A Comedy of Errors - Part 6

 

Texting: Raghav Enters a New Dimension

Raghav discovered very quickly that texting was harder than unemployment.

When Nisha sent,

“Good morning 🙂”

Raghav stared at it for six minutes.

“Good morning” felt too cold.
“Good morning 🙂” felt copied.
“Good morning!!” felt emotionally unstable.

He finally replied:

“Good morning.”

He immediately regretted the period. It felt aggressive.

Nisha replied with a meme. Raghav did not understand it. He laughed anyway—alone, quietly, just in case.

Their conversations developed a strange rhythm.

Nisha sent voice notes.
Raghav sent carefully constructed sentences that looked like legal documents.

She asked,

“What are you doing?”

He typed, deleted, retyped:

“Thinking.”

She replied:

“About?”

“Whether to reply quickly or after five minutes so I don’t seem desperate.”

She laughed. He could tell because she sent three laughing emojis, which made him nervous. Three felt serious.

They texted daily. About small things. Tea. Rain. Missed buses. She told him about her office frustrations. He listened. She liked that he didn’t interrupt with solutions.

Meanwhile, Raghav still attended interviews.

One day, he texted her:

“Interview went well.”

She replied immediately:

“Really?”

He clarified:

“No. But I reached on time.”

She sent a thumbs-up emoji. Raghav considered it emotional support.

That night, lying on his bed, Raghav realized something unusual.

He was still unlucky.
Still unemployed.
Still boring.

But now, someone waited for his replies.

And that felt dangerously close to happiness.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 4

 

Free Advice, No Refunds

Raghav didn’t ask for advice.
Advice, however, found him anyway—like spam emails and mosquitoes.

His aunt called one afternoon.

“So, still no job?” she asked gently, with the softness of a hammer.

“Yes,” Raghav replied.

“You should wake up early.”

“I do.”

“You should sleep early.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Ah,” she said wisely. “That’s the problem.”

She suggested astrology. Another uncle suggested motivation videos. A neighbor suggested marriage, because apparently a wife doubled as a career solution.

Raghav nodded through the phone, making sounds of agreement while staring at a crack in the wall that had been there longer than his hope.

That evening, he sat on his bed scrolling through motivational videos.

A man on screen shouted, “If you really want it, the universe will respond!”

Raghav whispered, “I’ve been sending reminders.”

Another video said, “Failing is part of success!”

Raghav counted. He had failed approximately 417 times. Success seemed to be stuck in traffic.

He tried affirmations.

“I am confident,” he told the mirror.

The mirror disagreed.

“I am successful.”

The mirror remained unemployed.

“I deserve happiness.”

The mirror flickered slightly, possibly laughing.

The next day, he followed one piece of advice seriously: dress well and walk in confidently.

He wore his best shirt and walked into a random office building.

“Do you have an interview?” the guard asked.

“No.”

“Then leave.”

Raghav left.

At night, lying on his bed, Raghav realized something comforting. Everyone around him was full of advice, but none of them were actually listening—to him or to themselves.

That thought made him feel strangely light.

He smiled. A small one. Practice, maybe.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 5

 

A Brief Encounter with Romance

Raghav did not believe in love.
Not because he was bitter—but because love required participation.

Still, after enough unsolicited advice, he downloaded a dating app. The app asked him to describe himself in one sentence.

He typed:
“Simple man.”

Then deleted it.
Too exciting.

He finally wrote:
“Introvert. Honest. Looking for something meaningful.”

The app responded by matching him with no one for three days.

On the fourth day, a match appeared. Her name was Nisha. Her profile said she liked travel, laughter, and ambitious people.

Raghav liked sitting quietly and waiting for buses.

They chatted awkwardly.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m between jobs,” he replied.

“Oh, like freelance?”

“No. Like unemployed.”

There was a pause. A long one. So long that Raghav wondered if the app had shut down.

She replied:
“That’s… honest.”

They agreed to meet.

The café was brighter than necessary. Nisha smiled warmly. Raghav nodded respectfully, as if attending a seminar.

“So, what are your dreams?” she asked.

Raghav thought carefully. “Stability.”

She laughed. He didn’t. That confused her.

“I mean… big dreams,” she clarified.

“Yes,” Raghav said. “A chair that doesn’t wobble.”

The conversation limped forward. He listened well. He spoke little. When he did, it was usually at the wrong time.

At the end, she said kindly, “You’re a nice person. Just… very serious.”

Raghav nodded. He had heard this before. It was the polite version of boring.

That night, she unmatched him.

After the café, Raghav did what he always did
he came home, removed his shoes neatly, and sat on his bed.

His phone lay beside him, silent.

He didn’t check the app again. He already knew how these things ended. Instead, he made tea, slightly too strong, and drank it without sugar. It tasted like realism.

Just as he was about to put his phone face down, it vibrated.

A message.

From Nisha.

“Hey… I’ve been thinking.”

Raghav stared at the screen for a full minute, convinced it was either a mistake or an emotional software bug.

Another message followed.

“You were very honest today. It felt rare.”

Raghav typed. Deleted. Typed again.

“I thought I was too serious.”

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

“You are serious,” she replied.
“But not fake. That’s… nice.”

Raghav leaned back against the wall. This was new. People usually left when they discovered him. They didn’t return with explanations.

“I don’t talk much,” he typed carefully.
“But I listen.”

“I noticed,” she replied.

Raghav smiled.
A real one this time. Small, but genuine.

He placed the phone beside him—not facedown.
For the first time in a long while, silence didn’t feel heavy.

It felt… shared.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 3

 

Networking, His Worst Nightmare

Raghav disliked people.
Not passionately—just efficiently.

So when his old college group suddenly became active with messages like “Let’s catch up!” and “Networking is important yaar!”, Raghav knew something terrible was coming.

The meet-up was at a café that described itself as “cozy and vibrant”, which meant loud music, uncomfortable chairs, and people pretending to be successful. Raghav arrived on time, which meant everyone else arrived late.

He sat alone for twenty minutes, practicing his nod of polite interest.

When his classmates finally appeared, they were louder, shinier, and clearly winning at life.

“So, what are you doing now?” someone asked him cheerfully—the most dangerous question in human history.

“I’m… looking,” Raghav said.

“Oh nice!” the man replied immediately, having already stopped listening.

Another classmate bragged about promotions, startups, and foreign trips. Raghav nodded like a dashboard toy.

Then came the networking advice.

“You should market yourself!”
“Be confident!”
“Just talk more!”

Raghav smiled thinly. Talking more had never helped him. Once, he spoke during a meeting and the company shut down three months later. Correlation, maybe—but still.

Someone suggested he hand out his résumé.

Raghav pulled out a carefully folded copy. He had printed five. All five were in his bag, damp from yesterday’s rain, now fused together like emotional baggage.

He handed one out anyway.

The paper tore in half.

“Ah,” someone said awkwardly. “Digital copies are better.”

“Yes,” Raghav agreed. “I believe in the future.”

As the evening ended, everyone exchanged contacts enthusiastically. Phones buzzed. Promises were made.

Raghav added five new numbers to his phone.

He texted them all the next day.

No replies.

Two weeks later, one replied accidentally—meant for someone else.

“Sorry wrong chat.”

Raghav stared at the message for a long time, then deleted the contact. It felt like cleaning a wound.

That night, he removed “Good communication skills” from his résumé.

Honesty, he decided, was easier.

A Comedy of Errors - Part 2

 

The Interview That Never Stood a Chance

Raghav believed in preparation.
Not because it helped—but because it gave him something to blame later.

On the day of his interview, he woke up two hours early, an achievement so rare that he stared at the ceiling in suspicion. He brushed his teeth carefully, wore his least-wrinkled shirt, and even ironed his trousers with a dedication usually reserved for farewell ceremonies.

The bus arrived late.
The auto refused to go.
A stray dog sat on his shoe and refused to move, as if sensing destiny.

By the time Raghav reached the office building, he was only five minutes late, which in his world counted as punctual. He stood before the glass doors, inhaled deeply, and stepped inside.

The receptionist looked at him kindly. That should have been his first warning.

“Interview?” she asked.

“Yes,” Raghav replied, handing over his résumé with both hands, like an offering.

She typed his name into the system. Once. Twice. Then frowned.

“Oh,” she said. “The position was filled this morning.”

Raghav nodded, as if this was information he had expected since birth.

“But… I got a confirmation mail yesterday,” he said, softly.

She smiled. “Yes. For yesterday.”

Raghav checked his phone.
The email was indeed dated yesterday.
He had spent the entire night preparing for an interview that had already happened—without him.

“Is there… any other opening?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

The receptionist paused, thinking hard. “Security guard?”

Raghav looked down at his résumé—MBA, certifications, years of experience.

“I faint at the sight of confrontation,” he said honestly.

She nodded. “Understandable.”

He left the building with the same dignity he had entered with, which is to say—none at all. Outside, it started raining. Of course it did. He opened his umbrella confidently.

It folded inside out.

A man ran past him, splashing water onto his trousers. The man apologized—to the umbrella.

Raghav stood there, rain dripping from his hair, trousers soaked, résumé turning into paper pulp. And for a brief moment, he laughed.

Not loudly.
Not happily.

Just a small, tired smile that said, Of course.

He went home and updated his job portal status to: “Available Immediately.”

Life, as usual, remained unavailable.

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.

Quiet Guilt

I never meant to scheme or take,
never reached for another’s place.
I stayed within my careful silence,
an introvert learning to exist gently.

Yet wanting more felt like a crime,
hope mistaken for cunning intent.
I stood still, said little, meant no harm
still somehow failed, still somehow bent.

Now guilt sits quietly beside me,
as if I was caught without a voice.
Not for what I did,
but for what I dared to wish.