Man is born free, but… - (Blog-a-Ton 6)

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 6; the fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

“Please sir, can you take the fees. Today is the last date to pay the exam fees. I did not have the money. I managed to get enough money only today, sir. I will lose a whole year, please sir”.

“I am sorry about that. But I cannot help you. You should have thought about all that before. You go now and come back later. Maybe Jacob sir has taken only half day leave. Come later.”

“Please sir. The receipt book is right in front of you sir. You just need to take this money and give me a receipt.”

Shyam’s face turned red and he got angry at this. “You bloody fellow, trying to teach me my job, eh? This is an office, not a marketplace. It is Jacob’s job to give the receipt and it is not my job. Get lost!”

The young man’s face fell and his shoulders slouched. He looked sad and defeated as he walked out of the university office. Shyam was thoroughly annoyed as he stared at student’s retreating back. Chee… did the fellow not even own a decent set of clothes or what? Shabby fellow, he thought uncharitably. If he could not afford it he should not have joined for the course. It was not as if the world would end. And even if the guy did complete his course, what of it? At the most, he’d get a dead end job pretty much like the one, he Shyam had and that was it. He tilted his chair back and looked at the ceiling fan. The fan creaked and groaned at him. What could have been the original colour of the fan, he mused, trying to take his mind off of the student. Over the years so much dust and dirt had accumulated on the ceiling fan that it had that weird brownish-grey colour that all office fans seem to have. He looked around him. The walls too perhaps were a cheery yellow when they were freshly painted, but now just looked as dull and jaded as its occupants.

Suddenly, Shyam wanted to get out of there. He walked out into the balcony and inhaled the fresh air. Damn, he hated his job! He lived for the holidays, when he could do what he wanted. He loved to paint. In fact, he was a pretty decent artist. His old art teacher, Mrs. Nair had always told him that he was going to be a world famous artist one day. But here he was, working six days a week, at a job that bored him so much that he felt too lethargic and tired by the time he got home.

His life had been charted out for him even before he could crawl. Get yourself a decent secure job, his father had ordained and his mother had agreed whole heartedly. Job security, that is most important, he had said. Each time he won a prize for his paintings and his drawings he had run home, his face triumphant and Father had always said the same thing “Waste of time! Study properly! No one is going to give you a government job for splashing colour on a piece of paper. You will end up painting houses. Tell your son, Meera.” Mother had been a little better; at least she would stare at the painting with a vague smile on her face and pat his head before telling him to go and study.

Shyam's marriage too had been fixed by his parents. As soon as he got his job at the University, Father and Mother had found the perfect daughter-in-law for themselves. She was moderately attractive, moderately intelligent and had no ambitions of her own. Her father too was moderately wealthy enough to meet the very reasonable demands of his parents. Still, he was hoping to quit his job if something more interesting came along. But two kids, ailing parents and a dependent wife had put paid to his dreams. He was stuck here for the rest of his life. Damn, he hated this job!

The balcony suddenly felt too hot and humid. He made his way to the washroom to splash some cold water on his face. As he wiped his face, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. A tired, middle-aged man with thinning hair looked back at him. His shoulders were permanently slouched. He looked even more sad and defeated than the student he had sent away! What had happened to him? Why could he not empathise with a impoverished young man with dreams in his eyes?  Why was he so dead inside? An involuntary shudder wracked his frame and he started sobbing, sobbing for his lost innocence, for his shattered dreams and hopes. He was just a puppet on a string. He was no artist. He was just a stick figure in the life that someone else had drawn for him. 

He heard footsteps and quickly dried his eyes. He left the washroom, with his shoulders squared and his stride far more purposeful than it had been in ages. As he had expected the student was still loitering near the door, hoping that the elusive Jacob would turn up. 


The young man looked surprised, when the officer who had yelled at him earlier made his way towards him, put an arm around his shoulders and said, “Come in and pay your fees. I don’t think Jacob is going to be coming to work today. I’ll take your money and give you the receipt.”

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.