Forty years ago, in Ushherl, a small town in northern India, where the air was still passable despite the roads were muddy , Rajiv Kumar was born. His farther was a lower class of civil servant in the town, not rich, but that’s steady job.Like any other boys and younth , he embraces a kaleidoscope of passions — the thrill of sports, the melody of music, the magic of cinema, and of course, the warmth of forging friendships.But his passions didn’t last long, from the moment he could remember,his childhood was rigidly defined by his father's dictum: "Study, study hard, keep studying endlessly." This holds him back, even when he chases these passions, from going all out with his heart and soul.
Rajiv didn’t question his father’s words. He didn’t know why he should study—he didn’t kown what is a bigger house, a better job, or simply the chance to breathe air that didn’t reek of cow dung and exhaust. But he obeyed. He sat up late into the night, studying by the light of a dim lamp, his textbooks filled with dog-eared pages and scribbled notes. When his friends went to play cricket in the fields, he stayed home, poring over math equations and English grammar.When his friends were busy chasing after girls, he buried himself in textbooks, his pen scratched relentlessly across the notebook—each stroke a silent vow to the future he clung to. “Why do you study so hard?” his friends asked. Rajiv didn’t have an answer. He only knew that his father expected it of him, he also felt a quiet, unshakable hunch that this would lead him to a better life, as well as a girlfriend.
By the time Rajiv turned eighteen, he had already distinguished himself with outstanding academic achievements, earning some of the highest marks across his entire district. His hard work and dedication opened the door to a prestigious university—a vast, sprawling campus that attracted bright and ambitious students from every corner of India, all united by a shared hunger to pursue their dreams. For Rajiv, leaving his quiet, familiar small town behind felt like stepping into an entirely new universe. He often wandered the peaceful, tree-lined pathways, filled with a sense of awe as he observed the grand libraries overflowing with books he had only ever read about, the modern lecture halls equipped with air conditioning—a luxury he had rarely known—and the dynamic groups of students passionately discussing global issues like climate change and other forward-thinking ideas. It was a world that expanded his horizons in ways he had never imagined.
He chose to major in environmental science, motivated by a sincere though somewhat vague aspiration to “make the environment better.” While he felt a strong pull toward the subject, he hadn’t yet clarified what exactly that would mean in practice. At the same time, Rajiv was undergoing a personal transformation. Once so timid that he could barely hold a girl’s gaze, he gradually mustered the courage to express his feelings—so much so that he found himself confessing his affection to different young women as many as ten times in a single semester. Yet, despite his newfound boldness, the outcome was always the same. He faced one rejection after another, with responses ranging from gentle letdowns to blunt dismissals like, “You’re not my type.” Each time, he was left alone, his hope momentarily dimmed.
In the beginning, every refusal felt like a sharp, piercing thorn that wounded his pride and left him adrift in waves of sorrow and insecurity. But as the rejections accumulated, something shifted within him. The sharp sting gradually dulled, giving way to a strange blend of amusement and confusion. He would sometimes laugh at himself—a dry, humorless laugh—wondering why he kept trying despite the consistent outcomes. Love remained an unsolvable riddle to him; he couldn’t comprehend that it was less a matter of effort and more like the natural, effortless matching of compatible molecules—a chemistry that could not be manufactured or forced.
Despite his confusion, Rajiv’s mind clung to one simple, steadfast belief: once he secured a respectable job after graduation, everything would fall into place. He was convinced that professional success would finally make him worthy in the eyes of the right person, and that then, at last, someone would say yes.
Four years later, Rajiv graduated with a bachelor’s degree. He wore a rented suit to his convocation, his father sitting in the audience, tears in his eyes. But the pride didn’t last long. Rajiv spent months applying for jobs—at environmental NGOs, at research labs, at government agencies—but no one hired him. “You need more experience,” they’d say. His father, ever pragmatic, told him: “Go back to school, Rajiv. Get a master’s degree. Then you’ll find a job.”
Rajiv once again complied with the decision. He registered for a master’s program in environmental science, taking on a part-time tutoring job to cover his tuition and living expenses. Diligently, he immersed himself in academic research, dedicating long hours to writing papers focused on air pollution control strategies and watered conservation. Gradually, his perspective started to transform—he no longer lost himself in relentless, isolated studying but began embracing a more balanced and socially engaged life.
He also tried hard to find a girlfriend, his method was simple and directly, confess and wait. One day, after a lecture, he gathered the courage to confess his feelings to one of his female classmates. To his surprise and delight, everything went better than he had imagined—the kind and beautiful girl accepted his affection. Rajiv was utterly overjoyed; even though he hadn’t yet secured a stable or high-paying job, he now had a wonderful partner standing by his side. Filled with hope, he began to dream about their future together—a life filled with understanding, shared goals, and happiness after graduation.
When he graduated, he was sure his luck would change. But again, the rejections came. “We’re looking for someone with working experiences” one employer told him. His father suggested he go further—get a PhD. But Rajiv refused. He’d seen PhDs in his field struggling to find work, too. “What’s the point?” he asked his father, his voice tight with frustration. “I’ve studied for years, and I still have nothing.”
Months passed, and Rajiv spent his days scrolling through job portals, his evenings tutoring high school students to make ends meet. His mother would quietly place extra rotis on his plate, her eyes filled with worry, while his father, sighed all day long, utterly helpless to help his son find a job, and was thus trapped in deep anxiety.
It was then that Rajiv heard about the civil service exam. The exam, administered by the Union Public Service Commission, was notorious for its difficulty. For every government job, there were hundreds—sometimes thousands—of applicants. But a civil service position was considered “secure”: a steady salary, benefits, and the prestige of working for the government.At first, he dismissed it. But that night, lying awake in bed, he thought of the years he’d spent studying, of the hollow feeling of rejection after rejection. Maybe this was the sign he’d been waiting for, he told himself, Maybe fruitless, Rajiv hesitated, but he had no other options. He had to study for exam, he bought a stack of second hand reference books and began studying. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months; he woke up at 5 a.m. to memorize current affairs, spent afternoons solving math problems, and stayed up late analyzing past exam papers. His mother noticed the change—he was more distracted, but also more determined, his voice sharp with a newfound purpose when he explained algebra or history. “You seem different,” his mother said. Rajiv just smiled, but inside, he knew something had shifted. He no longer relied on his family; his future prospects had to be fought for by himself. He finally understood the reason for studying.
He journeyed tirelessly across the vast expanse of the country, his scuffed leather satchel growing heavier with each town—stuffed with dog-eared textbooks, crumpled exam admission ticket, and 37 rejection letters. From the city near his hometown to the town far from his home, he chased every local examination deadline like a man clutching at fading embers. Each train ticket, its edges frayed from constant handling, marked another town, another hope, another chance to prove he wasn’t “wasting his prime,” as his girlfriend’s father had once muttered over chai.
In the dimly lit guesthouses he called home for weeks at a time, he’d spread his notes across rickety tables and study until the lamp sputtered out. His routine never wavered: wake earliy. to memorize legal statutes, spend afternoons solving civil service mock tests, and evenings refining essay responses until his wrist ached. Once, in Jaipur, he’d gone three days on just chai and parathas, too focused on his notes to notice the guesthouse owner’s concerned glances. “This one will stick,” he’d whisper to his reflection in the fogged window, echoing the lie he told himself after each prior defeat. But the pattern repeated—hours of preparation, a nervous morning in crowded exam halls, then the slow, crushing wait for results that always delivered disappointment.
Despite his unwavering dedication and the immense effort he poured into his preparations, he was met with a relentless series of disappointments, encountering one crushing failure after another. The rejection arrived via email while he waited at a railway station, the “regrets” printed in neat serif font burning into his retinas. Later, he’d check results, fingers trembling as he typed his roll number—each red “failed” notice feeling like a physical blow, the kind that leaves no bruise but steals your breath. By the 20th rejection, he’d started hiding the letters from his family, burying them in the bottom of his satchel like shameful secrets. He began questioning his own abilities, wondering if there was something cognitively wrong with him, as one desperate test.
His future hung in such precarious uncertainty that it gradually wore thin the patience of his girlfriend’s family. At dinning room with them, their smiles grew tight when someone asked about his “plans”; her mother’s sighs lingered in the air.
Meanwhile, climate change research demands more researchers, and it was precisely this need that landed his girlfriend a decent job at an environmental institute. She moved into a sunlit apartment with a desk overlooking a park, sending him photos of her lab coat and new colleagues—worlds away from his guesthouse squalor where mold crept up the walls and neighbors’ arguments kept him awake.
He, however, wasn’t so lucky. Their nightly calls grew shorter, filled with the awkward silences that come when two lives diverge. She’d talk about grant proposals and fieldwork expeditions to the Himalayas; he’d fumble for words that weren’t about exam syllabi or train timetables. Once, she mentioned a colleague who’d gotten engaged, and he’d frozen, unable to conjure even a perfunctory response. The gap between their realities widened—she was building a future, while he was still stuck in limbo. Trapped in the awkwardness of running out of things to talk about, they didn’t keep their relationship going. The breakup came over a crackling phone line, her voice soft but firm—“I’m moving forward,” she said—and he didn’t argue. Hanging up, he stared at his reflection in the phone screen, suddenly understanding the despair of feeling like unpolished jade unwanted by the world.
That night, he packed his satchel for the 38th time, but instead of reaching for his textbooks, he pulled out the stack of rejection letters. In the dim light, they looked like tombstones for his dreams. Outside, a train whistle pierced the darkness, carrying with it the promise of another city, another exam. The exam had only two positions available for environmental science graduates, one positions for any graduates without a certain discipline, more positions for law graduates. Thousands of environmental science graduates would struggle for limited positions.A week later, he received a letter: “Application rejected. Discipline not matched.” He stared at the words, confused. His degree was in “Ecological Science,” but the job required “Environmental Science.” The difference was a single word, but it was enough to disqualify him. “It’s a mistake,” he told his father, his hands shaking. “I’ll appeal.” But the commission didn’t respond to his calls or emails.
The deadline for applications was the next day. Rajiv sat at his desk, staring at the computer screen to find a position he can apply, his heart heavy. He scrolled through the job listings, desperation mounting. Finally, he saw it: a position responsible for marine patrol. The job had no discipline requirements—anyone with a bachelor’s degree could apply. It meant competing with more graduates who had no background in environmental science, but it was his last chance. He clicked “submit.”
The exam was grueling. Rajiv spent one day taking written tests, then waited for months, then he received email for personal interview, he was exited, for only three examinees from five hundred could receive the personal interview notice.He prepard the interview very well,he had think about every question the interviewer may ask, and bought the first suit in his life, then he took a train to a coastal city 1000 km away from home to take part in the interview. After one day for personal interview with other competitors. He waited for months, his anxiety growing. Then, one morning, he received a letter: “You have been selected for the post of Marine Patrol Officer.” His father cried. Rajiv felt a flicker of hope.
On his first day of work, Rajiv walked through the heavily guarded gates of a government building in New Delhi—a city consistently ranked by the United Nations among the world’s most polluted. The morning air hung thick, a familiar blend of delicate jasmine and acrid diesel fumes, a paradox that seemed to define the capital itself. He moved past armed guards who gave his entry pass a disinterested glance, stepping into a compound that felt both imposing and weary.
Inside, the bureaucracy unfolded in a maze of dimly lit corridors and cramped offices. The walls, painted in a faded mint green, were lined with curling posters of Indian leaders, their exhortations for progress now softened under layers of dust and time. Ceiling fans whirred with a persistent, drowsy rhythm, stirring papers but not the stifling stillness. Rajiv was led to a shared workspace where desks were buried under teetering stacks of files and outdated ledgers.
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His new colleagues gathered around with polite, curious smiles. They were mostly young, clad in modest formal wear, their faces reflecting a mix of warmth and weary routine. Introductions revealed that most had completed college, while only a few held bachelor’s degrees. When Rajiv mentioned his master’s, a brief silence fell. Then one colleague, a cheerful man with kindly eyes, broke into a grin and said, “Ah, so you’re overqualified!” The small group chuckled softly, the remark meant in jest but landing with a quiet weight.
Rajiv forced a smile in return, nodding as if sharing the joke. But inside, he felt a sharp, sudden pang—not of anger, but of profound unfairness. Years of late nights in library carrels, of meticulously researched papers, of dreams woven around expertise and impact, had led him here: to a desk where his primary task, he soon learned, would involve stamping forms and sorting documents that required no specialized knowledge. The air in the room felt heavier now, closer. Through the grimy window, he could see the hazy outline of the city, a skyline blurred by pollution and heat. In that moment, the scent of jasmine from a small courtyard shrub drifted in, unexpectedly sweet, a faint reminder of beauty persisting amidst exhaustion. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and turned toward the pile of papers waiting on his desk. The work day had only just begun.
The work was harder than he’d imagined. Marine patrol meant flying in small, rickety aircraft over the Sea, searching for illegal fishing boats and smugglers. The flights were dangerous—turbulence was common, and the planes had no air conditioning. He spent weeks away from home, sleeping in cheap hotels near the coast. His mother worried constantly. “Can’t you ask for a transfer?” she’d say. Rajiv would shake his head. “It’s not that easy,” he’d tell her.
His colleagues who’d been hired alongside him began to grumble bitterly about the tedious, dead-end job, complaining nonstop about bad enviromnet, endless and the utter lack of career growth.
After a few months, a quiet exodus began within Rajiv's department. The colleagues who were thinner, less physically robust, submitted requests for transfer. They sought desk jobs—roles in accounting, general administration, anything that promised a fixed chair and absolved them from the rigors of flight duty. Their applications, to no one's surprise, were smoothly approved. Soon, the department felt hollowed out. Only Rajiv and a handful of others, deemed physically strong and seemingly resilient, remained to shoulder the relentless schedule of marine patrols.
The change was palpable. Now, Rajiv would pass by the air-conditioned office wing and see his former colleagues through the glass. They sat in crisp shirts, tapping at keyboards, their desks adorned with small potted plants and framed photographs. Their most strenuous task appeared to be reaching for a stapler. After work, they went back to their house nearby. Yet, He spent times on battling sea winds in cramped aircraft cabins, far away from his comfort room in New Delhi.But on payday, their envelopes held the same amount，same level staff have the same salary. A bitter taste rose in Rajiv’s throat. Leaning against a sun-warmed wall outside the hangar one afternoon, he muttered to a fellow patrol officer, “That’s not fair.” The other man, a veteran with weary eyes, didn’t even look up from checking his gear. He simply shrugged, a gesture of profound resignation. “That’s how it is here,” he said, his voice low. “If you take issue with this, it means you’re splitting hairs with them—and you’ll struggle to gain a foothold here. The system protects its own. Just do your work.”
Rajiv bit his tongue until he could almost taste copper. He swallowed the heat of his protest. He knew, with a cold, rational clarity, that voicing his grievance would only brand him as troublesome, a complainer who couldn't handle his lot. It would not recalibrate the scales of justice; it would only tip them further against him.
Despite this festering sense of inequity, Rajiv did not quit. The memory of the struggle—the years of competitive exams, the anxious wait for the posting letter, the pride in his family’s eyes—was too fresh, too heavy to discard. He knew with brutal certainty how hard it was to secure a civil service job. Thousands of eager, desperate young men across the country would jump at the chance to take his place, unfairness and all. His father’s voice, pragmatic and weathered by his own lifetime of compromises, echoed in his head during particularly trying days: “Be grateful, beta. At least you have a steady job, a pension at the end.”
Rajiv tried. He truly tried to coat his resentment with a layer of gratitude. He focused on the steady paycheck, but the unfairness didn't fade, it simply sank deeper, becoming a cold, heavy stone settled in the pit of his stomach, a silent companion to his dutiful routine.He was thirst for fairness.
When he turned twenty-eight, his mother started pressuring him to marry. “You need a wife,” she said. “Someone to take care of you.” Rajiv agreed. He thought finding a wife would be easy. After all, he was a civil servant—steady job, good salary, master’s degree. He was also handsome: tall, with dark hair and a warm smile. His mother set up meetings with several women. Rajiv met them in coffee shops and restaurants, talking about his job and his hopes for the future.
Then he met Priya. She was beautiful—long black hair, bright eyes, a smile that lit up the room. She was a teacher at a private school, and she was popular: several men were pursuing her. Rajiv fell hard. He took her to the movies, bought her flowers, and talked to her for hours on the phone. “I think she likes me,” he told his mother. He was sure he’d win her over.
One evening, Rajiv called Priya to ask her out. She didn’t answer. An hour later, he received a text message: “I’m sorry, Rajiv. I’m marrying someone else. His family is wealthy, and he can give me a better life.” Rajiv stared at the message, his heart breaking. He knew the man she was marrying—his father owned a chain of hotels. The man hadn’t go to university, no job, and was overweight. “I’m better than him,” Rajiv whispered to himself. “I have a good job, a master’s degree, I’m good-looking. Why?” He felt a deep sense of unfairness. For the first time, he doubted if his “good” job was really enough to give him a better life.
Rajiv sank into a dark period. He stopped going out with friends, stopped talking to his family, and threw himself into his work. He flew more patrols, staying away from home for weeks at a time. His colleagues noticed, but no one said anything. They regarded him as a professional rival in the workplace.
His father didn’t offer him any comfort regarding his broken heart at this time. Instead, just like how he’d always urged him to hit the books hard in the past, he told him he should simply go out and find another girl, and his mother was no different. Their words felt hollow and powerless; he got no solace whatsoever from these half-hearted consolations. Fortunately, he had always been a diligent student with a penchant for research—including researching his own emotions. He delved into questions like why he felt so grieved this time, why the rejections back in his undergraduate years hadn’t stung this much, and why it had been easier to win a girlfriend’s heart while pursuing his master’s degree. Eventually, he found the answer: Being together is like a chemical reaction, a matter of precise molecular compatibility. Two molecules can only bond if they match; otherwise, they remain immune to each other.
He proceeded to re-examine every single one of his external attributes—his looks, wealth, career prospects, and more—to seek out a partner whose conditions were equally compatible with his own. And sure enough, he found someone soon. Meera, who was also find some to match, accepted him. He was joyful, he thoutht he can publish a research paper named“Quicker match based on external criteria” . Truly, match was easy—far easier than searching for a soul mate.
Yet the life they built after this so-called "match" felt nothing more than a performance for others. It looked perfect on the surface, but that was all it was—just an act, and they are actors of life.
Then, one day, Rajiv got a call from the Ministry of Environment. “We have a position open,” the caller said. “We need someone with a background in environmental science. Would you be interested?” Rajiv couldn’t believe his luck. It was the job he’d always wanted. He accepted immediately.
The Ministry of Environment was a better department—plenty of funding, modern offices, and a focus on a subject he cared about. But New Delhi’s air pollution was worse than ever. The city was often covered in a thick, gray smog. Citizens were getting sick—respiratory illnesses, heart disease, even cancer. The government was torn: on one side, there were those who wanted to prioritize economic growth, building factories and roads to create jobs. On the other side, there were environmentalists who wanted to reduce pollution, even if it meant slowing down the economy.
Rajiv worked hard. He read research books, attended conferences, and published research papers on ways to reduce air pollution. He suggested stricter regulations on factories, more investment in renewable energy, and better public transportation. But his manager didn’t seem interested. “We don’t have time for that,” he’d say. “You need to focus on your administration jobs, not research.”
Rajiv was confused, the admintstration jobs are all about praising the outcomes of environmental governance, while in cases of poor environmental governance,finding a scapegoat to take the blame.“You mean Propaganda?” he asked. His manager nodded. “We need to show the public that we’re doing something. We’ll make videos, hold press conferences, and put up posters. That’s what matters.” Rajiv couldn’t believe it. They were spending more money on making itself look good than on actually solving the pollution problem.
Rajiv didn’t agree with these administration jobs, he began to speak up, even published research papers to discuss how to make better environment governance. However, he faced workplace violence. Not physical violence, but the kind that’s harder to see: his colleagues ignored him, his ideas were dismissed, and he was excluded from meetings. “You’re a troublemaker,” his manager told him. Rajiv felt depressed. He wanted to quit, but he was afraid. He had a family now—his wife, Meera, and their two children. He had a house mortgage to pay, food to buy, and school fees for his kids. His salary was good—almost $3,000 a month, which was high by Indian standards. He couldn’t risk losing it.
For years, Rajiv struggled with the decision to leave. He coughed constantly, his lungs irritated by the polluted air. He had trouble sleeping, and he often felt anxious. “You need to take care of yourself,” Meera told him. But Rajiv didn’t know how.
Then, he heard about a scholarship. The Indian government was offering a year-long program in Plymouth, a Southwest coastal city of UK, famous for its beautiful coast and clean air, where participants would study environmental protection at a top university. The requirement was that applicants had published international research papers. Rajiv had published several—papers on air pollution in New Delhi, on water conservation in rural India. He applied, not expecting much.
A month later, he received a letter: “Your application has been approved.” Rajiv couldn’t believe it. His colleagues stared at him with envy—some even looked angry. “You’re lucky,” one said. Rajiv didn’t care. He packed his bags, kissed his family goodbye, and boarded a plane to UK.
When he landed, everything was fresh: The air was clean, the streets were tidy, public administration was well-organized and systematic, and the people were friendly. Rajiv studied at a famous University for environment protection, taking classes on environmental policy and sustainable development. He met professors who were passionate about their work, and students who wanted to make a difference. For the first time in years, Rajiv felt hopeful.
But he also realized that the UK wasn’t perfect. He saw homeless people on the streets even in the coldest season, he felt the rising influx of immigrants is putting the government's administrative capabilities to the test, and he found it's very difficult to find a paid job, no matter good or not. It wasn’t the “heaven” he’d imagined. But it was more fair than India.Here, his ideas were listened to. He didn’t face workplace violence for speaking up.
Six months into the program, Rajiv started to hesitate. Should he stay, or go back to New Delhi? If he stayed, he may build a new life—find a job in environmental protection, give his family a better future. But it would be hard. The job market was competitive.
One weekend, Rajiv attended a party at an Indian family’s house in Cornwall. The family had immigrated to the UK thirty years ago, illegally. They’d worked hard—washing dishes, driving taxis, eventually opening a restaurant. Now, they owned two houses and a successful business. “We couldn’t have done this in India,” the farther in the family said. “Here, if you work hard, you can succeed.” Rajiv listened, his heart heavy. The family’s children were doctors and lawyers. They lived a life he could only dream of.
But the family also mocked him. “You’re a civil servant in India?” one son said. “That’s good job in India, but you’ll never have what we have here.” Rajiv felt humiliated. He left the family and thought never come back again.
He became miss his family very much. He missed Meera’s cooking, his children’s laughter, the sound of the temple bells in the morning. He missed India—even its chaos, even its pollution. Stay or leave? He was torn, like a tangled jumble of hemp rope.
As the months passed, Rajiv’s mental health deteriorated. He started having panic attacks. He heard voices in his head, telling him to stay, telling him to go back. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia. “You need treatment,” his doctor said. But Rajiv didn’t know if he could afford it. He was living on a scholarship, and his savings were running out.
A year later, Rajiv returned to New Delhi. He didn’t have a choice—his scholarship had ended, and he couldn’t find a job in UK. When he walked through the gates of the Ministry of Environment, nothing had changed. The air was still polluted, his colleagues were still regard him as a competitor, and the department was still focused on propaganda. Perhaps only one thing has changed—a heavily polluting chemical plant in New Delhi is going to be moved to Ushherl.
Rajiv worked again. He watched his children grow up. He watched his wife grow old, her hair turning gray. He watched New Delhi’s air pollution get worse—so bad that some days, you couldn’t see the sun.
One morning, Rajiv was scrolling through Instagram when he saw a news story. A young CEO of a famous international company in New Delhi had resigned. “I can’t breathe the air here anymore,” the CEO said. “I’m moving to Canada with my family,although that's far away and cold” Rajiv stared at the screen. He touched his own hair, his hands shaking. He thought about his life—all the years he’d spent working for the “good job”, all the unfairness he’d endured, all the dreams he’d given up, but the young generations didn’t care about “good job” even “better job than civil servant” anymore.
He looked out the window. The sky was gray, the air thick with smog. He coughed, a deep, painful cough. “Am I too old to change my life?” he whispered to himself. “Or is the only thing left to do is bear the rest of my days?”
Rajiv didn’t have an answer. He sat there, staring at the smog, wondering what his life would have been like if he’d made different choices. If he’d stayed in UK. If he’d quit the civil service. If he’d married Priya. But there is no if. The past was gone, and the future was a fog—just like the air in New Delhi.
