Another Wilted Dream.

“Rohan Sharma’s parents?”, the principal greeted. In no time the courteous tone changed to a serious whinge.The principle complained about Rohan’s poor academic performance. Rohan waited outside the room, scribbling away in a piece of paper he tore off the last page of his notebook.
After half an hour of the haranguing session, his parents barged out. That night, much like the rest of the stereotypical world really is, his father wouldn’t let Rohan gulp his dinner before addressing his failure and following it with a harsh drubbing. 

Rohan’s act of defiance and the night would fade away with the unsung hymn of defeat and frustration.

However, the next day was the 26th of November. Rohan woke up with utmost enthusiasm; it was the day of the annual cricket tourney. Cricket was something Rohan was fanatic about since he was 5. He wore his favorite jersey with the number ‘10’, inspired by his idol Sachin Tendulkar. Just as he was about to leave his house, his father stood in his way. Things started heating up. He wouldn’t let Rohan play. Tension built up and it resulted in a terrible incident: his bat, smashed to bits. He trudged, steps echoing, into his room. No one spoke a word. Two hours later Mrs.Sharma’s voice rang through like a never ending echo as she broke into his room only to find his body hanging from the ceiling fan and a note by his bedside. The dazed father’s voice cracked as he read aloud his son’s last words: “I am not quitting. I am fighting for my passion, which seems to have no place in this world, like my spirit.” The father fumbled around for words, failing despicably as the nation mourned yet another loss.

Debdyuti Das

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