate myself.
Renu:
I can’t sleep without binge-watching something.
My mind buzzes even when I’m still.
Dr. Prakash:
My blood pressure is dancing salsa.
I have everything and I feel like I have nothing.
Arif:
I don’t laugh anymore.
I used to.
In college.
With you guys.
But now... just anxiety.
Madhukar (gently):
You’ve bought comfort, but sold joy.
You’ve upgraded life and downgraded living.
The Turning Point
Renu (sarcastic):
Fine, monk-turned-mango-pickler.
What’s your secret?
Live in a hut?
Grow spinach?
Make soap from cow dung?
Madhukar (smiling):
Exactly.
Except the soap part.
I just use neem leaves.
Everyone laughs.
Madhukar:
Fifteen years ago, I had a panic attack because my fifth EMI bounced.
I sat in my car and cried like a baby.
That day, I decided: I want to live without fear.
So I downsized everything.
Sold the car. Bought a cycle. Moved to ancestral land. Built a mud home. Grew food. Bartered services. Stopped impressing people. Started loving freedom.
Ravi (wide-eyed):
And you survived?
Madhukar:
I began surviving.
Before that, I was just consuming.
Not living.
The Way Out
Madhukar (leaning in):
Here’s the escape route.
You won’t like it.
But you’ll sleep better.
List every EMI and cancel what you can. Start today.
Sell at least one expensive item you don’t need. It’ll hurt. Do it.
Stop all impulse purchases. Use cash. No cards.
Cook your food. Not Zomato’s.
Live in a house that doesn’t need you to die slowly to pay for it.
One account. One wallet. No secrets. Especially with your spouse.
Learn barter. Skills. DIY. Grow a bit of food.
Minimalism is not deprivation. It’s clarity.
Recreate joy without expense. Music, walking, sitting.
Choose peace over prestige.
Silence and Laughter
The sun has dipped.
A kerosene lantern glows.
No one speaks.
Ravi:
You didn’t tell us anything revolutionary.
Madhukar (grinning):
I know.
You just needed someone to remind you you’re not crazy for wanting out.
Arif:
Let’s start with selling our ‘aspirations’.
Renu:
I’ll start by deleting three shopping apps.
Dr. Prakash:
And maybe I’ll stop thinking I need a glass building to heal people.
Before They Leave
As they rise to leave, Madhukar hands them each a neem leaf.
Madhukar:
For chewing.
Bitter.
But it cleans you out.
Ravi (smiling):
Like this visit.
📖 Follow-up Dialogue: Six Months Later
The Return
A cool breeze brushes through the neem leaves as the four friends walk in again—lighter, freer, but still teasing each other.
Ravi (grinning):
I’ve started chewing neem every morning.
Bitterness suits me now.
Madhukar:
Ah, bitterness that leads to sweetness.
The best kind.
They sit down.
The same mats.
The same warmth.
But something has changed.
Renu:
Remember how I used to scoff at minimalism?
Well… I’m now proud of my second-hand chair and my single pressure cooker.
Madhukar:
And your EMIs?
Renu:
Canceled 3.
Paid off 2.
Sold my second phone.
No more gadgets on loan.
Dr. Prakash:
I stopped the clinic’s ‘renovation loan.’
Patients don’t care about the walls.
They care about my attention.
I started listening more.
Healed more.
And… my insomnia’s better.
Arif:
My bakery profits went up once I stopped the online ad madness.
I made real relationships.
And… my wife hugged me last week and said,
‘You’re finally back.’
Ravi:
I didn’t sell the house.
But I rented out the top floor.
I walk to school.
My son said, ‘Papa, you smile more now.’
That was it for me.
They all fall silent again.
Madhukar (with a twinkle):
You’ve started tasting life again.
Not just buying it.
The Gentle Farewell
Madhukar stands, holding a clay cup of herbal tea.
Madhukar:
EMIs are like slow poison, taken with a silver spoon.
You stopped swallowing.
That’s enough.
Now… keep walking.
Downsize more.
Depend less.
Laugh louder.
Renu (mock whispering):
Do we get a certificate?
Madhukar:
No. You get something better—peace of mind.
They laugh, clink their clay cups, and walk back toward the setting sun, this time without the weight of invisible chains.
--------------------------
sold our soles
we got trapped in
zero-percent dreams
and
hundred-percent anxiety.
a flat,
a phone,
a couch,
a coffee machine
that speaks five languages
and still
doesn't say peace.
the salary came in,
nodded politely,
and walked right out
wearing EMI shoes.
we told ourselves
“it’s just a phase,”
as the noose tightened
with compound interest.
then we saw Madhukar—
sitting barefoot
under a neem tree,
sipping life
from a clay cup
like it was free.
we laughed.
he smiled.
he said:
“you idiots are renting your own death
in monthly installments.”
and goddamn it,
he was right.
so we sold the sofa,
sat on the floor,
hugged the silence,
and heard
for the first time
our own breathing
not bouncing off walls
we didn’t really own.
and that
was enough.
