A Comedy of Errors - Part 1

The Man Who Never Won

Raghav wasn’t unlucky in dramatic ways.
No lightning strikes. No slipping on banana peels.
His misfortune was far more committed than that.

He was the kind of man whose alarm rang after the interview time, whose résumé printed with page numbers but no name, and whose umbrella worked perfectly—only when it wasn’t raining.

At thirty-four, Raghav lived alone in a rented room that smelled faintly of old newspapers and disappointment. The room had one chair, one bed, and one mirror that reflected him honestly—too honestly. Every morning, he stood in front of it and adjusted his shirt as if something interesting might happen if he tried hard enough.

Nothing ever did.

He was an introvert, not the mysterious kind.
The forgettable kind.

At social gatherings (rare events, mostly weddings of distant cousins), people forgot he was present even while talking to him. Once, someone apologized to him for bumping into a chair—while Raghav was standing right there.

He had exactly two friends:

• One had moved abroad and replied to messages once every six months.

• The other borrowed money and forgot Raghav existed immediately after.

Raghav didn’t complain. Complaining required energy. He preferred silence.

Every morning, he opened job portals with the hope of a man who knew better but tried anyway.
“Urgently hiring,” the ads said.
Urgent enough to ignore him completely.

By evening, he returned home, removed his shoes carefully, and sat on the edge of his bed like a man waiting for instructions that never arrived.

Yet somehow—somewhere deep inside—Raghav still believed tomorrow might be different.

Tomorrow usually disagreed.