YOUR PERFORMANCE IS PROPORTIONAL TO YOUR PENDING EMIs

A slow-burn, honest exposé on the invisible whip behind modern ambition

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Introduction:

Nobody says it, but everyone knows it.

The real manager in your life is not your boss.

It’s your pending EMIs.

That silent figure on your phone screen each month.

That SMS alert reminding you, "Payment due soon."

That number that decides how early you wake up, how long you stay quiet, how much you nod in meetings, how many lies you live with.

Let’s rip the mask off.

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I. The Real Fuel Behind “Hard Work”

You were not always like this.

You used to sing while working. You took long pauses. You questioned systems.

But now you hustle. You multi-task. You optimize. You "overachieve".

You are praised. You are promoted.

You are burning.

But the flame isn’t inspiration.

It’s the pressure cooker called monthly instalments:

₹38,000 home loan

₹11,000 car loan

₹6,700 personal loan

₹2,200 EMI for phone

₹5,000 education loan (still going)

What you call discipline is actually debt-fear in disguise.

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II. Loans Decide Your Life Path

You didn’t choose your job.

The EMI chose it.

You didn’t stay back in that city for growth.

You stayed because you bought a flat there.

And now the flat owns you.

You didn’t say yes to that transfer.

You said yes to survival.

How much does that “dream house” cost?

Not just in rupees.

It cost you your honesty, your time with children, your rest, your risk-taking instinct, your rebellion, your original thinking.

All for four walls and tiles on loan.

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III. The Myth of “Responsible Adulting”

They call it maturity.

But maturity now means becoming a debt slave.

You “settle down” not out of contentment, but out of exhaustion.

You sign up for a car not because your scooter died.

But because you fear shame.

Because your colleagues upgraded.

Because EMI made it “affordable”.

They say "live within your means" — but no one explains how your "means" are manipulated every day by:

real estate agents,

bank sales calls,

LinkedIn promotions,

cousin's wedding photos,

neighbour’s new car.

Now the EMIs manage you.

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IV. You Are Not Ambitious — You Are Cornered

The corporate world applauds your high performance.

But behind that performance is desperation.

A person with no EMI is dangerous —

He can walk out of the room.

She can say “no”.

They can switch fields.

They can protest.

But you? You just nod.

Because the home loan has a lock-in period. And so do you.

The dream wasn’t yours.

It was sold to you with clever advertisements and fake urgency.

You were told, “Why pay rent when you can own?”

Now you know — you don’t own anything.

The bank owns you.

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V. The EMI Keeps You Obedient

The one who has no EMI

– takes risks

– experiments

– heals slowly

– plays with children

– creates art

– speaks out

– disappears when needed

– heals people like you, without billing

But the one with EMIs?

He overperforms.

He never questions HR.

She avoids bold decisions.

She nods in every Zoom call.

They all say “yes sir” with swollen eyes.

Their spine is mortgaged.

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VI. Escape Is Possible, But Ugly

You want to escape? Then:

1. Don't take the loan in the first place.

No matter how easy it looks. Walk away from fake discounts and shiny tiles.

2. Sell what you can’t sustain.

It’s okay to give up a flat that’s draining your life.

What’s the point of dying in a house you hate?

3. Downshift.

Move to a smaller town. Use public transport. Cook your own food. Heal with kitchen remedies.

And slowly… one by one… cut your EMIs down.

4. Choose slowness over status.

A 30-minute nap with your daughter is more luxurious than a ₹20,000 imported curtain.

5. Prepare for ridicule.

Society will laugh. But remember — most of them are slaves in designer clothes.

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VII. Final Irony: The Banks Love Your Misery

You miss one EMI —

they call you 8 times.

You lose your job —

they don’t care.

You die —

they chase your widow.

You live poor —

they call it a “default”.

You earn less but live free —

they call you “unfit for credit”.

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Epilogue:

What if your performance is not something to be proud of?

What if it is a side-effect of your captivity?

You are not living — you are surviving.

Not for love. Not for joy.

But to keep a number ticking, a bank account happy, and a dream that was never yours alive.

It’s time to stop overperforming.

Start under-consuming.

Then maybe, just maybe,

you can breathe again.

And then, your real performance will begin.

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You Call It Growth – I Call It EMIs

A slow-burn, raw, honest conversation between two middle-class, high-salary employees — one still trapped, one slowly waking up

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Characters:

Kiran – 38, Assistant Vice President at an IT company, lives in a 3BHK flat in Bengaluru, earns ₹2.4L/month, drives a car on EMI.

Shyam – 41, ex-corporate employee, quit four years ago, lives in a small town now, runs a healing practice and grows some of his food, earns ₹40k/month, debt-free.

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Scene:

A quiet café near Manyata Tech Park, Bengaluru. Sunday morning. Soft sun. No noise. Just two old friends catching up after 5 years.

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Kiran (smiling):

Shyam! Finally, yaar! Four years and you vanish into the jungle or what?

Shyam (laughs):

Not jungle, da. Just silence. Grew a little food. Grew a little spine.

Kiran (grinning):

Still talking in riddles! But you look calm. I thought you’d struggle, quitting like that. No job, no security.

Shyam:

I thought so too. But you know what’s real insecurity?

Not being able to say "no" in a meeting.

Not seeing your kids wake up.

Fearing a missed EMI more than your own blood pressure report.

Kiran (chuckles):

Ah, that EMI. Don’t remind me. Home loan, car loan, kids’ school fees. I feel like I’m working just to keep my bank manager smiling.

Shyam:

Exactly. You’re not working. You’re serving your debt.

Kiran:

Come on, bro. It’s not slavery. I chose this life.

Shyam (leaning in):

Did you really choose? Or did they sell it to you with words like “dream house”, “smart investment”, “best school”, “secured future”?

Kiran (pauses):

I mean… I did want a better life than my father. We lived in a rented house, you remember?

Shyam:

Yes. But your father was never on anxiety pills. He slept like a stone. He never worked Sundays.

You sleep with one eye on your calendar.

That’s not growth. That’s a high-income cage.

Kiran (laughs nervously):

But you can't deny money matters. You live on ₹40k a month? With two kids?

Shyam:

Yes. But no EMIs. No eating out. Grow some veggies. Cook at home. Live slow.

Kids are homeschooled. They eat what grows. They don’t wear brands, but they sleep 10 hours.

I have fewer things. But more time. More breath. More truth.

Kiran (sighs):

Sometimes I envy you. But yaar, what about retirement, insurance, all that?

Shyam:

Your retirement is 60. Mine is now.

Your insurance is policy. Mine is immunity.

Your life is on paper. Mine is in my pulse.

Kiran (smiles faintly):

You think I can escape?

Shyam:

Start by listing all your EMIs.

Then list what you can sell, cancel, quit, delay, or question.

Then see how much you actually need, not how much you're chasing.

Kiran:

And what if my wife doesn’t agree?

Shyam:

Then wait. Heal together. Don’t fight. Don’t force. Just slow down. She’ll see.

It took me 3 years to convince mine. Now she teaches kids from the village and makes pickles for joy.

Kiran:

You make it sound easy.

Shyam:

It’s not easy. But it’s real.

And real is always worth it — unlike your ₹65 lakh flat you can’t leave for one day without tension.

Kiran (looking away):

The flat's leaking. Builder’s vanished. But I still pay.

Shyam:

Exactly. It’s not a house. It’s a punishment in EMIs.

---

(Long pause. The waiter brings filter coffee. They sip in silence.)

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Kiran (softly):

If I walk away, I’ll lose status.

Shyam:

You already lost your soul. What else is left to lose?

Kiran (half-smiling, half-aching):

You always slap without raising your hand.

Shyam:

Better I slap now than your heart slaps you at 46.

---

Scene fades. Kiran looks at his phone. 3 unread mails. One EMI reminder. He puts the phone face down. For the first time in years.

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Epilogue (Voice of Shyam):

They say salary is your price.

But EMI is your leash.

Break one. You break both.

And maybe, just maybe…

You’ll finally remember how to live.

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Can You Really Live Without EMIs?

A dialogue at Madhukar’s healing hut between a high-salary EMI-bound employee and his doubtful wife

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Characters:

Kiran – 38, Assistant Vice President at an IT firm, earning ₹2.4 lakh/month, paying EMIs worth ₹72,000/month.

Rupa – 36, his wife, MNC consultant, earning ₹1.9 lakh/month, emotionally burnt out, still holds on to societal expectations.

Madhukar – 44, low-profile natural healer, lives in a remote village, debt-free, earns ₹40,000/month through castor oil therapy and lifestyle counselling. Calm, firm, warm.

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Scene:

Madhukar's quiet hut on the edge of a farm. Early morning. Kiran and Rupa sit on a mud bench, sipping warm buttermilk with ajwain. A gentle breeze. Anju and Adhya are nearby, stringing guavas into a garland for the cows.

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Kiran:

Madhukar anna, I’ve been thinking about what Shyam said. He told me my performance is just EMI-fuel. I laughed then. But now I can’t un-hear it.

Rupa (frowning):

He’s exaggerating. Loans are part of modern life. We’re not wasteful. We’ve worked hard for what we have. Why should we feel guilty?

Madhukar (smiling):

No one’s asking you to feel guilty. Just asking — are you free?

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Kiran (quietly):

Honestly, no. I’m afraid to even take a long leave. We keep adjusting life around EMIs.

Rupa:

But we have responsibilities, Madhukar. Two kids, their future, aging parents. Downsizing now would feel like failure. Like punishment for being careful.

Madhukar:

Who told you frugality is punishment? You’re paying a punishment right now — ₹72,000 every month. In cash. And more in health. Time. Silence.

Kiran:

He’s right. We don’t even enjoy the house anymore. Builder cheated us. Repairs every season. Still, we pay like obedient prisoners.

Rupa (defensive):

But we chose this, Kiran. We can’t just throw it all away and go off-grid.

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Madhukar:

Nobody said off-grid. Just get off the leash.

Start small:

Sell one car.

Pause upgrades.

Cook instead of ordering.

Start saying “No” to expenses that come with shame-tags attached.

Rupa:

You mean—backtrack?

Madhukar:

No. Back home.

To yourself.

---

(Anju walks past with a small pot of warm castor oil. She whispers to Adhya, giggling.)

Anju:

Amma says city uncles are always tired because their houses eat them.

(Everyone chuckles quietly. Rupa goes still.)

---

Kiran (softly):

We didn’t even think of taking a second child. Too expensive. No time. No breath.

Rupa (tears quietly forming):

I miss who I was. Before everything had a cost.

Madhukar (gently):

You don’t have to destroy anything. Just start slowing down. Keep a 30-day expense log. See what’s needs, what’s noise.

Kiran:

And the EMIs?

Madhukar:

Make a three-year exit plan.

Sell liabilities.

Stop buying new ones.

Switch to simple food, simple school.

Walk. Heal. Talk. Touch soil.

And once EMIs go, real decisions begin.

---

(Rupa looks at Adhya playing with leaves and strings. She smiles faintly.)

Rupa:

And you really live on ₹40,000 a month?

Madhukar:

And live well. My daughters sleep early. I touch every meal before eating. I walk to the market. I laugh before I sleep. And I never panic on the 5th of the month.

---

(Pause. A cow moos gently in the distance. The sun rises just a little.)

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Kiran:

Can we come back after 3 months? With a log. And a plan.

Madhukar:

Come back lighter. That’s all. The rest will happen.

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(They leave silently. Rupa carries a small bottle of castor oil and a lot of unspoken thoughts.)

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Epilogue (Madhukar’s journal):

Some people heal with medicine. Some with silence. But the hardest healing is this — letting go of what you thought was your life. And beginning again.

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We Sold the House, Not Our Peace

One year later: Kiran and Rupa return to Madhukar. This is their final, honest follow-up.

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Scene:

Same hut. Same mud bench. But this time, Kiran and Rupa arrive walking, not in a car. They’re both dressed in simple cotton. Kiran carries a cloth bag with two loaves of sourdough and jaggery. Rupa carries soaked methi seeds in a glass jar.

Anju and Adhya are taller now. They run to greet Rupa. There’s warmth, familiarity, and something that wasn’t there last year — lightness.

---

Madhukar (emerging from the side hut, smiling):

You walked?

Kiran:

Took the bus till the temple. Walked last two kilometres. Felt right.

Rupa (smiling):

And light.

Madhukar:

Your faces speak. But I want to hear it in words. What happened?

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I. House, Car, and the Shame Game

Kiran (sitting down):

We sold the house. Took a 4 lakh loss, but cleared the loan.

Rupa:

Gave away most of the furniture. Moved into a rented 1BHK on the edge of the city. No maid. No microwave. No car. Just one old two-wheeler now. We even dropped the school — kids now go to a low-key cooperative one near our house. They walk.

Madhukar:

And how does it feel?

Kiran:

First month? Like we were dying socially.

Parents lectured. Colleagues mocked. Even neighbours asked if I was jobless.

Rupa (laughing):

Someone even offered us a used fridge out of pity.

Kiran:

But now? I’ve never felt more alive. My blood pressure is normal. I take deep breaths. I stop working at 5 PM. I actually read again.

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II. The Work Shift

Madhukar:

You still at the same job?

Kiran:

No. I resigned six months ago. Took a 50% cut. Joined a smaller rural-tech startup. No status. But flexible hours. Work ends by 4. I walk home.

Rupa:

And I took a break. Started teaching yoga to women in our colony. Not on Instagram — in real life. 6:30 AM batches. Methi water, laughter, real connection. Earns ₹9,000/month, but feels like ₹90,000.

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III. The Real Wins

Madhukar:

What did you gain?

Rupa (counting on fingers):

My sleep

My skin

My time with the kids

The way I enjoy breakfast now

The ability to say “no” without guilt

Kiran:

And my mornings.

Now I sit with our 8-year-old on the terrace every Sunday. We write one line about what we noticed during the week — ants carrying dead wings, or clouds changing shape.

I never had that kind of money-rich childhood. But now I’m giving it to him.

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IV. The Social Layer

Madhukar:

Do people still ask questions?

Rupa:

They do. But now we don’t answer.

We invite them for simple dinners.

Some leave, some stay. But now we have nothing to hide.

And nothing to repay.

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V. Kids and Future

Madhukar:

What about their future?

Still worried?

Kiran:

Not anymore. We realised we were paying EMIs to protect a future that wasn’t even real.

Now we invest in their immunity, their senses, their friendships, their breathing, their questions.

Rupa:

Their old school had AC classrooms and five apps.

Now they grow spinach in recycled paint buckets and ask why the crow keeps shouting near our window.

That’s future-proof enough.

---

(Adhya brings raw groundnut laddoos. Anju pours warm jeera water.)

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VI. The Final Word

Madhukar (smiling):

And what would you tell someone who says,

“But it’s not practical. You’re privileged to choose slow living”?

Kiran (firm):

We weren’t privileged. We were trapped. We just stopped lying.

Rupa:

It’s not a sacrifice. It’s an escape.

From overpriced lies, from performance addiction, from shame-based purchases.

Kiran:

All we did was remove EMI from our dictionary.

And suddenly, life had space.

---

(Long silence. Wind passes. A bird lands near their feet. No one moves to scare it away.)

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Epilogue (Madhukar’s voice, journal entry):

> They came with fatigue. They left with silence.

They sold the house, not their peace.

Their income shrank.

But their breath expanded.

And in that breath — life returned.

---

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The EMI Eats First

A poetic scream in silence.

The EMI eats first.

Before your child.

Before your wife.

Before your spine gets to stretch.

Before your lungs remember what air is.

You bow

not to God,

not to truth,

but to a notification from HDFC Bank.

---

You wear a tie not out of style —

but because shame has no drawstring.

You sit in ergonomic chairs

with crushed kidneys

and smiling profile pictures.

You work on Saturdays

to pay for Sundays you never live.

---

The apartment is beautiful,

but your laughter echoes like a loan rejection.

You bought it for “security”

but installed five cameras and three locks.

Even your doors are anxious.

---

There’s an altar in the living room

where Ganesha sits.

But he can’t stop

the interest from compounding.

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They say “it’s just a phase”,

“everyone’s doing it”,

“EMI is a sign of progress.”

Progress?

You age 10 years in 4.

You miss your daughter’s first poem.

You gulp food like email drafts.

You haven't touched soil in a year.

You haven’t cried —

but your liver has.

---

You say you’re a “provider”

but you forgot to provide

presence.

Your son stares at screens

because his parents are busy

chasing what a brochure promised.

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You say “I’m building a future.”

But who gave you this blueprint?

Who told you the price of adulthood is silence?

Who told you dreams

must be built with loans,

not love?

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Every morning,

you start the bike with 23 pending things in your head.

You wave at the milkman

like he’s more peaceful than you.

You smell your neighbour’s poha

and remember the time when

life smelled like that too.

---

And yet —

you wear the suit.

You join the call.

You say “Yes, sir” even when your soul

is saying No, please.

---

They gave you a promotion.

You smiled.

But something inside you whispered:

"More EMIs."

---

You want to run.

You want to scream.

You want to sell the damn house.

Buy a bicycle.

Grow tomatoes.

Live like your Ajja did.

But the car loan

says no

like a strict warden.

---

You try to escape on weekends.

But even your picnics are EMIs.

Resort booking,

fuel cost,

child’s Instagramable outfit.

You pretend to be free

on Saturdays.

But your face still belongs to a banker.

---

You remember when

your Amma used to fix torn vests

and still laugh.

Your Appa walked five kilometres

and still sang in the evening.

Now you drive a Ciaz,

but forget lyrics.

You say “Alexa, play something calm.”

And even that sounds like defeat.

---

You once danced in rain.

Now you check if your phone EMI is paid

before you check the weather.

---

And then

one day

you meet someone.

Someone who says:

“I have no EMIs.”

“I sleep early.”

“I live in a rented house with no shame.”

“I eat leftover rice and raw onion and feel rich.”

“I earn ₹30,000 and feel kingly.”

And suddenly —

your 6-figure salary feels like a choke chain.

---

You want out.

But you don’t know where to begin.

You look at your wife.

She’s tired of keeping up the kitchen.

You look at your child.

She draws a house with birds flying —

not like your flat,

not like your gated cage.

---

You begin small.

You cancel Netflix.

You cook twice a day.

You walk instead of scrolling.

You sell that extra phone.

You start saying No.

Not to others.

To that thing inside you

that’s addicted to false pride.

---

It’s not easy.

You cry one night

silently,

in the bathroom,

when no one sees.

Not because you’re broke.

But because you’re finally healing.

---

You start counting breaths

instead of bills.

You tell your boss:

“I want half the salary, double the time.”

You resign.

You grow tulsi.

You fix your child’s slipper

with fevibond

and smile.

---

And then,

one evening,

after one year —

you sit barefoot.

The earth is warm.

The tea is light.

The noise is gone.

You are still middle class.

Still uncertain.

Still figuring out.

But finally,

the EMI doesn’t eat first.

You do.

You breathe.

And the breath is yours.

---

[End.]