People say they want honesty. They demand it. They post about it. They frame it on their office walls. “Speak the truth,” they declare with moral authority, usually while hoping nobody actually does.
Because the moment someone does, the room changes temperature.
Let us imagine a simple family gathering. Everyone is praising aunty’s famous biryani. It looks magnificent. It smells magnificent. It could possibly be used to repair potholes. Into this warm atmosphere steps the truth teller. He takes one bite and says, “Is it slightly undercooked?”
Silence.
Forks freeze mid-air. Children are pulled closer. Aunty looks as though she has been personally betrayed by democracy.
Nobody asked for honesty at that point. What they wanted was reassurance. Comfort. Applause. A collective agreement that everything is perfect and always has been.
Truth is like switching on a bright tube light in a room designed for candlelight. Nobody looks flattering. The wallpaper peels. The dust becomes visible. And immediately the person who switched on the light is declared insensitive.
In offices it is worse. The boss presents a brilliant new plan that has more holes than Swiss cheese. Everyone nods enthusiastically. Then the truth teller clears his throat and says, “Sir, have we considered the budget?”
From that moment, he is no longer Ravi. He is “Negative Ravi.” He will not be invited to brainstorming sessions again. His appraisal will mention that he needs to work on team spirit.
In politics the same rule applies. Citizens say they want transparency. Then when someone points out uncomfortable facts about rising prices or shrinking opportunities, he is labelled dramatic, foolish, or unfit. It is easier to give him a nickname and laugh. Much easier to call him Papu than to examine whether what he is saying has uncomfortable merit.
And now perhaps one begins to understand why someone in the country, frequently dismissed with that very nickname, slowly becomes unpopular. Not necessarily because he is wrong, but because he keeps interrupting the music. He keeps pointing at the crack in the ceiling while everyone else is busy admiring the chandelier.
The truth teller does not ruin the party. He merely removes the background music so people can hear the structural noise.
But here is the irony. When prices pinch harder, when opportunities shrink, when promises fade, the same room that once laughed will grow thoughtful. And somewhere in the silence, someone will whisper, “He was right, wasn’t he?”
The truth teller will still be there. Unpopular. Slightly lonely. But strangely calm.
Because while lies provide cushions, truth provides foundations. And cushions are comfortable only until the building falls…!bobsbanter@gmail.com