Democracy in a Drop of Ink

Yes, I vote. Not just because it’s my right, but because it’s my subtle way of saying, “Hey, I exist. And no, I won’t just sit and crib about potholes while sipping chai.”

There’s something oddly satisfying about that indelible ink on your finger. It’s like a tiny superhero cape for your thumb — silent, proud, and slightly purple. It’s not just a mark, it’s a badge of responsibility. As my grandfather used to say, “Vote like your life depends on it — because, someday, it might.”

We often joke, “What’s the point? All are the same!” But imagine skipping your wedding because the buffet might be bad. No one does that, right? You go, you eat, you deal with the pineapple raita. Similarly, you vote, you choose, and if needed, you demand change. That’s democracy — deliciously messy, like mom’s kitchen during Christmas.

I once told a friend, “If you don’t vote, you lose the right to complain.” He laughed. Months later, he was stuck in traffic during a rally. I said nothing. Just showed him my inked finger.

Winston Churchill quipped, “The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter.” I say, “The best hope for democracy is a five-second decision to stand in line and vote.”

Thought to ponder:
If your single vote feels too small to matter, remember — so does a single matchstick… until it lights a fire.

So, ink it. Flaunt it. Own it.