Loud Promise - Advance Payment - No Guarantee

Everywhere you look, the world runs on the same contract — loud promises, advance payments, and no guarantees. Open your eyes, and you will see it.

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Prologue

The world is a theater of promises.

Everywhere, voices rise — loud, confident, intoxicating. They announce golden futures, healing cures, eternal rewards, unbreakable security. They shout of light just beyond the horizon. And we, generation after generation, walk toward those voices.

But entry into this theater is never free. Each promise demands its price in advance. Childhood, obedience, savings, faith, votes, years — all are collected before the curtain even rises. And when it does, the stage is often empty.

This is the rhythm of our lives: loud promise, advance payment, no guarantee. It is the contract that binds self to family, student to school, patient to hospital, believer to god, worker to company, citizen to state, and humanity to its dream of progress.

It is ancient, it is universal, and it hides in plain sight.

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Self

The first loud promise is whispered to every child: “Work hard now, your future will shine.”

The advance payment is your youth — mornings given to alarm clocks, evenings to homework, curiosity buried under textbooks.

The guarantee? None. You grow older, but the promised “bright future” keeps receding like a horizon you can never reach.

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Home

The loud promise of home is love, warmth, safety. Every family says, “We care for you, we want the best for you.”

The advance payment demanded is obedience, silence, loyalty — children bowing to parents, partners to customs.

The guarantee? None. Many pay endlessly with compliance and sacrifice, yet never receive the love or acceptance they were promised.

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Education

The loud promise is that school is the golden road to wisdom and opportunity.

The advance payment is vast: money from parents, years from children, freedom from both. Homework, exams, coaching centers — a whole childhood mortgaged.

The guarantee? None. Degrees may pile up, but jobs vanish, wisdom is absent, and the promised “prepared future” rarely appears.

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Health

The loud promise is healing. Hospitals say, “We will cure, we will save.”

The advance payment is demanded at the door: deposits before treatment, bills before hope, medicines bought before results.

The guarantee? None. People mortgage homes, empty savings, sell land — only to bury their loved ones days later. Illness robs once, the system robs again.

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Faith

The loud promise is salvation, peace, divine favor. Priests declare: “Offer now, and you will be blessed forever.”

The advance payment is endless: coins dropped in boxes, gold crowns on idols, lifelong rituals and pilgrimages.

The guarantee? None. Eternity is a contract without receipts. No one has ever returned to confirm the deal.

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Politics

The loud promise is transformation: “We will build roads, create jobs, end corruption.”

The advance payment is your vote — your trust, your time, your mandate, given in one silent mark on paper.

The guarantee? None. Once in power, leaders vanish into convoys and excuses, while citizens keep walking through the same potholes.

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Work

The loud promise is career growth, promotions, pensions, stability.

The advance payment is your body, your youth, your best years sacrificed at desks and machines.

The guarantee? None. Companies collapse, bosses betray, industries die. You retire with a tired body and a bitter heart, wondering what happened to the future you were promised.

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Society

The loud promise is belonging and respect: “Do as expected, and you will be honored.”

The advance payment is conformity — in clothing, in marriage, in ceremonies, in silence.

The guarantee? None. One act of rebellion, one slip in reputation, and society withdraws its approval instantly. The decades of advance payments are never returned.

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Civilization

The loud promise is progress: “Sacrifice today, and tomorrow will be better.”

The advance payment is colossal: forests cut, rivers poisoned, generations of labor surrendered to factories and machines.

The guarantee? None. War repeats, hunger grows, inequality deepens, climate collapses. Tomorrow looks eerily like yesterday, while the collectors have already been paid.

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The Eternal Pattern

Loud Promise — the speech, the dream, the shining bait.

Advance Payment — your obedience, your money, your years, your life.

No Guarantee — silence, betrayal, the same emptiness disguised again.

It is everywhere: self, home, school, hospital, temple, office, parliament, society, civilization.

A single skeleton wearing a thousand costumes.

> Loud Promise – Advance Payment – No Guarantee.

The oldest contract. The deepest fraud. The engine of history.

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Epilogue

Look closely, and you will see the same ritual repeated across centuries, across institutions, across the span of life itself:

First, the promise — loud enough to drown doubt.

Then, the payment — demanded before proof.

Finally, the silence — no guarantee, no return, only the echo of your own surrender.

We call it tradition, culture, professionalism, politics, religion, economy, civilization. But behind all the masks lies the same contract. It has ruled over empires, temples, markets, families. It rules still.

The voices continue to shout. The payments continue to flow. The guarantees continue not to arrive.

And history itself, if stripped bare, can be read as nothing more than this endless pattern:

> Loud Promise – Advance Payment – No Guarantee.

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Loud Promise – Advance Payment – No Guarantee

A Dialogue at Yelmadagi

The Gathering

It is late evening at Yelmadagi. The hills are purple in the dying light. A mud house stands simple but stubborn. Lanterns glow. Chickens cluck. A cow shifts its weight near the shed.

Nine figures arrive, stomping up the dusty path. They are not guests — they are accusers. Each carries the weight of an institution. Each feels attacked by Madhukar’s essay. They have come to confront him, to silence him, to prove him wrong.

Madhukar sits on a low stool, repairing a sickle. He does not rise to greet them.

Madhukar:

Ah, you came. Sit, then.

Reddy (the Politician):

We did not come to sit. We came to teach you some respect. Your essay insults us all.

Dr. Rao (the Doctor):

You have smeared our professions.

Swami Narayan (the Guru):

You have mocked faith itself.

Principal Deshmukh (the Educator):

You spit on learning.

Meera (the Mother):

You poison the home.

Arun (the Young Self):

You mock sacrifice.

Shankar (the Retired Clerk):

You dishonor work.

Kamala (the Widow):

You insult society.

Professor Iyer (the Historian):

You degrade civilization itself.

Madhukar (smiling faintly):

Good. Then speak. Show me where I am wrong.

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Arun – The Self

Arun:

You called my striving a lie. I worked hard, studied, sacrificed youth for a better future. That is not a fraud — it is ambition!

Madhukar:

And what did you receive?

Arun (hesitates):

…A job that uses me like a rag. Nights of anxiety. The future still slipping away.

Madhukar:

Then your ambition was fed with a loud promise. You paid in advance with your youth. Where is your guarantee?

Arun (angrily):

Everyone lives like this!

Madhukar:

Yes. That is why everyone is tired.

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Meera – The Home

Meera (snapping):

Don’t you dare say homes are lies! I raised my children with discipline. I asked for obedience because it keeps families strong. In return, I promised them love.

Madhukar:

And did they receive it?

Meera (voice faltering):

They obeyed… but they avoid me now. They are polite, but their eyes are strangers.

Madhukar:

Then your home collected obedience in advance, but love was withheld.

Meera (lowering her eyes):

Perhaps… perhaps I only taught them fear.

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Principal Deshmukh – Education

Deshmukh (thumping his cane):

Education is the backbone of progress! Parents pay fees gladly. Children sacrifice playtime. I promise them futures. That is honorable.

Madhukar:

And how many of those futures have arrived?

Deshmukh (stammering):

Not all… but we give degrees, medals, placements…

Madhukar:

Shiny receipts. Empty bags. You collect childhoods in bulk, but return them hollow.

Deshmukh:

Without schools, society would collapse!

Madhukar:

Without schools, it might finally breathe.

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Dr. Rao – Health

Dr. Rao (defensive):

Do not insult medicine! We fight for lives. But hospitals cannot run on air — deposits are necessary.

Madhukar:

And when a family pays, and the patient dies, what do you return?

Dr. Rao (quietly):

…Condolences.

Madhukar:

So you sell hope, not healing. You demand payment at the door of death.

Dr. Rao (sweating):

Is that not better than nothing?

Madhukar:

Sometimes nothing is more honest.

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Swami Narayan – Faith

Swami (with calm authority):

Faith is not fraud. We ask for offerings, and we promise salvation.

Madhukar:

Where is your evidence?

Swami:

Faith itself is evidence.

Madhukar:

Then you sell shadows, and call it sunlight.

Swami (smiles stiffly):

People need comfort.

Madhukar:

So you trade in illusions, and bill them as eternity.

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Reddy – Politics

Reddy (raising his voice):

Politics is service! I promise development, and I do my best.

Madhukar:

Yet your bungalow is painted fresh, your convoy multiplies, your son studies abroad. Roads remain broken.

Reddy (angry):

Change takes time!

Madhukar:

Time bends differently for rulers, doesn’t it? Instant luxuries for you, endless waiting for the people.

Reddy:

Without leaders, there is chaos.

Madhukar:

With leaders, there is organized chaos.

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Shankar – Work

Shankar (bitterly):

I gave my life to office work. Thirty years. Never missed a day. They promised pension, respect. Now pension is late, respect forgotten. My body is broken.

Madhukar:

So you prepaid with your youth, and retired with emptiness.

Shankar (tears in his voice):

Yes. My whole life was an advance payment.

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Kamala – Society

Kamala (stern, wounded):

I conformed to every rule. Married as told. Lived as told. They promised respect. But when my husband died, society spat me out.

Madhukar:

So you bought belonging with obedience, and received exile.

Kamala (sighing):

Respect is the most expensive thing. It is never delivered.

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Professor Iyer – Civilization

Iyer (measured, scholarly):

You underestimate humanity. Every generation sacrifices for progress. That is noble.

Madhukar:

And what has progress delivered?

Iyer (long pause):

Smog. Plastic oceans. Inequality. Nuclear fear.

Madhukar:

So civilization itself is a debt machine. Each century pays in advance. Tomorrow never arrives.

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The Turning

(The group sits in silence. The lantern crackles. Their anger has drained into weariness.)

Madhukar (softly):

You came to thrash me. To prove me wrong. To defend your empires. But your own mouths have betrayed you.

Arun, you prepaid your youth.

Meera, you prepaid your children’s obedience.

Deshmukh, you prepaid childhoods.

Rao, you prepaid grief.

Swami, you prepaid eternity.

Reddy, you prepaid democracy.

Shankar, you prepaid your life.

Kamala, you prepaid respect.

Iyer, you prepaid the planet.

Always the same contract:

Loud Promise – Advance Payment – No Guarantee.

(The night deepens. Crickets fill the air. One by one, the nine rise — slower now, thoughtful. They leave Yelmadagi without fury, without defense. They came to thrash Madhukar. They go carrying only silence, and a mind newly cleared.)

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LOUD PROMISE – ADVANCE PAYMENT – NO GUARANTEE

they tell you:

study, boy, study

burn your eyes on textbooks

grind your bones on benches

swallow your own childhood like cheap liquor

because tomorrow will be golden.

so you pay.

you piss away your laughter,

you bleed your youth into exams,

you break yourself for degrees,

and tomorrow shows up like a two-bit drunk

asking you for another round of sacrifice.

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they tell you:

obey your parents,

shut your damn mouth,

don’t talk back,

fold your anger like a dirty bedsheet

because one day

love will be yours.

so you obey.

you cut your tongue in half,

you bow until your spine is crooked,

you smile like a servant,

and love never comes—

only fear,

only silence at dinner tables,

only the hollow sound of respect

that tastes like ash.

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they tell you:

school is the temple,

fees are holy,

discipline is nectar,

play is sin,

and one day

the degree will save you.

so you pay.

your parents pawn their mangalsutra,

you pawn your laughter,

you vomit formulas into answer sheets,

and walk out with a paper shield

that tears in the first rain of reality.

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they tell you:

the hospital is hope.

pay first.

pay before the needle.

pay before the knife.

pay before the oxygen.

pay before the body is even cold.

so you pay.

you sell land,

you borrow from vultures,

you sit in waiting rooms like cattle.

and the body dies anyway.

the hospital doesn’t.

it fattens on your grief,

pumps its stomach with your savings,

burps condolences in your face.

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they tell you:

god is listening.

drop a coin.

drop ten.

drop a gold crown.

drop your knees on the marble.

he is merciful.

so you drop.

you crawl,

you sweat,

you beg.

and all you hear is the priest’s cough,

the loudspeaker’s crackle,

the smell of stale flowers.

salvation is always tomorrow.

the temple balance sheet is always today.

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they tell you:

vote, brother, vote.

ink your finger,

mark your faith,

send us to power,

and watch miracles happen.

so you stand in the sun,

you sweat in queues,

you mark your X.

and the bastard you voted for

builds his bungalow overnight,

fattens his convoy,

fattens his son’s passport.

the pothole outside your house

fattens with rainwater.

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they tell you:

work, man, work.

don’t complain,

don’t strike,

don’t raise your voice.

office is family,

factory is god,

hard work never betrays.

so you clock in.

you sweat rivers into files,

you cough dust into machines,

you hand them your spine,

your lungs,

your prime.

and one day

you are a retired joke

with a late pension and an early grave.

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they tell you:

be a good woman.

cover this,

hide that,

marry here,

serve there.

do this ritual,

cook that dish,

never laugh too loud.

society will respect you.

so you bleed,

you bend,

you shrink.

and the day your husband dies

society throws you out

like yesterday’s garbage,

blames your face for bad luck,

steals the respect it never meant to give.

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they tell you:

sacrifice for progress.

give your rivers,

your forests,

your children,

your grandchildren,

because tomorrow will shine

like a brand-new god.

so you give.

you dig coal,

you pour cement,

you breathe smog,

you swim in plastic,

you watch the oceans rot,

you watch the sky turn brown.

and tomorrow arrives

with the same rotten teeth,

the same hungry belly,

the same promises

recycled like election posters.

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this is the deal:

loud promise.

advance payment.

no guarantee.

the oldest hustle in the book.

the world’s longest-running scam.

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in india it stinks louder:

loudspeakers sell salvation,

coaching centers sell futures,

hospitals sell death insurance,

politicians sell tomorrow’s sunrise,

temples sell eternity by the kilo.

and the people keep paying—

with money,

with years,

with blood,

with silence.

always hoping

this time the bastard will deliver.

always hoping

this time the contract won’t be a fraud.

but the bastard never delivers.

the fraud never stops.

the machine keeps grinding,

and you keep feeding it

until it spits you out.

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loud promise.

advance payment.

no guarantee.

that’s the holy trinity.

that’s the real religion.

that’s the only constitution.

your birth certificate

is written in it.

your tombstone

is stamped with it.

everything in between

is just installments.

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