THE PRICE OF ONE QUESTION
- Madhukar Dama
- Apr 16
- 6 min read
A Deep Dialogue Between Aarohi and Madhukar the Hermit
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SETTING:
Aarohi, 26, a young woman from a respected but rigid Indian family, visits Madhukar, an old hermit who lives alone near the edge of the forest. She walks barefoot, carrying the dust of rejection, and the weight of questions no one dares to ask.
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AAROHI:
You live so far away from everything, Madhukar.
It took me a day to reach here.
Why did you leave everyone?
MADHUKAR (smiling faintly):
I didn’t leave, child.
I was left behind — the moment I began to speak.
When truth becomes your language, silence becomes your address.
AAROHI:
That’s exactly what I feel.
All I did was ask.
One question. Just one.
At my cousin’s wedding, they were doing that ritual with the fire, the coconut, the turmeric...
I asked my aunt, “Why do we do this?”
She looked at me like I slapped her.
Her face changed.
Then the murmurs began.
By night, I was the girl who disrespects tradition.
By morning, I was the girl who disrespects family.
MADHUKAR:
That’s how it begins.
Not with violence.
But with exile from meaning.
---
CHAPTER I: RITUALS WITHOUT ROOTS
AAROHI:
I didn’t even mean harm. I wanted to know the meaning, the story.
What’s the use of following something blindly?
MADHUKAR:
But that’s exactly what they fear — your eyes opening.
In many homes, the rituals have long died.
Only their skeletons remain — clothed in gold, sung in Sanskrit, but hollow.
AAROHI:
They said it’s sacred.
But how can something sacred be threatened by one question?
MADHUKAR:
Because what they call sacred is not truth — it’s habit.
And habit does not like to be held up to the light.
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CHAPTER II: THE SILENCE AROUND VIOLENCE
AAROHI:
Then I asked another question.
At dinner, my uncle was drunk again.
I asked why we still invite him when he hits his wife.
Why we call it a “private matter” when the bruises are visible.
That night, my father slapped me.
Not for the question. But for the insult I brought.
To him. To his brother. To the family name.
MADHUKAR:
That’s not a family.
That’s a fortress built to protect a shared lie.
And your truth was a hammer to its walls.
AAROHI:
I tried to explain. I begged my mother to understand.
But she cried and said I was breaking her heart.
That we are women — we should bear things quietly, not stir up storms.
MADHUKAR:
Ah, the inheritance of pain.
One generation suffers in silence, and teaches the next to do the same.
The chain is called ‘culture’.
And you, Aarohi, were the first broken link.
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CHAPTER III: BELIEF SYSTEMS AND THE FEAR OF DISMANTLING
AAROHI:
Then came the beliefs.
I asked why we fear certain gods, why we donate money in crisis but never ask where it goes.
Why we touch feet of the greedy and call them gurus.
They said I was becoming “Western.”
As if the act of thinking is a foreign disease.
MADHUKAR:
No, child. You didn’t become Western.
You became awake.
And awakening is the one crime no system forgives.
Because when you ask about God,
you don’t just question temples.
You question control.
AAROHI:
But shouldn’t belief give us strength to explore?
Instead, it punishes us for doubt.
Is that real faith?
MADHUKAR:
Faith begins where fear ends.
What you saw in your home — was fear wearing a crown of devotion.
It is not faith. It is anxiety with rituals.
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CHAPTER IV: THE EXILE
AAROHI:
It’s been six months now.
No one calls.
My sister stopped replying.
Relatives pass me on the road like I’m infected.
Even my grandmother, who once sang to me, avoids my eyes.
MADHUKAR:
Yes.
Because you have become a mirror.
And mirrors make people flinch when they no longer like their reflection.
AAROHI:
I cry at night sometimes.
I think — maybe I should have stayed quiet.
Maybe I should have played along.
Would it have been easier?
MADHUKAR:
Easier, yes.
But not truer.
And a life without truth — is a slow dying in installments.
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CHAPTER V: THE LONELINESS OF THE AWAKENED
AAROHI:
I miss having someone to talk to.
Someone to understand.
I’ve become this… inconvenient presence.
Too intense. Too honest. Too much.
MADHUKAR:
You’re not too much.
You are the right amount of real in a world built on pretend.
But yes, the awakened walk alone —
at least until they meet other wanderers.
AAROHI:
Do they exist?
Others like me?
MADHUKAR:
Yes.
Scattered, scarred, silent — but radiant.
They live quieter lives.
Not out of fear, but out of understanding.
They have seen the crowd, and walked away.
AAROHI:
How do I find them?
MADHUKAR:
You don’t.
You become one.
And the others will see your light.
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CHAPTER VI: THE NEW FAMILY
AAROHI:
So I have to build again.
Everything.
Belonging, meaning, love.
MADHUKAR:
Yes.
But this time, you build from truth, not tradition.
From curiosity, not compulsion.
From courage, not guilt.
AAROHI:
What about them?
The ones I left.
Will they ever understand?
MADHUKAR:
Some might.
Years later, perhaps.
In the darkness of their own nights,
your questions may echo in them.
And if they ever return to you —
welcome them.
But never return to their cage.
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CHAPTER VII: THE FINAL QUESTION
AAROHI:
Then tell me, Madhukar —
Was I wrong to ask?
MADHUKAR (smiling deeply):
No.
You were alive.
And in a dying world,
being alive is the most rebellious thing you can do.
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CHAPTER VIII: THE HEALERS WHO WERE ONCE EXILED
AAROHI:
But there’s something strange I’ve noticed.
The people who never question — they’re the ones who keep suffering.
They cry in silence, they carry emotional bruises,
they pray for solutions but punish the ones who offer them.
Isn’t it ironic?
The questioners they exile… are often the ones who carry answers.
MADHUKAR:
That is the ancient wound of the world.
The prophets were exiled.
The healers were mocked.
The thinkers were burned.
You see, Aarohi —
Unquestioned life breeds suffering.
But the questioner who dares to speak
becomes unbearable to the comfortable.
AAROHI:
But I don’t want revenge.
I want to help.
Even now… I want my mother to feel safe.
I want my sister to be free.
I want the women in my family to stop living like background noise.
MADHUKAR:
That is your strength.
That’s what separates you from rebels.
You are not fighting to break.
You are breaking to heal.
The world fears the questioner because it senses the truth:
If we had listened to her, we could’ve healed.
But it’s easier to silence than to change.
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AAROHI:
So what should I do now?
Keep offering solutions to people who don’t want them?
MADHUKAR:
No.
Offer your presence, not your corrections.
Offer your clarity, not your conclusions.
And above all —
become the life you wish for them.
The ones who suffer will come to you, one by one.
Not when they are proud.
But when they are finally tired of pain.
And in that moment, they’ll remember…
the one they cast out was the one who cared enough to ask.
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“One Question Too Many”
they smiled when you folded the sari,
lit the lamp, bowed your head,
played along like a good little ghost
in their theatre of the dead.
but one day
you asked why the curtain never opens.
and that
was one question too many.
they didn’t scream.
they just stopped looking at you.
as if your voice had dirt on it.
as if your eyes had turned to knives.
you didn’t curse them,
didn’t burn the books.
you just stopped pretending.
and they called that war.
but let them keep their comfort cages.
you’ll walk barefoot into the woods.
because truth wears no sandals,
and exile is where the real ones live.
and maybe,
just maybe—
the ones who spit you out
will one day crawl to your fire
for warmth.
and you'll still let them in.
that’s the joke.
that’s the poem.
that’s the cost.
