Peeral had always believed that patience would deliver him from misery. He was the man who sat quietly at the back of life's procession, watching others march ahead waving the flags of success. While his friends secured jobs in their twenties, married well, bought houses, and drove shiny cars, Peeral was still waiting in dusty recruitment offices, clutching worn certificates and hope that thinned with every rejection. He often recalled Dickens: "The sun himself is weak when he first rises, but gathers strength as the day goes on." Yet for him, the sun never rose high enough.

When he finally secured a government job in his late twenties, it felt hollow — a consolation tossed to him by fate. His old companions, now officers and businessmen, welcomed him with polite courtesy sharper than insult. Invisible lines divided privilege and ordinariness, and Peeral was stranded on the wrong side. Like Hardy's Jude, he felt forever outside the gates, watching life he could never claim.

At home, his wife's words became knives. "Look at others," she murmured while scrolling her phone. "They've built houses, they travel. Peeral, when will it be our turn?" Her silences wounded more than her words.

At night, staring at the cracked ceiling, Peeral whispered, "Why me, God? Have I not bent my back enough? Have I not fasted, knelt, begged?" There was no answer. Slowly, the prayers dried up. If God listened, He was deaf.

His office reeked of decay. Files moved only with bribes; promotions were traded like contraband. The Mafia ran it all with velvet smiles that hid iron teeth.........

© The Express Tribune