'Life'

 Life – A Question Paper with No Option ‘None of the Above’

Welcome to Earth, baby human version 1.0!

Fresh out the womb, yet they ask—“Why so slow?”

You blink, you breathe, you burp, you bawl, 

But nah, no applause—"Did she say mumma yet at all?"

From one to three, you’re basically a potato with emotions,

But still, you're grilled with “What’s she learned?” promotions.

Speak a syllable, walk a step—

It’s a miracle if you aren’t labeled inept.

Then four to ten—ah, school, the holy shrine!

Where joy is taxed and marks define.

"Which class now?"—like you’re a damn product line.

Childhood? Oh that’s cute, but could you read this sign?

Enter adolescence, eleven to fifteen,

Hormones riot, pimples scream, dreams are caffeine.

"What will you be?" they ask with delight—

As if careers grow on trees watered by foresight.

From sixteen to twenty, you grind and you gasp,

Holding dreams like sand that slips through your clasp.

"So… made it yet?" they smirk with a grin,

Not helping, just hovering like debt collectors within.

Now twenty-one to twenty-five, the "Build Yourself" phase,

But society’s more interested in your take-home pay.

"Got a job or just wandering still?"

Because apparently passion doesn’t pay the bill.

At twenty-six, you breathe—but wait—

They bring out the shaadi plate.

"Settle now beta, career’s a side note,"

Because obviously, love and EMIs are written on the same boat.

By thirty, you’re probably somewhere—alive but attacked,

Success? Meh. But your hairline’s cracked.

"No car yet? Still renting a flat?"

Ah yes, because milestones come with a welcome mat.

At forty, you've learned to nod and smile,

While drowning in EMIs and denial.

Kids, bills, boss—your holy trinity,

And yet people ask, “When will you buy property in the city?”

Fifty comes in dragging a stiff back,

But no one claps, they just track—

"BP normal? Sugar high?"

Like health is now a subscription you forgot to buy.

Sixty is retirement, you're now ‘expired but mobile,’

A human kept running just another mile.

"How much pension?"—not how are you?

Because feelings are free, but money gets the view.

Seventy arrives with meds like morning tea,

And grandkids ask, “Did you fight in World War III?”

You’re treated like WiFi—useful when needed,

But otherwise ignored, tired, and unheeded.

And if by chance, you crawl to ninety,

Your organs playing hide and seek politely.

No questions now—they finally shut up,

'Cause God’s next in line to ask—“What’s up?”

And when you die—surprise!—it’s quiz time again!

"How long did she live? Was it peaceful or pain?"

Like your whole damn existence boils down to stats,

Not your laughs, your cries, or even your spats.

So here's life, ladies and gents—

A circus of questions and moral rents.

You never own yourself, just lease your skin,

While society pokes to check what’s within.

You’re a question mark in a human disguise,

Living for applause you never authorized.

So, breathe. Rebel. Leave some blanks on their sheet, 

You weren’t born to be a test they repeat.