The Comfortable Lie

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Every evening, Ramasamy sat beneath the tea shop television like an unpaid prime-time anchor nobody had ever hired.

“Every one of them is corrupt,” he would announce, pointing at the screen. “Minister, party, manifesto....everything is a joke,” he told Selvam, the tea shop owner, as if Selvam were the nation’s official witness.

Selvam only nodded while pouring tea. “Tea, anna?”

Ramasamy waved him off. “Don’t even start. See this? Another scam. Share it to Murugan, da.”

Murugan, sitting on the next bench, barely looked up. “Anna, this is from last year.”

“Last year, this year...what difference? Same thieves in different shirts. Aiyo…”

His WhatsApp forwards arrived faster than election updates. Every political failure was stored in his memory like personal betrayal. Sometimes even forwarded twice, just to be sure the outrage landed properly.

When election day came, the street outside carried a strange celebration. Inked fingers, small flags, people returning from booths like they had done something meaningful.

Inside, Ramasamy stayed in a white baniyan, glued to the television.

“Aiyo… all drama only,” he muttered. “Voting changes nothing.”

“Aama… nothing only,” Murugan replied softly, still scrolling memes.

A knock came in the evening. It was Karthik from next door.

“Anna… which booth did you vote in?”

Ramasamy laughed, not even pausing the news. “Vote ah? I’ve never voted da… all of them are thieves only.”

Karthik raised an eyebrow. “Aiyo… appo how will the system change, anna?”

Ramasamy paused for half a second… then gestured vaguely at the TV. “Watch news channel da, stay updated, answers are hidden there only.”

Karthik didn’t laugh. He just stood there for a second longer than necessary, then turned away.

The TV kept shouting into the room, as if filling in for the silence he didn’t notice.

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