The Empty Voice of God, Religion, Culture, Tradition
- Madhukar Dama
- 6 days ago
- 17 min read
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I. Introduction – The Paradox of the Empty Voice
It is strange, isn’t it? The ones who shout the loudest about god, religion, culture, and tradition are often the ones who have the least to offer in real life. The neighbour who never helped anyone in difficulty will be the first to remind you about “our great culture.” The parent who never listens to their child’s dreams will thunder about “obedience to elders.” The politician who cannot give jobs will declare, “India was once a Vishwaguru.” And the godman who lives in luxury will tell you to renounce the world.
Why is it always like this? Why do people who cannot plant a single sapling talk about “protecting nature as per tradition”? Why does the man who cannot control his temper insist that children must follow dharma? Why does the elder who never worked honestly claim respect in the name of sanskaar?
It is a paradox, but it is also a pattern. When someone has no real value to add — no creativity, no compassion, no effort — they borrow authority from the oldest, most unquestionable sources: god, religion, culture, and tradition. These are ready-made weapons. Nobody created them yesterday; they carry the weight of centuries. To question them feels dangerous. That is exactly why the empty man hides behind them.
So whenever you hear a person who has achieved nothing but keeps talking of “golden traditions” or “ancient glory,” pause and ask yourself: what is he really protecting — society, or his own position?
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II. Why Emptiness Gravitates to Religion and Tradition
People who cannot stand on their own feet need a crutch. And the strongest crutch in human history has been religion and tradition. Why? Because it gives instant importance.
If you are poor in creativity, you can still look powerful by quoting an old scripture. If you are lazy, you can still sound wise by repeating a proverb about patience. If you are a coward, you can still look respectable by saying “I am humble before god.”
Religion and tradition give borrowed authority. You don’t have to work for it, you don’t have to prove anything. You just have to invoke it. Say “this is our culture,” and you already look superior. Nobody dares ask you: but what have you contributed yourself?
It also provides a mask. Behind words like “faith” and “custom,” one can hide all sorts of failures. A parent who has no emotional bond with his children will say, “In our time, children never argued.” A teacher who cannot teach will scold students, “Respect your elders, this is Indian tradition.” An elder who wasted his life will demand respect only because of age, not because of wisdom.
Emptiness gravitates towards god and culture like insects to light. Not because they love god, but because they love the authority that comes with god’s name.
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III. The First Tool of Control: Talking About the Past
The most common trick is this: glorify the past to control the present.
Parents do it: “In our time, children never talked back.” What they mean is: “Do not question me today.”
Elders do it: “Our community has always lived like this.” What they mean is: “Stay in your place, do not demand change.”
Politicians do it: “India was once the greatest civilization.” What they mean is: “Forget my failures today, dream about yesterday.”
Godmen do it: “Tradition demands you obey your guru.” What they mean is: “Don’t doubt me, don’t expose me.”
The past becomes a weapon. By talking of a golden age, they freeze society into hierarchies that keep them powerful. If caste once gave them privilege, they will call it “ancestral tradition.” If patriarchy once gave them control, they will call it “eternal culture.”
The moment you ask, “But what about today? What about the hungry, the poor, the injustice now?” — they become uncomfortable. Because the present exposes them, while the past protects them.
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IV. Layers of Control in Everyday Life
Control through religion and culture is not only in temples and parliaments. It is in our homes, our streets, our offices.
1. Family
Parents silence children with “Respect elders, it is our culture.”
Husbands justify domination with “Tradition says wife must obey.”
Fear is planted: “If you don’t follow rituals, bad luck will fall on you.”
2. Society
Caste rules are defended as “divine order.”
Honour killings are disguised as “protecting family tradition.”
Festivals turn into competitions of display, where families go into debt only to prove “cultural pride.”
3. Politics
Empty leaders have no policies, so they raise slogans of faith.
Temples rise, but schools and hospitals decay.
Every failure is hidden behind “protecting religion.”
4. Institutions
Priests control birth, marriage, and death not through wisdom but through fear of sin.
Gurus sell spirituality as a business empire.
5. Workplaces
Bosses demand silence in the name of “respecting hierarchy.”
Seniority, even if incompetent, is equated with wisdom.
At every level — from family dining tables to the nation’s parliament — the trick is the same: hide weakness by shouting about culture.
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V. The Benefits They Derive from This Trick
Why do they do it? Because the benefits are endless.
Power – Nobody questions you once you hide behind tradition.
Wealth – From dowries, donations, and bribes.
Status – The loud talker becomes the “wise elder” or “great leader.”
Control – Society is frozen into fixed roles; change is blocked.
Immunity – Anyone who challenges you is called “anti-culture, anti-god, anti-nation.”
It is a perfect cover. You can be corrupt and still be respected, as long as you keep chanting “religion, culture, tradition.”
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VI. Indian Archetypes (Recognizable Without Names)
We all know them.
The politician who cannot draft one good policy but recites verses in parliament.
The godman with luxury cars who preaches simplicity.
The caste elder who forces strict rules but secretly breaks them.
The father who never worked honestly but demands obedience in the name of sanskaar.
The WhatsApp uncle who forwards Ramayana stories daily but cheats in business.
The teacher who cannot explain maths but spends an hour lecturing about “discipline and Indian culture.”
These are not individuals, they are archetypes — repeated in every city, every town, every family.
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VII. The Socratic Method: Questions That Expose Hollowness
The best way to deal with the empty preacher is not to argue, but to ask questions.
If your tradition is so great, why has it not solved poverty?
If your god is so powerful, why does he need your constant defense?
If culture is about respect, why do you demand it instead of earning it?
If ancestors were wise, why do you use them to silence us, not to inspire us?
If humility is your value, why are you offended when questioned?
If simplicity is sacred, why do you live in greed?
Questions cut deeper than debates. They force the mask to slip.
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VIII. The Social Cost of Empty Preaching
This culture of hollow words is not harmless. It comes with a price.
Children grow up afraid to question, their creativity crushed.
Women are silenced with “tradition” and “honour.”
Youth are discouraged from exploring, trapped in conformity.
Nation wastes energy on ritual disputes while unemployment, hunger, and environment are ignored.
Morality is hollowed out — people speak god’s name but live opposite values.
The cost is not just hypocrisy; it is the slow death of real progress.
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IX. What Real Contribution Looks Like
Contrast is simple. Real contribution rarely announces itself.
The villager who shares food with the hungry without quoting any scripture.
The teacher who teaches under a tree without fee, without talking about “ancient glory.”
The doctor who serves the poor silently.
The mother who sacrifices comfort to educate her daughter.
Gandhi cleaning toilets, Narayana Guru breaking caste walls — these are culture in action. Real tradition is lived, not shouted.
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X. Timeless Lesson
This problem is not new. In ancient courts, ministers quoted scriptures to protect kings. In medieval times, caste elders silenced rebels with “custom.” Under colonial rule, religion was used to divide. Today, WhatsApp uncles use the same tool.
Words without deeds have always been the easiest weapon of control. And every age needed courage to separate the loud mouths from the true doers.
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XI. Conclusion – Words vs Deeds
In the end, it is simple. The one who has nothing to offer hides behind god, religion, culture, tradition. The one who has something to offer does not need to hide at all.
We must measure people not by what they invoke, but by what they contribute. Not by how loudly they speak of ancestors, but by how responsibly they live in the present.
A society that rewards words over deeds will remain chained. A society that honours deeds over words will be free.
The Noise of Nothing: Madhukar Talks About Religion and Power
A courtyard in a small Indian town. Late afternoon. Neem shade. Steel tumblers of buttermilk on a low table. People sit on charpais and plastic chairs. Someone has written on a cardboard: “Today’s Dialogue: When empty people hide behind God, Culture, Tradition.”
Madhukar folds his palms, smiles.
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Act 1 — The Rule of Verbs
Madhukar: Before we begin, one rule. Today we will not attack gods or scriptures. We will watch behaviours. And we will speak in verbs, not labels.
Raghav (a father): Verbs?
Madhukar: “I listened,” “I fed,” “I taught,” “I cleaned.” No “I am cultured,” “I am religious.” Labels hide, verbs reveal.
Meera (a mother): And if we slip?
Madhukar: I’ll ring this spoon on this tumbler. (taps) That sound means “shift to verbs.”
Everyone chuckles.
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Act 2 — “Respect your elders” vs “Listen to your child”
Raghav: My daughter argues. I tell her, “In our time we never talked back.” That’s culture.
Madhukar: What do you want—obedience or understanding?
Raghav: Understanding, of course.
Madhukar: Then give what you want. When did you last summarise her point before replying?
Raghav: Summarise?
Madhukar: Try this tonight:
1. She speaks for two minutes.
2. You repeat her point in your words.
3. Ask, “Did I get you?”
Only then answer. That’s called respect practiced, not respect demanded.
Ananya (teenager): If he does that, I’ll also try not to shout.
Madhukar: Good. Make a kitchen magnet rule: “In this home, the person who wants respect goes first in giving it.”
Ajji (grandmother): But elders deserve respect.
Madhukar: They do—as persons. Not as positions. Position-based respect becomes a remote control. Person-based respect becomes a habit.
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Act 3 — “Tradition” or just habit?
Auntie Lata (mother-in-law): In our family, women must serve food first and eat later. Tradition.
Madhukar: If the men go to a friend’s house alone, do they still wait to eat?
Lata: (smiles) No.
Madhukar: Then it’s not “tradition.” It’s a habit convenient to men. Here’s a test:
Would you still do it if nobody was watching?
Would you do it once the power flips?
If the answer is no, it’s not sacred; it’s strategy.
Meera: What do we replace it with?
Madhukar: Rotation. In any home ritual that gives someone power—serving, deciding, praying—rotate the role weekly. Culture survives. Control thins.
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Act 4 — The Caste Gatekeeper & The Plumber’s Boy
Mahesh (caste elder): Our community follows endogamy. It kept order.
Arun (plumber’s apprentice): Sir stopped my sister’s marriage because of “order.”
Madhukar: Let’s play Gate vs Bridge.
Gate rule: “Only our kind may enter.”
Bridge rule: “Whoever serves the village may cross.”
Mahesh: Society will collapse.
Madhukar: Let’s test—not with marriage, with drainage. For thirty days, whoever unclogs three drains gets access to the community hall—no questions asked. Service as pass. If the sky falls, we stop. If the streets get cleaner, we learned something.
Arun: I’ll bring my team.
Mahesh: (after a pause) Thirty days is not eternity. Fine.
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Act 5 — School: Morality Period vs Learning
Principal Joshi: We conduct a daily “moral science” prayer. Still children cheat.
Madhukar: Because you are teaching nouns, not verbs. Try a 15-minute Quiet Doing period. No speech, no lecture.
Monday: every child writes one line they understood yesterday.
Tuesday: one line they taught someone else.
Wednesday: one line they fixed in the classroom.
Thursday: one line they asked.
Friday: one line they thanked.
Teacher: And marks?
Madhukar: Stamp the copy if the line is a verb. If it’s a slogan, no stamp. After a month, compare cheating complaints. My bet—down by half.
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Act 6 — Office: “Hierarchy is our culture”
Boss Dev: In our company we value hierarchy. People must obey.
Madhukar: Or they must work? Two-chair rule for meetings:
One chair labeled Decision. Whoever sits there must be the last to speak.
One chair labeled Broom. Whoever sits there must clean the room after.
Dev: Why broom?
Madhukar: To earth authority. If the decision-maker is not willing to clean a floor, they are not ready to decide someone’s day. Also adopt Minutes with Verbs—no “We discussed culture.” Only “A will do X by date.”
Dev: Painful. Okay.
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Act 7 — The Devotee’s Dilemma
Suresh (ashram volunteer): Our guruji teaches simplicity. We run big events. Donations flow. People transform.
Madhukar: Good. Show me your quietest ledger.
Suresh: Quietest?
Madhukar: The page where no one got a photo. Who was fed, healed, educated without publicity? If the thickest ledger is the one with photos, you’re in marketing, not spirituality.
Suresh: We do both.
Madhukar: Then split the budget: 50% anonymous service. Publish only outcomes, not faces. Make even the guru wait in the same queue as others during meals. If devotion survives without privilege, it was devotion.
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Act 8 — Politics: “Temple vs Clinic”
Ravi (party youth): People want identity. We are building a grand cultural gate.
Madhukar: How many stitches will that gate give in a year?
Ravi: Stitches?
Madhukar: If an emergency clinic costs the same and gives 7,000 stitches, 350 deliveries, 5,000 fevers treated—numbers are verbs. Build the clinic, then paint the gate on its wall if you must.
Ravi: But symbols unite.
Madhukar: So do vaccines. Put your name on the refrigerator that stores them.
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Act 9 — Festivals without Debt
Committee Head: Our festival must be grand. Last year we took loans.
Madhukar: Three swaps:
1. Sound → Silence hour. One hour daily of quiet service—fix a handpump, repaint a zebra crossing.
2. Stage → Street. Move performances to small mohalla squares so elders and toddlers don’t have to travel.
3. Firecrackers → First-aid. Spend that slice on a first-aid training and keep the kit in the pandal year-round.
Measure joy by falls prevented, fights avoided, loans not taken.
Committee Head: Our sponsor wants visibility.
Madhukar: Paint their name on the dustbin that gets used most. Highest visibility.
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Act 10 — Hospital Bench: Faith vs Outcome
Asha (caregiver): My father says prayer alone will heal. He avoids physiotherapy.
Madhukar: Let prayer hold his spirit; let therapy move his muscles. Start an Outcome Diary:
Pain scale morning/evening.
Steps walked.
Bowel habits.
Sleep hours.
If numbers improve only on prayer days, keep the therapist at home and I’ll eat my notebook. If they improve when he does his exercises, keep both. Faith and effort are not enemies; excuses and effort are.
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Act 11 — Grief & Show
Shanta (widow): They said we must feed 400 people to honour my husband’s soul.
Madhukar: What would your husband have asked?
Shanta: “Buy school shoes for the kids.”
Madhukar: There is your ritual. Buy shoes for twenty children. Write their names in your diary, not on a banner. Grief deserves dignity, not a sound system.
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Act 12 — The Forward Factory
Uncle: I only forward facts about our glorious past. Youth must know.
Madhukar: Two-click audit.
Click 1: Did I verify this with a credible source?
Click 2: Did I serve someone in the last 24 hours?
If either answer is no, your forward is a proxy for emptiness. Replace one daily forward with one daily call to a lonely relative. That’s heritage.
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Act 13 — Panchayat Case: Two Adults, Many Elders
Panch Member: A girl eloped. Honour issue.
Madhukar: Honour is how well we protect the weak. Two-adult rule: if they are legal adults, the village’s role is safety, not approval.
Draft a three-line Village Constitution:
1. We protect adults’ safety even when we disagree.
2. We do not blackmail with food, job, or land.
3. We talk first, punish never.
Traditional values are values only when they reduce harm.
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Act 14 — The Young Monk
Young Monk: Renunciation gives clarity. Shouldn’t the world obey the wise?
Madhukar: Wisdom that needs obedience is still hungry. Try Shadow Service: for three months, you will clean the public toilet at 5 a.m. in plain clothes. No one should know it’s you. If your joy increases, stay a monk. If your frustration rises, you were in it for the spotlight.
Monk: (smiles) Where do you get these cruel experiments?
Madhukar: From the mirror.
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Act 15 — The YouTuber
Vikas: My channel exposes pseudo culture. I roast them. Good engagement.
Madhukar: Replace one roast per week with a build: repair a pothole live; crowdsource bus-stop shade; publish a how-to. Roasting is calories; building is nutrition. Viewers will drop at first; keep going. The right ones stay.
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Act 16 — The Artisan
Weaver: Our heritage is dying. People don’t value handloom.
Madhukar: Heritage is alive only if it can be taught. Start a Sunday Open Loom—anyone can learn weft for ten minutes. Tie it to use: weave school-bag straps, not just shawls. Culture that can’t enter the ordinary day becomes museum air.
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Act 17 — The Five Smells of Control
Madhukar: Quick recap—the smells that tell you control is entering the room:
1. Past Perfume: “In our time…”
2. Divine Outsourcing: “God will handle, you sit.”
3. Purity Panic: “Don’t touch, don’t mix, you’ll pollute.”
4. Honour Badge: “What will people say?”
5. Password Culture: “This is our way—no questions.”
When you smell these, open a window with verbs.
Aarav (kid): And if the room still stinks?
Madhukar: Walk out. A free nose is better than a perfumed cage.
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Act 18 — The Seven Counters (Toolbox)
Madhukar: Tools you can use today:
1. Rotation of power roles at home, school, office.
2. Minutes with Verbs—every promise has an action and a date.
3. Decision’s Broom—decision-maker cleans something.
4. Queue Equality—no VIP lines in community events.
5. Anonymous Half—half the charity without photos.
6. Outcome Diary—track results, not feelings.
7. Bridge Pass—access via service, not surname.
Ajja: Put that on a poster.
Madhukar: Better—on your fridge.
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Act 19 — Night Tea, Soft Thunder
(Rain begins. People huddle closer. The neem leaves hiss.)
Meera: You keep saying “verbs.” What if people laugh at us?
Madhukar: Let them. Laughter is often the first tax honest work pays.
Raghav: What if family says we are abandoning culture?
Madhukar: Say, “We are bringing it home.” Culture without kindness is costume.
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Act 20 — Micro-Experiments (Everyone picks one)
Madhukar: Choose one experiment for seven days. Small, boring, real.
Raghav: I’ll do the Summarise-before-Reply rule with my daughter.
Meera: Rotation of who serves food.
Mahesh: Bridge Pass for the hall via drain-cleaning.
Principal: Quiet Doing period daily.
Dev: Two-Chair meeting and Minutes-with-Verbs.
Suresh: 50% anonymous spending; guru in normal queue.
Ravi: Prepare a clinic vs gate cost-outcome sheet.
Committee Head: Silence hour + first-aid swap.
Asha: Outcome Diary for Papa.
Shanta: Shoes-not-sound memorial.
Uncle: Two-click audit; one daily care call.
Panchayat: Draft three-line constitution.
Monk: Shadow Service at 5 a.m.
Vikas: One build video a week.
Weaver: Open Loom Sunday.
Madhukar: We meet in a month. Bring numbers, not adjectives.
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One Month Later — The Same Courtyard, Fewer Chairs Empty
Raghav: My daughter speaks less loudly. I also. We fought only once this week.
Ananya: He repeats my point first. Sometimes wrong. But he tries.
Meera: Rotating serving duty led to rotating cooking. My son made upma. Burnt. We ate.
All laugh.
Mahesh: The hall was used by drain-cleaners and street sweepers. Two weddings happened there without fees. I received scolding from my uncle. I slept well.
Principal: Cheating complaints fell by 40%. Children started asking for more dustpans.
Dev: After the broom rule, two seniors requested to sit on normal chairs. Minutes with Verbs cut our meeting time by a third.
Suresh: Anonymous half was painful. Donations dropped for two weeks, then a different kind of donor came. Quiet people. Our langar line has only one queue now. Guruji stood in rain. He smiled.
Ravi: Clinic proposal went viral in our ward. Party elders are pretending it was their idea. I’m fine—patients will not care whose idea it was.
Committee Head: Silence hour felt odd for three days, then beautiful. We trained 70 first-aid volunteers. A boy’s life was probably saved during the visarjan rush.
Asha: Papa prays while doing ankle circles. Steps increased from 300 to 1,800. He complains less. He blesses the physiotherapist now.
Shanta: Twenty children wore new shoes. I cried alone. It was enough.
Uncle: I forward less. I restarted my old harmonium class for three kids. Peace came to my thumbs.
Panchayat: The constitution was read during a quarrel. Voices softened. Two adults returned safely. Some villagers still gossip. Let them.
Monk: Toilets at five a.m. taught me more than scriptures. I am still a monk, but quieter.
Vikas: My build videos get fewer likes, more thank-yous. A bus stop now has a shade.
Weaver: Open Loom Sundays are crowded. A software engineer’s belt has handloom weft now.
Madhukar: Keep your experiments boring. Boredom is proof you are doing real life, not a stage show.
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Three More Months — Layered Ripples
The clinic plan is sanctioned. The donor’s name sits on a plain refrigerator.
The festival committee keeps the first-aid chest open year-round. They logged 19 wound cleans and 3 asthma helps.
The school’s “Quiet Doing” spreads to two neighbouring schools. Children invented a “thank-you wall.”
The ashram now posts monthly anonymous outcomes: “households fed—116; girls’ fees—7; photos—0.”
The Panchayat’s three-line constitution is painted on the bus shelter. Someone added a fourth line in chalk: “We protect curiosity.”
The caste hall is booked by a mixed group teaching repair skills. The elder who opposed it now brings tea.
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Late Night — A Smaller Circle
Madhukar: Today’s thesis?
Raghav: Empty people borrow the past to control the present.
Meera: We broke that by moving from slogans to chores.
Ananya: From God as weapon to God as witness.
Mahesh: From surname access to service access.
Principal: From morality speeches to silent verbs.
Dev: From authority to responsibility.
Asha: From hope alone to hope plus habit.
Monk: From renunciation of things to renunciation of privilege.
Madhukar: Good. Keep one private practice each; don’t post it. Culture should first live where no camera fits—the heart, the kitchen sink, the broom closet, the toilet at dawn.
Ajja (softly): Kannada line my father loved—
Śānti enḍare śabda illada dhairya.
(Peace is courage without noise.)
Silence. A dog barks far away. Someone pours more buttermilk.
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The Oath of Ordinary Days (everyone repeats, slow)
I will measure my devotion by what it does.
I will not use the past to cage the present.
I will choose service over status when they fight.
I will not demand what I do not give.
I will let culture be a verb in my street before it becomes a banner on my street.
Madhukar: That’s it. Keep it boring. Keep it kind. Keep it moving.
Curtain: the neem throws a darker shadow as the evening lamps come on. The courtyard empties slowly—someone takes the broom without being told.
The Man Who Had Nothing, Gave You God
The man who had nothing to offer
stood up on a dusty platform
under a banyan tree,
and with cracked lips and hollow pockets,
he gave you religion.
Not food, not bread, not shelter,
not answers—
but a chant, a slogan,
a cage wrapped in incense smoke.
He gave you tradition like handcuffs,
polished with oil,
blessed by priests
who themselves begged for survival.
He gave you culture—
but only the kind
that told you who must sit on the floor,
who must eat last,
who must never ask why.
And you took it.
You wrapped it around your children,
tighter than their school belts,
you said,
“Don’t question. Fold your hands. Obey.”
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Look closely.
Every father who cannot explain his failures
becomes a preacher of obedience.
Every mother who cannot rebel
teaches her daughter silence as a virtue.
Every teacher who cannot inspire
quotes a scripture to keep order.
This is how the rot spreads.
Not from palaces,
but from kitchens, classrooms, and prayer rooms.
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The man who had nothing to offer
learned quickly:
fear sells better than truth.
Tell them of hell,
and they will never ask for heaven here.
Tell them of karma,
and they will endure a beating quietly.
Tell them of tradition,
and they will carry your weight forever.
And so the game began:
priests in temples,
netas in parliament,
parents at dinner tables,
bosses in offices—
all chanting the same recycled hymns.
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India learned it well.
We built temples taller than schools,
we poured milk on stone while children starved.
We carved gods into rock
but never carved equality into law.
We taught women to cover their bodies
but never taught men to cover their greed.
We prayed for peace,
but built armies.
We worshiped truth,
but banned questions.
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Listen—
when a man has nothing to give you,
he will give you God.
When a woman has no voice,
she will whisper tradition.
When a leader has no plan,
he will sell you culture.
And you will clap,
because clapping is easier than changing.
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But the truth,
the aching, stubborn, Bukowski truth is this:
you don’t need their god,
you don’t need their culture,
you don’t need their fossilized traditions.
You need bread.
You need time with your child.
You need love without a ledger.
You need freedom without a priest’s permission.
You need a life not ruled by
dead men’s memories.
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The man who had nothing to offer
is still here.
He lives in your father’s scolding,
in your mother’s silence,
in your boss’s speech,
in your neta’s fake patriotism.
He will stand at your funeral
and say,
“He lived by tradition.”
But he will never tell the truth:
that you lived in fear,
that you lived in chains,
that you lived without living.
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So tear it down.
Not god, not culture, not tradition—
but the chains made of them.
Let your children ask “why.”
Let your wife walk free.
Let your father admit he was wrong.
Let your mother dream beyond her kitchen.
Let temples feed,
not hoard.
Let scriptures guide,
not choke.
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Because in the end,
the man who has nothing to offer
can only keep power
as long as you keep kneeling.
Stand up,
and his god falls silent.
Stand up,
and his culture crumbles.
Stand up,
and tradition becomes memory,
not prison.
Stand up—
and you will finally see
that nothing was sacred,
except the life you were too scared to live.
---
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