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.

The Moment of a Smile

It wasn’t loud or meant to stay,
just a curve upon your face.
Yet in that second, time grew soft,
and the world found a better pace.

No words were needed, none could do,
what that quiet warmth achieved.
A fleeting smile, a lasting light,
left my heart lighter than it believed.

A smile—so small, yet whole enough
to turn a moment into grace.

Where Silence Learned to Love - Part 2

 

The Language of Small Things

Days passed, then weeks.

Nothing changed on the surface.
Same classrooms. Same benches. Same rules written not on paper, but in the air they breathed.

Yet something had shifted—softly, like a curtain moving in the wind.

Ananya began to notice small things.

Arjun always reached the college gate ten minutes early. Not to meet anyone—just to stand aside and read the notice board, as if punctuality itself was a form of discipline taught at home. She imagined his mother reminding him, “Good boys don’t give reasons for people to talk.”

In class, whenever the lecturer asked a question, Arjun would answer only if he was sure. No showing off. No hunger for attention. His voice was steady, respectful—like someone raised to speak only when needed.

Ananya never looked at him directly.
Looking felt like crossing a line.

But she could feel him—especially on days when the classroom grew noisy and crowded. There was a strange comfort in knowing he existed within the same space, bound by the same invisible rules.

One afternoon, it began to rain unexpectedly.

The kind of rain that doesn’t ask permission.

Students rushed, laughing, shouting, complaining about wet clothes. Ananya stood near the corridor, clutching her dupatta tightly, worried not about the rain—but about reaching home late. Her father disliked delays. “A girl’s timing is her safety,” he often said.

She checked the sky, anxiety clouding her thoughts.

That’s when she noticed something unusual.

Arjun had placed his bag carefully over a stack of books left on the corridor bench—protecting them from the rain. He then stood back, making sure no one slipped near the wet steps, quietly warning juniors with a gentle, “Careful.”

There was no audience.
No reason to be kind.

Ananya felt a warmth rise in her chest—not admiration, not affection—but something deeper.

Trust.

That evening, while helping her mother cut vegetables, Ananya’s mind wandered. She wondered what kind of house Arjun returned to. Did his mother ask if he had eaten? Did his father expect him to carry the weight of future responsibilities already?

In another part of the town, Arjun sat at his desk, rewriting notes neatly. His mother’s voice floated from the kitchen, asking if he had packed his lunch for tomorrow. His father reminded him softly, “Focus on studies. Everything else can wait.”

And Arjun nodded.

He thought of Ananya—not as a girl he liked, but as a presence. Someone who existed in his days quietly, respectfully. He noticed how she never laughed loudly, how she always stood a little apart, how her silence felt familiar.

Neither of them wished for more.

They didn’t imagine conversations.
They didn’t dream of futures together.

Their upbringing had taught them one thing very clearly:

Some feelings are meant to be carried, not acted upon.

And so, without a single word exchanged, they began learning a new language—
the language of noticing, of restraint, of caring from a distance.

A language where love did not need touch.
Where silence itself was enough.

They didn’t know it yet, but this silence—so carefully protected—
was slowly becoming the most important thing in their lives.

And the most fragile.

Where Silence Learned to Love - Part 3

 

When Absence Speaks

One morning, Ananya reached her classroom and felt it immediately.

Something was missing.

The aisle seat two rows ahead was empty.

At first, she told herself it meant nothing. Students missed classes all the time—festivals, family functions, small illnesses that Indian homes treated with kadha and rest.

Still, her eyes returned to that seat again and again.

The lecture began. Chalk scraped against the board. Pages turned. The world continued.

But Ananya’s mind did not.

She wondered if Arjun was unwell. The thought made her uneasy—not because she feared loss, but because she realised how accustomed she had become to his quiet presence. Some habits settle into us without asking.

That day felt longer than usual.

During lunch, she sat with her friends, nodding at conversations she didn’t fully hear. Her tiffin remained half-closed. Her mother would ask later, “Did you eat properly?” And Ananya would say yes—because daughters were taught not to worry their parents.

The next day, the seat was still empty.

So was the next.

Whispers began—soft, careless whispers.

“His father’s not well, I heard.”
“No, no, they’re shifting houses.”
“Someone said he might drop this semester.”

Each rumour felt heavier than the last.

Ananya never asked anyone directly. Asking would mean admitting concern, and concern, she believed, was a form of attachment. Attachment was dangerous.

Yet, on the fourth day, as she walked past the notice board, she saw it.

A small slip of paper, pinned carelessly.

“Arjun R. — Leave of absence approved (2 weeks)”

Her chest loosened slightly. Relief came first. Then something else followed—something she didn’t know how to name.

That evening, in his home, Arjun sat beside his father’s bed, holding a hospital file instead of his notebook. His father’s breathing was slow, laboured, but steady.

Arjun did not complain. He did not panic.

He just stayed.

In moments like these, Indian sons were taught one thing above all else:
Be strong. Don’t let emotions distract you.

Yet, in the quiet hours of the night, Arjun thought of college. Of routines. Of a certain window seat behind him that always felt… occupied, even when he didn’t turn around.

He wondered if she had noticed his absence.

Not because he wanted to be missed—
but because being noticed felt like proof that his quiet existence mattered.

Two weeks later, he returned.

Same time. Same bag. Same careful steps.

Ananya felt it before she saw him. That familiar sense of something settling back into place.

He took his seat. Adjusted his watch. Opened his notebook.

Nothing more.

But when he turned a page, his pen slipped.

It rolled backward this time.

And stopped near Ananya’s foot.

She picked it up.

Their eyes met—for the first time.

Only for a second.

No smile.
No expression.

Just understanding.

In that brief moment, they shared what words were never allowed to carry:
I noticed you were gone.
I noticed you came back.

And sometimes, that is love in its purest form—
recognition without demand.

Neither of them knew that life was already moving its pieces quietly, preparing a path where silence would soon be tested… far beyond classrooms and benches.