The Illusion of Legacy — A Dialogue with the Hermit
- Madhukar Dama
- 1 day ago
- 3 min read
Setting: A remote hillside place in Karnataka. A quiet fire crackles outside the mud hut of Madhukar, the Hermit. A wealthy, urban family of four — Raghav (58), his wife Sharvani (55), their son Vedant (32), and daughter-in-law Aarya (29) — sit before him, visibly proud yet anxious.
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Raghav:
We’ve built our legacy brick by brick, Madhukarji. A successful business, respect in society, even our family name—people look up to us. But now, in my old age, I feel an unease. Like all this... may not last.
Sharvani:
We’ve raised Vedant to take the torch forward. He’s trying. But... there’s something missing. A quiet fear that we can’t explain.
Vedant (restless):
It’s not easy. We’re in a different world now. I’m trying to keep the brand alive, expand it. But... legacy? Sometimes it feels like we’re chasing a ghost.
Aarya (whispers):
Sometimes, I feel like we’re prisoners of their dream.
Madhukar (smiling gently):
You have come with full hands and empty hearts. You built castles in time’s sand, but the tide is returning.
Raghav:
But isn’t it natural, even noble, to want your lineage to flourish? To pass on values, name, wealth?
Madhukar:
It is natural. Just as it is natural for the fruit to fall, the tree to die, and the forest to renew itself. But noble? That depends.
Do you seek to serve the river of life, or do you wish to bottle it up and name it after yourselves?
Vedant:
But without legacy, what meaning is there? What’s the point of everything we build?
Madhukar:
Let me ask you, Vedant—have you read Sir John Glubb’s The Fate of Empires?
Vedant:
I’ve heard of it. Haven’t read it.
Madhukar:
Glubb studied thirteen empires—Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Mughals, British... All of them rose with courage, peaked with commerce, decayed with comfort, and fell with arrogance.
Each believed they were eternal. Each faded into footnotes. Even the builders of pyramids couldn’t preserve themselves from the erosion of time.
Sharvani (softly):
But what about family lines, not empires? Surely, a family legacy can last?
Madhukar:
Can it? Tell me, whose family lineage do you belong to from 800 years ago?
Raghav (confused):
I don’t know. Maybe my ancestors were landowners in northern Karnataka.
Madhukar:
So much effort, so much pride. And in just eight centuries—forgotten.
Now, look ahead. Eight centuries from now—do you imagine your great-great-great-grandchildren will know your name?
Aarya:
Probably not.
Madhukar:
Then why this madness to outlive yourselves through others? Why this fear of dissolving?
Vedant:
Because disappearing feels like death.
Madhukar:
Disappearing is death. And yet, death is not disgrace—it is the soil’s way of birthing the next tree.
Trying to force your name upon the future is like shouting into a storm—no echo returns.
But live rightly, honestly, fully now, and your fragrance, not your name, shall linger in the wind.
Raghav (silent for a long while):
Then what should we do with this empire we’ve built?
Madhukar:
Serve with it. Heal with it. Feed with it. Free with it.
Do not demand immortality from your children. Give them roots, yes—but give them wings too.
Sharvani:
And what of this emptiness inside?
Madhukar (looking into her eyes):
It is not emptiness. It is spaciousness. The tightrope of legacy has made your heart a prisoner.
Let go—and you will see: the sky has always been yours.
Vedant (tears welling):
So I don’t have to be the custodian of their dream?
Madhukar:
No. You must become the custodian of truth.
Live with purpose, not pressure. Create not for permanence, but for presence.
One who vanishes with a smile has lived rightly. One who clings to stone monuments dies a thousand deaths.
Aarya:
Then what shall we leave behind?
Madhukar:
Leave behind joy. Leave behind courage. Leave behind silence.
These need no surnames.
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(The family sits in stunned silence. The night grows deeper. The fire has dimmed. But something in their hearts—has quietly lit.)
--
Nameplate
they hang it on the gate
polished brass, big letters—
THE RAOS, EST. 1987
as if rust won't come,
as if wind gives a damn.
they breed sons
like insurance policies,
dress them in dreams
stitched from daddy’s pride
and mummy’s fear of being forgotten.
"make us proud,"
they say,
"carry the torch,"
they say,
but no one sees
the kid’s hands are burning.
they pour concrete over questions,
seal doubt in Tupperware,
keep it in the fridge
next to old wedding cake
and grandpa’s medicine.
legacy is a business
with no returns.
you invest your life,
your kids pay the debt,
and no one
really owns a thing.
one rain,
one riot,
one recession—
and your nameplate floats
like a dead leaf
down the street.