A Conversation at Dusk in Mysore

It was seven in the evening, the sky softening into a tender twilight, when I settled with my dear friend—both of us middle-aged, grinning at time’s quiet jest—at a beloved nook in Mysore. Our words spilled freely, weaving through frustrations, the world’s stumbles, family burdens, and the small victories we cling to.

Our parents once scolded us for eating out, their voices sharp: “Too lazy to cook?” Now, Swiggy and Zomato tap at our doors, whispering, “Stay put; we’ll bring the feast to you.” Time coils around us like a vine, slipping past as we linger in procrastination. We rue the missteps of 2014, unable to wrest control from these conveniences, all while the sun dips low.

A gnarled, fruitless mango tree loomed over us, its branches swaying as if chuckling—“drunkards,” it seemed to taunt. A mini-series set dangled from its limbs, an odd adornment. Rain teased the air, clouds gathering like fragile hopes, only to be swept away by cyclone winds. A farmer nearby mourned the lost downpour, his fields parched, while others shrugged, lifting their glasses. “If it hasn’t rained yet,” they laughed, “I’d be home, happily drunk by now.”

Our talk darted like fish in a stream, settling on money—the eternal riddle. We unraveled its pull, its weight, in words that sank deep and lingered.

Money threads everything: Modi’s note-ban chaos, Reliance edging out HAL, Jet Airways’ pay cuts, GDP’s restless sway, a government deaf to farmers, jobless youth with empty hands, shadowy groups’ sly charity, tax woes, sinking firms, politicians’ brimming pockets, film producers’ bets, cricketers’ fortunes, TV’s gloss, and the grind of schools and colleges. A mere glimpse of the weave.

I need to build a house—I need money. I need to marry—I need money. I need to educate my children—I need money. I need to travel for my daughter’s birth—I need money. I need to fix my car—I need money. I need to treat the family to dinner—I need money. I need a drink with friends—I need money. I need toys for the kids—I need money. I need fresh milk, good greens—I need money. I need a phone, a recharge—I need money. I need to pay the bills, the loans—I need money. I need health, a hospital bed—I need money.

These threads bind us all. Yet why don’t we teach our children how to hold them? We tell them money matters, urge them to chase it, but never how to wield it wisely. I feel this in my bones.

“Where are we going?” I ask my neighbor. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Everyone’s going, so I am too.” We still nudge our kids toward doctorates and engineering, as if those are the only stars. But I’m past that. The next generation will see—not everyone needs to be a doctor or engineer, I smile.

It dawned on us: money is the root we’ve all chased. Twenty years in IT, perched in respectable seats, and what have we done? Run after coins. “Cheers,” we murmured, our glasses clinking—a hollow, tender sound in the dusk. Our eyes locked, a silent pact in the fading light. “What’s next?”

Eyes turned toward us, drawn by our glow—a lantern flickering in the dark. Had we lingered, its warmth might have reached us too.

Stepping into the hotel’s cramped toilet, I sighed, the weight settling. Outside, two women scrubbing dishes traded whispers: “How much do you earn?” one asked. “What if you worked elsewhere?” the other breathed, soft as a secret. Their words mirrored ours, a humbling echo. A sharp knock rattled the door—“Oh, this isn’t mine!” I laughed, stepping out to the waiting line, the night still alive with quiet truths.

Maybe next time, we’ll sip not just to money’s tune, but to dreams—ours, theirs, the ones yet to bloom.