The world today is so consumed by competition that the vastness of the population often snatches away the empathy for an individual’s death. The value of a single life seems to fade, as though no one truly cares about its loss. There was a life—a life named Agastya Chitre—carrying the weight of a thought that no one cared about him. What made his heart ache even more was the bitter truth—it wasn’t just in his mind; nobody really cared. He carried a heavy thought deep within—that he owed his parents everything, for they gave him a life in which he was living. His parents showed him great opportunities that they believed would lead to success. Although Agasthya’s heart denied taking this pathway, he set aside his passion for what his parents wanted him to be. He tried his best in everything, but being average is a curse. He gave it his all, pushing himself to meet their expectations, hoping to make them proud. But no matter how much effort he poured in, the results never aligned with their hopes. To them, he remained a failure. It became an impossible dream for him—not because he thought it was impossible for him but because it is impossible to dream of something that is not your own but shown to you by this ethical world.

Agasthya nurtured a dream of becoming a poet or a writer in a world where expressing emotions held no value, especially when expressed by a boy. He faced constant judgment—why spend his time spinning verses about the world when he could pursue a stable career in engineering? In our society, artistic talents often hold little value. The focus remains on securing a government job, and if someone dares to venture into the private sector, their worth seems measured solely by profitable engineering packages or flourishing businesses. Anything outside this rigid, limited circle is given a solid tag of ‘failure,’ which takes a lot to melt. He said nothing about this to his parents because—why would he? He didn’t want to be a bad son and didn’t want to fight with his own people. But the question was—were they really his own people, or were they shaped by the opinions of others? He was unable to battle externally, but there was a constant battle inside him. He couldn’t ignore the sacrifices his parents had made for him, nor could he deny the love they had poured into shaping his future. Yet, the life they had charted for him felt like a tight-fitted garment—constricting, heavy, and suffocating. To them, the garment looked perfect, but he knew how tight it was, how uncomfortable it was.

As time passed, Agasthya learned to wear a mask, one that reflected the image everyone craved to see. He became the diligent son, the dutiful student, the one who smiled at family gatherings and nodded at advice he didn’t believe in. But behind that mask, his heart ached for the freedom to be himself—to embrace the writer within and share his words with a world that might never understand them.

Could there be a corner where real dreams weren’t dismissed as impractical in the real world, where emotions weren’t ridiculed, and where poetry could be as valuable as an engineer’s calculations—rather than just a side hobby? Agasthya didn’t have the answer, but he knew one thing for certain—he would rather live with the pain of being misunderstood than lose the essence of who he was. But this was snatched away by his own people. They did give him an identity, but at the cost of his real one.

As days passed, his class test results for 12th grade were announced. He was an average student with average marks, managing to pass the test. But in the eyes of his parents, he had failed. He had clearly failed to maintain the identity they had crafted for him. Retreating to his bathroom, all he could do was cry in front of the mirror. He whispered to himself, “They say boys don’t cry, but then why do I?”
Hours later, he returned to his room, took a piece of paper, and continued the poem he had left unfinished. He wrote the final lines of his poem titled "Let to the Ashes It Ends":

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I fought with everyone, yet passed the test,
And proved my strength, and did my best.
But some curse scattered upon me like a mess,
And cause the place I lost was my own address.
Now it's gone, everything, and I'm left alone,
To face the mistakes that I've made, and atone.

For the mistakes of non-perfection still hang,
And weigh upon my heart, with a sorrowful clang.
I'll not make them more sad, or cause them more pain,
So I’ll let the ashes washed away in this rain.
To the ashes it will end, I'll be in the wind,
And hope in another birth, I'll be not in the grind.
And hope in another birth, I would be not someone but me,
But till then I'll wander, all lost and alone,
Searching for a place to call my own.


Agasthya was drowning in pain and hopelessness. In a moment of despair, he reached for a rope, thinking it might be his way out of the misery he felt. He was stuck, caught between the pull of life and the dark void of death. But even in that deep darkness, a small spark of hope appeared—a flicker that reminded him there might still be a way forward. It's strange how hope can reach even the loneliest hearts, isn't it?

Agasthya felt trapped, not just by the world around him but by his own life and emotions. He had no close friends to lean on and had to endure people mocking him, calling him "gay" as if it were an insult. He found it absurd and hurtful that people turned identities into something to ridicule. Though he was straight, he empathized with how senseless and cruel such judgments were.

Taking a deep breath, Agasthya felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. That breath was more than just air; it was his silent way of saying he wasn’t ready to give up—not yet. He wiped his tears and took the diary from the shelf, writing his 2024 goals;

1)To write a poetry book before passing 12th.

2) To finish a novel before passing 12th grade.

3) Do not tell anyone about it. Show them by action.

The next day, when Agasthya was in school, he was writing something under the tree in the school ground during the games period. One classmate came towards him and said, “Hey average chipmunk. Don’t you wanna play? Writing all day, nerd.” Agasthya looked up from his notebook, his pen hovering mid-air. The sarcastic remark stung, but he was no stranger to such comments. With a faint smile that masked his true feelings, it was the first time in his life he responded with a sarcastic remark, “Some people play with a ball; others play with words. Guess we all play in different ways.” The classmate laughed, unaware of the depth in Agasthya’s words. “Whatever, man! I’ll show you the meaning of success someday.” Agasthya tilted his head slightly, his smile unwavering. “I hope you do,” he replied, his voice calm but firm. “Success isn’t a race; we all have different ways to get there.” There was no bitterness in his tone, just a quiet confidence that seemed to catch the classmate off guard. “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” the classmate said, shrugging before jogging back to his friends. His laughter faded as he rejoined the game, leaving Agasthya alone under the shade of the tree.

Agasthya watched him go, his thoughts swirling. He wasn’t angry or hurt this time. If anything, he felt a sense of clarity. For so long, he had let others’ words define him, dictate how he felt about himself. But something was shifting. For the first time, he realized that he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone—not his classmates, not even his parents. The success he sought wasn’t measured by grades or accolades; it was in staying true to himself and his passion.

Months turned into a season of quiet determination for Agasthya. Each day, after the routine of school and the small burdens of expectations, he would retreat to his own world—the sanctuary of his words. Writing became more than just a habit; it was a lifeline, a place where the noise of the world melted away, leaving him alone with his thoughts—unjudged and free.

First, he wrote on the crisp, imperfect pages of his notebook, filling them with fragments of poetry, raw emotions, and unfiltered reflections. Eventually, he transitioned to typing his words on a computer, the rhythmic clatter of the keys becoming his new melody. In those moments, he was no longer a student living under others’ expectations—he was a creator, shaping his identity one poem at a time. Agasthya worked tirelessly, building a collection of poems that captured his journey—his struggles, his resilience, and the dreams he carried. Each line, each stanza, felt like a piece of his soul laid bare. He poured himself into this work, often revisiting and refining his verses late into the night. One evening, as the quiet hum of his desk lamp enveloped him, he completed what would become his final poem in the collection, titled "Impossible Dream" under his collection called "The Weight of Wings to Soar." Meanwhile, he also maintained his Instagram handle, posting daily—either quotes or his special reads—and gained followers above 5,000. Since Amazon provides the opportunity for self-publishing, Agasthya was one of those who took advantage of it, self-publishing the final draft of his poetry collection. Simultaneously, he was working on his novel, but it would take a lot of time. He started advertising his poetry book through Instagram. He denied taking a physical copy because he didn’t want his parents to know about it, so he didn’t own a physical copy of his own book. He didn’t get many orders until one day, a few months later, when he tried to publish another poetry book, "The Ink of Failure," which caught the attention of many people. One person from a very well-known publishing industry liked the book so much that, upon learning Agasthya was trying to publish another book, they approached him to publish it before its release. It was during an event dedicated to supporting poetry that month. Soon, both poetry books began gaining fame, and more and more people read them across different countries.

Now, Agasthya’s board exams were near, and his parents heard about the books he published from others. People now knew Agasthya as a poet and, one day, as an author. But his parents didn’t want this kind of success because they saw no stability in it. They still believed real success came from a government job. After his board results and JEE results, Agasthya was sad again—he had failed. But he knew this dream was impossible because it wasn’t his dream. It’s been a year since he took a drop after 12th for JEE. Meanwhile, he wrote a novel and self-published it. With everything he was earning from the books he published and his Instagram handle, he got a job in the publishing industry. Now, just before his JEE exam, his parents stopped him from taking it. They were finally aware that nothing would stop Agasthya from writing.

Mr. Chitre came toward him, face to face, his eyes filled with emotion, and said, “We will not be a burden on your shoulders. Now your actual dream can take flight. You can fly in whichever way you want. We are proud of you. And I bought copies of your book—can I have a signed copy of it?” Agathya laughed and signed the book proudly.

Agasthya was happy—he had fulfilled his impossible dream, one of his very own. He showed his dream to everyone by his actions. And now people no longer give him the tag of failure rather see him as a celebrity who wrote books, who inspired people.