LIFE - THE TALE OF MAN

It was an ordinary morning—grey, quiet, and full of stillness. Outside the creaky window of his small apartment, the world hummed with careless haste, but within the walls existed the isolation of a man whose name few knew: Ravi.

When he was 47, Ravi had survived a thousand storms that never hit the headlines. Neither a hero nor a villain. Just a man. A man forged by calamity, tempered by adversity, and hardened by the soft heat of survival.

As he tied on his frayed shoes, shoes that had traversed more miles than he could number, he gazed at the calloused hands that had once cradled dreams. His fingers shook not because they were old, but because of the burden of years spent laboring under indifferent suns and indifferent structures.

"What is life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?"
— W.H. Davies

Ravi had no time to stand and stare. Time had been a luxury he'd never known. As a child, he'd learned early on that life was a ledger—what you give never quite balances what you receive. His father, a factory laborer, died of lung disease when Ravi was thirteen years old. School was substituted by a hammer. Books, by bricks.

He labored on construction sites during the day and hauled sacks of cement at night. With each drop of perspiration that fell, part of his childhood was lost in the dust. Ambitions to become a teacher or a painter faded like watercolor in the rain.

And yet, he didn't detest life. He honored it, as a soldier honors war—not out of love, but out of bitter respect.

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
— Henry David Thoreau

Nights were the worst. They made him think about what he was missing: family suppers, the comfort of company, or even the just "How was your day?" Occasionally, he'd sit by himself with a plate of stale rice, gazing at the wall as if it would suddenly project a movie of what he missed.

He remembered Anita, the woman he loved. They had laughed for six months before poverty devoured all that joy. Her family could not accept a man who had hope and no house. She walked away with tears on her cheeks and silence in her mouth. He never hated her for preferring security to struggle. He knew. Love does not feed bellies.

"It is not the load that breaks you down, it's the way you carry it."
— Lena Horne

And Ravi carried it all. With a backbone that curved beneath years of toil and a smile that never quite made it to his eyes, he continued. Because that's what men like him do. They bear up.

There were moments—few and fleeting—when life was almost kind. A waving child of a neighbor, an unplanned cup of tea on a chilly morning, or the occasional payday when he could afford to treat himself to a good meal. During such moments, he was human again. Not merely a cog in a machine or a ghost in the city crowd.

"I am the common man,
I am the brute burden-bearer of the world,
the mute one who keeps quiet but suffers."
— Excerpt from "The Common Man" by Nissim Ezekiel

Along the hard path of life, storm and silence drive a man. With every raindrop, loss comes to his memory; each thunderclap is a plea from his own past. Hunger, rejection, unseen burdens on his shoulders mark the path ahead of him. Dreams once visible now shroud in mist by setbacks and adversities. Sorrow has steeled his shoulders, fear dented them; he stumbled beneath expectations placed on him, love failed, purpose faltered, and numerous times wondered whether he was good enough.

But he never stopped moving.

Every hardship etched resilience into his bones. Pain taught him empathy. Darkness revealed his inner light. Defeat, to others, was lessons to him. He got up when no one believed he would—bruised, but not broken. The hoodie on his head is not to hide, but to shield; not from the rain, but from a world that too often misjudges quiet strength.

Now, with fire burning in his eyes and peace in his heart, he moves forward—not to leave the past behind, but to celebrate it. He is no longer what he went through, but how he got through it. His story isn't one of suffering, but of strength—testimony that storms might twist us, but need not break us.

He is not a survivor of life. He is its victor.

- I am thankful Whoever read this the short narration inspired from the life of my father although with a little extravagance of writing but the sacrifice overcome was & will always be there.