You Know Everything

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 — 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 “𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰” 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬; 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.

𝐈. You Were Born Knowing

A bird doesn’t join a flying class, yet it flies. A cow doesn’t attend school, yet it finds grass. A baby doesn’t study hunger, yet it cries for milk. Every living being carries natural wisdom.

You too were born with it. Your body knows when it is tired. Your heart knows when it is restless. Your conscience knows when you are pretending. Knowing is not given to you by teachers—it is built into you by life itself.

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𝐈𝐈. Why You Pretend Not to Know

So why do you act blind? Because admitting truth demands action. It is easier to say “I don’t know” than to stop overeating, stop lying, stop comparing.

Think of your daily life:

You keep scrolling late into the night, then complain you can’t sleep. You knew.

You shout in anger, then wonder why people avoid you. You knew.

You spend money you don’t have, then cry about debt. You knew.

You know, but you pretend not to. Because pretending delays responsibility.

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𝐈𝐈𝐈. The Trap of Helplessness

Pretending soon becomes habit. You start believing you are helpless. You wait for experts, influencers, gurus to tell you how to live.

You buy a diet plan that simply says: eat less junk, more vegetables.

You attend a workshop on “better sleep,” which only tells you: put away your phone.

You read self-help books that repeat: wake up early, move your body, be honest.

You didn’t need any of that. You already had the wisdom. You only lacked trust in yourself.

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𝐈𝐕. Ignoring Truth Has a Cost

Here is the bitter fact: Ignoring what you know doesn’t save you. It punishes you.

You know junk food harms, but you eat it—so sickness comes.

You know lies burn, but you lie—so guilt follows.

You know jealousy poisons, but you compare—so peace leaves you.

Your suffering is not from ignorance. It is from ignoring.

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𝐕. The Greed for Pain-Free Pleasure

The root is this: you want only sweet, never bitter.

Fitness without sweat.

Success without effort.

Love without heartbreak.

Life without loss.

This is greed. But life never comes in halves. Day brings night, joy brings sorrow, birth brings death. When you demand only sweetness, you close your eyes to truth and pretend you don’t know. That is the beginning of misery.

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𝐕𝐈. Your Inner Questions

Let me ask you now. Answer silently, without excuse:

Does your body not warn you when you overeat?

Does your mind not ache when you gossip?

Does your heart not feel heavy when you lie?

Does envy not sting you before it reaches the other person?

Does anger not burn you before it hurts anyone else?

Does fear not shrink when you finally face it?

Does kindness not bring you relief immediately?

Does silence not calm more than shouting?

Your body whispers, your mind reminds, your heart warns. You know.

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𝐕𝐈𝐈. The Bigger Picture: Society

This pretending doesn’t stop with health and habits. It spreads into society.

Everyone knows corruption destroys, yet people say, “What can we do?”

Everyone knows cheating weakens relationships, yet they do it.

Everyone knows endless consumerism empties the planet, yet they shop mindlessly.

Deep down, society also knows. But pretending fuels the market. Coaches, gurus, brands—they all sell back to you what you already know. And you pay for your own forgotten truth.

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𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. Existence Itself

At the deepest level, you know even this: life is temporary. You know death is certain. Yet you waste time in endless distractions, as if you are eternal.

Isn’t that the biggest pretending of all? You know time is short, yet you act like there is always tomorrow.

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𝐈𝐗. Living By Natural Knowing

Imagine dropping this act. Imagine trusting what you already carry:

Eating when hungry, not when bored.

Resting when tired, not when addicted to screens.

Speaking truth, not excuses.

Moving daily, not rusting in idleness.

Choosing silence over noise.

Accepting both joy and pain as natural twins.

This is how animals live. Simple, direct, whole. You too can.

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𝐗. The Final Spotlight

Now, you cannot pretend anymore. You have heard it all. From today, every time you say “I don’t know,” you will hear your own lie echo back.

The truth is simple: You know. You always knew.

The question is no longer “Do you know?” The question is: Will you trust what you know and live by it?

Because life is not waiting. Excuses don’t protect you. Action does.

So step out of pretending. Step into your natural knowing. And finally live.

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YOU KNOW EVERYTHING

-- a dialogue with Madhukar

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬

Madhukar – A man of the land. He lives off the grid, close to the earth, with a small kitchen garden, a goat, a few fowls, and a slow rhythm. He does not shout truths; he holds a steady light that shows people their own faces. He speaks simply, asks plainly, and waits for the truth to answer back.

The Comfort-Seeker (Ramu) – Soft-voiced, careful with effort, lavish with comfort. Wants ease and avoids pain. Loves stories of quick fixes.

The Overthinker (Leela) – A notebook always in hand. She collects methods and certainties but moves slowly toward action. She believes in perfect plans.

The Cynical Intellectual (Arjun) – Sharp with words, fluent in theory. Prefers nuance that hides simple responsibility. He mistrusts certainty.

The Victim-Player (Kavya) – Wears hurt like a shield. Blames family, society, fate. Finds safety in being owed something.

The Moral Pretender (Siddhu) – Polished, socially adept. Knows what is right but bends rules when needed. Calls compromise “realism.”

The Distracted Youth (Meera) – Bright, restless, phone always alive. Scared by silence, addicted to small jolts of attention.

The Old Realist (Bapu) – Older than most, carrying the slow regret of years. Simple words, heavy eyes. He admits what he did and did not do.

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𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

Dawn at Yelmadagi is a slow unrolling of light. Cool air smells of wet earth and cow dung cakes. A low mist hangs over the fields. At Madhukar’s homestead, the day is begun carefully: clay cups warmed with hot water, a small pot of steaming kashaya, the goat bleating, a rooster calling once and falling silent again. The dialogues happen only in the early morning — that sharp hour when the world is half-sleep and half-wake, when pretenses are thinner and mirrors show truer faces.

Visitors arrive by narrow paths, barefoot or in battered shoes, with minds heavy with questions and pockets light with excuses. They sit on the stone steps or under the neem tree while the sun rises slow and honest.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

Dawn One — The Comfort-Seeker

Ramu comes first. He moves like someone in a hurry to avoid pain.

Ramu: “Madhukar-anna, my joints ache. My stomach bloats. I take medicines, I take tonics. But nothing lasts. I don’t know why.”

Madhukar hands him a cup of warm water and waits. The water steams up like a small honest thing.

Madhukar: “What did you eat last night?”

Ramu (shrugs): “Something nice—pakoras, sweets. It was a celebration.”

Madhukar: “And the celebration happens at midnight?”

Ramu (half-smiling): “Well… we were having fun. It’s life.”

Madhukar: “Is fun only at midnight? Or is midnight just easier because no one tells you to stop?”

Ramu’s smile drops. The truth is a small stone in his shoe now.

Ramu: “I like comfort. I work hard sometimes, but I want ease too. Why should I suffer for health?”

Madhukar: “What you call ‘suffering’ is a short discomfort for a longer relief. Put your hand on the body: does it not whisper when you do wrong? Does your mouth not taste bitter after grease and sugar? Your body speaks. You act as if it is a stranger. You know the way, but you want the short cut.”

Ramu fidgets. He wants a recipe not a mirror.

Ramu: “Give me a recipe, then.”

Madhukar (softly): “Walking daily. Food before dark. Less fried, more green. Sleep when twilight comes. Speak truth. Move your body. These are not recipes. They are the way life moves. You resist because the first step is small and costly in a moment—less delight today for steadier delight tomorrow.”

Ramu listens, half wanting to disbelieve, half wanting relief. The morning is older now; a small heat finds the shoulder. He stays, because the homestead offers less illusion than the city.

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Dawn Two — The Overthinker

Leela arrives clutching a notebook full of lists: plans, courses, modules. Her eyes are careful.

Leela: “Madhukar, I read so many systems. Which one is right? There are diets, meditations, breathing methods. I don’t know where to begin. I fear picking the wrong one.”

Madhukar tosses a twig into the ash heap and watches the smoke.

Madhukar: “Do you fear wrongness or change?”

Leela: “Both. If I start and fail, I waste time. I feel I must gather enough knowledge first. When I have enough, I will act right.”

Madhukar: “Gathering knowledge can be a safe place to stay—knowledge without action is just memory. Consider this: a child learns to walk by falling. We do not give them manuals and certifications. Why do you wait for permission to stand when your legs already know the motion?”

Leela (defensive): “But context matters. My life is complicated. I have work, duties, family. What if a simple plan fails because of my situation?”

Madhukar: “Then you adapt. Is that not what life asks? We do not need perfect blueprints in the face of mud and rain. We need courage to try, to tweak, to learn from doing. Fear of wasting time is a clever cloak for fear of being wrong.”

She opens her notebook and closes it again, as if the paper cannot hold truth any longer.

Leela: “I think I want to start, but I don’t know how to choose the first small thing.”

Madhukar: “Wash one plate. Walk to the field. Close the phone for one hour. Tell one truth. Begin with one small thing. That is enough. When one small thing becomes habit, the mountain is crossed stone by stone.”

She laughs quietly, embarrassed at the simplicity. The notebook is heavier than the step.

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Dawn Three — The Cynical Intellectual

Arjun arrives later than others, with crisp shirt sleeves and a vocabulary that likes to sharpen arguments. The morning light seems indifferent to rhetoric.

Arjun: “Madhukar, I am interested in your way, but life is not primitive. We have systems—politics, markets, ethics tangled. The simple advice might sound fine, but does it address power, structures, inequalities? I don’t know if moralizing alone will solve systemic issues.”

Madhukar doesn’t answer immediately. He looks toward the fields where a farmer walks with a plough.

Madhukar: “Does a plough complain about the soil when the farmer turns it?”

Arjun: “The plough is not conscious—”

Madhukar: “Is a human so different? You use complexity to shield yourself from responsibility. You parse systems but avoid the act in front of you because the act is small and reduces your cleverness. Tell me this—do you not see that lying to your neighbor will warp your own speech just as corrupt systems warp societies? Is it not true that small, daily honesty is the seed of larger honesty?”

Arjun (irritated): “Reduce everything to the individual, and you escape the question of structure. I don’t know if simple habits change systems.”

Madhukar: “Systems are made of people. People are made of habits. Habits are made of choices. The grand theory is only as good as the daily action. Complexity becomes an excuse for inaction. You like nuance because it preserves your safety. But nuance can be dishonest too—when it lets you avoid the clear, accessible steps you already know.”

Arjun’s mouth tightens. He wants to counter, to introduce counterexamples, to show nuance. But the sun climbs, and with it his arguments feel smaller than his hunger for coffee.

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Dawn Four — The Victim-Player

Kavya shuffles in, shoulders rounded, voice already tired with complaint.

Kavya: “Madhukar, my life… my parents married me off early, my boss never listens, the city system is against me. I don’t know how to change. Who will help me?”

Madhukar reaches for a small bowl of kashaya and passes it without question.

Madhukar: “Tell me one small thing you can do today that will not require anybody’s permission.”

Kavya (bitter): “What can I do? I have debts. My children need money. I can’t just leave the house or the job.”

Madhukar: “You can breathe differently. You can walk to the well and carry one less load. You can speak truthfully to your child once. You can clean one corner of your house. You can stop blaming in small moments. These are small acts. They cost you nothing of the system. They cost you only facing fear. You confuse harassment with helplessness.”

Kavya: “But if I speak up, the boss will fire me. If I leave, I have no money.”

Madhukar: “Sure. Sometimes the brave act brings a cost. Sometimes silence brings a heavier cost. We measure courage by its weight. If your whole life is a ledger of blame, who learns to count the small credits that sustain dignity? You were not born to be a complaint. You were born to make small decisions that shape a future. Try one. Fail if you must, but do not treat waiting as a virtue.”

Her hands shake. Her eyes are wet. The morning birds continue their indifferent music. Kavya leaves with a different kind of heaviness — lighter with the thought of an inch of power.

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Dawn Five — The Moral Pretender

Siddhu arrives smiling, hands clean, a man who knows which belt to tighten to appease the rich and how to argue for policies that favor himself.

Siddhu: “You speak of truth and small acts. But Madhukar, we live in a world where compromise is survival. If I refuse a bribe, who will feed my family? If I do not bend, I lose opportunities. I don’t know if purity is a luxury I can afford.”

Madhukar looks at him and then at the shack where the goat feeds.

Madhukar: “When you take the bribe, who lives with you? You do. Whom do you see in the mirror at night? You do. You say it is for your family, but which family will be nourished by shame? You are selling your name for small coin. That coin buys nothing at the moment of death. Compromise is not always survival. Sometimes it is surrender. Sometimes it is gradual rot. You justify with survival, but you feel the sting, do you not?”

Siddhu (a flicker of defensiveness): “I don’t know any other way. My circle all does it.”

Madhukar: “Then you have chosen the company that fits your choice. ‘Everyone does it’ is a chorus of cowardice. Courage is not the absence of cost. Courage is choosing a cost you can live with later. You do not need to be heroic in every act, but avoid becoming a merchant of your own conscience.”

Siddhu’s smile is thinner now. The sun warms the courtyard. He gets up, pockets jingling with the sound of decisions half-made.

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Dawn Six — The Distracted Youth

Meera arrives last, breathless, eyes red. She holds her phone like a talisman.

Meera: “Madhukar-anna, I try to focus. I try to avoid the screen. But once I start scrolling, I can’t stop. I don’t even know why I do it. It helps me not feel alone.”

Madhukar offers her a bowl of steaming kashaya. He does not reach for the phone.

Madhukar: “When you are silent, what comes up?”

Meera (whispering): “I am afraid. Things I have done, things I have not done. Silence shows me myself.”

Madhukar: “So you use the phone as a wall between you and the mirror. A mirror is heavy. A wall is comfortable. Who taught you to fear yourself?”

Meera (ashamed): “The world, perhaps. People judge. I compare. I want applause.”

Madhukar: “Then practice not applause. Practice one hour of walking without sound. Sit near the neem tree. Listen to your breath. See what the mind brings. It will bring fear, sure. Let it come. It will pass like clouds. You will feel lighter. The phone is a drug that keeps you in a smallness you think is safety. It is a cage disguised as company. You know this in the space after midnight when the room is quiet.”

Meera’s fingers tremble, the phone light blinking at her. Slowly, in the hush, she puts it in her pocket and breathes, and the breath becomes a thin thread back to the self.

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Dawn Seven — The Old Realist

Bapu arrives slow, carrying the weight of years in his bones. He sits, legs folded, and looks at the circle of faces like a man reading the ledger of his life.

Bapu: “Madhukar, I will tell you simply. I knew. I knew that moderation was better than excess. I knew truth was light. I knew greed would hollow me. I said ‘I don’t know’ many times, because saying it made me soft. Now I sit with regrets. I cannot change long years. But is there any use in finally living the truth?”

Madhukar’s voice is gentle.

Madhukar: “Bapu, usefulness is not measured by years left. A single day lived well is richer than decades of noise. If you plant a sapling now, the shade will not be yours, but the world will be cooler. You can still do one thing: speak plainly to those you love, eat simply today, apologize where you caused pain, stand up in the small way you still can. Regret is heavy. Let it turn into action. Act as if every moment is a seed.”

Bapu’s eyes water, but not with sorrow only. There is a clarity settling on his face like dust falling to the ground.

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𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 — 𝐒𝐥𝐨𝐰-𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬

The morning stretches, and the circle tightens. Each visitor has been touched and pushed. Some resist more fiercely than others. Arjun’s questions become sharper as he seeks to preserve his cleverness. Kavya’s blame returns in softer ways, asking who will help when she acts. Siddhu bargains, bargaining with morality as if it were a market. Leela circles back to plans, asking how to keep momentum after the first day. Ramu returns to comfort, pleading for a method that does not demand daily sweat.

Madhukar answers each, not with lecturing, but with steady, practical counters:

To Ramu: “Set a morning walk you cannot skip — an accountability that is a ritual, not a decision every day.”

To Leela: “Make the first act ridiculous and simple — a 10-minute clean of a corner — so the act is so small you can’t refuse it.”

To Arjun: “If you must debate systems, then act on one small system you touch — your household. Let politics begin at the table.”

To Kavya: “Find one hour where nobody’s demands matter. Use it as your hour to plan or rest.”

To Siddhu: “Make a private contract with your name. If you break it, the penalty is your choice — a public apology, a donation, something that makes the cost felt.”

To Meera: “Replace one hour of screen with a walk to the well. Start with 10 minutes if an hour scares you.”

To Bapu: “Tell your story to a younger person. Teach once, and the action will be seed.”

The visitors argue. Some promise, some laugh, some scoff. The homestead hears sound like weather — occasional gusts, then calm. The truth is not forced; it is nudged like a sleeping animal. Gradually, muscles of habit begin to twitch.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐬 — 𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐡

Madhukar repeats a lesson gently because habit needs repetition, not sermon.

Madhukar: “If you want to undo pretending, do not aim for grand gestures. Aim for simple, stubborn acts. The world is built from small turns: one truthful sentence, one meal eaten early, one hour without distraction, one apology.

Create rituals:

Morning water before phone.

One vegetable added to lunch.

Five minutes of quiet after tea.

A single question asked truthfully to someone you avoid.

A short walk without a phone.

These are not rules. They are invitations. Repeat them until they do not require force. Let your body take back its knowing. Let your heart find its weight. Let your mind taste the quiet.”

The visitors take this in. Some write in notebooks; some reach for pockets where phones sleep; some stand and stretch like men waking from long nights.

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𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 — 𝐀 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭, 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

As the sun climbs, the circle breaks slowly. There is no dramatic conversion — this is not a play with tidy endings. The slow burn means cracks have formed. Masks hang loose. A few promises are spoken, not loudly, but with a sound like seeds falling: “I will walk at dawn.” “I will tell the truth to my child.” “I will close the phone one hour.” “I will refuse one small bribe.”

Madhukar stands and stretches. He looks at each face with the same calm.

Madhukar: “You came saying, ‘I don’t know.’ It is the easiest lie to keep. The truth takes energy. But know this: the knowing has always been there. Your muscles remember. Your breath remembers. Your heart remembers. You have only been ignoring the living parts of yourself because the moment to act seemed costly. It is costly. Pay the cost willingly, and life will become lighter.”

Bapu laughs softly — not at anyone, but at himself.

Bapu: “I wasted time pretending. Better late than never.”

The others nod in different degrees of shame and relief. The path back to the world is not erased; each must walk it. The homestead will not hold them forever. It only sharpens the first step until walking becomes easier.

They rise. They touch Madhukar’s hand in thanks, in question, in doubt. The light is now full day.

Madhukar (as they depart): “When you say ‘I don’t know’ next time, let the voice in your chest speak back: ‘I do know.’ Listen to that voice. It will ask you to act. Act small. Act now. Act again. Life is not a test to pass; it is a habit to live.”

They leave, some immediately lighter, some carrying the old weight with a new corner cut into it.

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𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 — 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲

Later that week, letters arrive. A small report finds its way back to the homestead: Meera walked daily for ten minutes and felt calmer. Leela began with one plate washed each evening and noticed her fear of starting a project reduce. Ramu stopped the midnight snacks twice in a row and woke with less pain. Siddhu refused a small bribe and felt lighter — not triumphant, but honest. Kavya found two hours a week to sell vegetables in the market and felt the steadiness of money earned by her hand.

None of these are miracles. None are ideal. Each is a small stitch made on the cloth of their lives. The slow burn continued, unglamorous but real.

Madhukar sits on the verandah at dawn, watching the field work, listening to the slow unfolding of living. He pours water, feeds the goat, and smiles quietly when a neighbour drops by to say, “I walked today.”

Silence in the homestead is not emptiness. It is like the space between two breaths — full of the next action.

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𝐀 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤

This chapter-long dialogue is not the end of the story — only a beginning. It is a long morning: layered, practical, and patient. It shows how people who claim “I don’t know” are not without answers; they are without courage, ritual, or small action. The homestead near Yelmadagi is one place where that courage is practiced, not preached.

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YOU KNOW EVERYTHING, STUPID

you know everything, stupid.

don’t look away.

don’t act innocent like you just landed from the moon.

you’re not confused,

you’re pretending.

---

𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐲

you know late-night biryani makes your stomach heavy.

you know three cups of chai on empty belly burns your insides.

you know gutkha kills,

but you chew it at bus stops,

spitting red on the wall.

you know sitting on bikes all day makes your back ache,

you know a morning walk costs nothing,

you know clean food and water is enough.

but you wait for gyms, trainers, imported supplements.

you know your body cries for rest,

but you stay awake for IPL, reels, movies.

then in the morning you groan,

“I don’t know why I feel tired.”

shut up.

you know.

---

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐝

you know gossip rots your brain.

you know jealousy eats you alive.

you know anger burns you first,

long before it burns the other.

you know silence is medicine.

but you fear silence.

so you fill it with noise,

with serials, with WhatsApp forwards,

with fake arguments at tea stalls.

you know you waste time asking “how to?” for every small thing.

how to live? how to eat? how to pray?

as if your legs forgot to walk,

as if your lungs forgot to breathe.

you know.

but you hide behind “how.”

---

𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲

you know your parents grow old while you scroll reels.

you know they wait for your words,

not your excuses.

you know your children copy your habits,

not your sermons.

you know lies crack marriages,

but you lie anyway,

then cry when trust is gone.

you know your brother is jealous of your land,

you know your sister waits for your help,

you know respect is cheaper than fights.

still you fight.

then say, “I don’t know why families break.”

nonsense. you know.

---

𝐒𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲

you know corruption is poison.

you know giving bribe to RTO,

to police,

to tahsildar,

is digging your own grave.

but you still slip the note.

then you whine, “this country is finished.”

it is not the country, stupid.

it is you.

you know politicians are liars.

they hand you biryani packets before elections,

money folded in newspapers,

liquor bottles in the night.

you take it,

you dance at rallies,

you clap when they shout,

and later you complain, “I don’t know why leaders are corrupt.”

you know.

you sold your vote.

you know caste kills unity.

you know dowry kills daughters.

you know superstition cheats.

but you hide behind “tradition”

and then cry “I don’t know how society will change.”

you know.

---

𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲

you know loans are chains.

you know credit card is a noose.

you know EMIs eat your freedom.

but you sign papers for a new car,

a bigger flat,

a wedding show.

then you sit sweating,

“I don’t know why I am trapped.”

you know.

you know money is not peace.

you saw your rich neighbour fighting,

your uncle in hospital bed with fat arteries.

you know.

still you chase,

burning every night for more.

---

𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐧 & 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

you know God does not want gold crowns,

but you pour ornaments on idols

while beggars starve outside the temple.

you know loudspeakers at 5 am disturb the sick,

but you blast anyway,

and call it devotion.

you know true prayer is clean action,

not rituals done half asleep.

you know.

but drama is easier than truth.

---

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 & 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

you know life is short.

every funeral told you.

every garlanded photo on the wall warned you.

you know death is sure,

but you act like tomorrow is guaranteed.

you waste your days

in chai gossip,

in reels,

in endless complaints.

then when death taps your shoulder,

you will cry,

“I didn’t know life was so short.”

shame.

you knew.

---

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐰

truth is simple.

you don’t lack knowledge.

you lack honesty.

you lack guts.

you lack action.

you know everything.

your body tells you.

your heart tells you.

your conscience tells you.

but you shut your ears and say,

“I don’t know.”

enough.

stop the drama.

get up.

drink water.

walk.

refuse bribes.

speak truth.

hold your parents’ hands.

hug your children.

put down the phone.

live.

you know everything, stupid.

you always did.

---

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