A silent Forge

Arjun looked up, curious.

"What story, sir?"

Gupta sir smiled, eyes twinkling behind tired lenses.

"One about a man who thought time was infinite—until it wasn't."

The evening breeze rustled the tarpaulin above, but at their tiny corner table by the chai tapri, it felt like something old and forgotten had just been awakened. Professor Gupta leaned back, his coffee untouched, growing colder in its steel tumbler.

"There was once a blacksmith," he began, his voice calm and deliberate, "not famous for the swords he made—but for the question he asked."

He paused and glanced toward the traffic beyond the tapri, as if the memory he spoke of was drifting somewhere between the honks and the wind.

"On the first day of every apprenticeship, he would call the young ones to the forge and ask:

'If I told you I once went hungry… what would you do in my place?'"

They would blink in confusion, unsure. So he would tell them the story.

"One winter, the blacksmith had no food. No coins. No trade. Just an empty stomach and calloused* hands. Like every man cornered by life, he had three choices.

'First,' he said, 'I could rob. Steal from a farmer. Take what wasn't mine. Fill my belly with shame.'

'Second, I could farm. Start from scratch. Wait for a harvest. But it was too late in the season. Hunger would devour me before the crops ever rose.'

'Third,' he said, 'I could forge. Build something with the little strength I had. Make tools. Trade them. Not charity. Not theft. Just value for value.'"

Gupta sir looked back at Arjun.

"And then, he would turn to his apprentices and ask: 'What do you think I chose?' "

Arjun stayed quiet, unsure whether this was a riddle or a test.

The professor leaned forward, voice low and steady.

"You see, Arjun… students face the same choice. Every single day."

He began counting off, slowly.

"Rob—copy assignments, fake internships, lie in interviews. Steal credit. Fake excellence. You want the shine of a sword without ever stepping into fire. But a stolen blade always breaks when the battle comes."

"Farm—wait till the final semester, cram for placements, binge courses at the last minute. They plant in dry soil and pray for rain. But by then? It's already too late."

"And then there's Forge—use what you have, now. Today. Build one real thing. Read one real book. Ask one honest question. It's slow. Painful. Often invisible. But when the real test comes… that blade doesn't just shine. It slices."

He paused. "But before I finish, let me tell you the part most people forget."

"There was a fourth path," he said quietly."Decorate."

"Polish the blade. Add gold. Make it shine. Post from tech fests. Speak English with an accent. Flaunt certificates. Create the illusion of readiness—but never train for the fight."

"They don't fight. They just pose—until life calls their bluff."

And the worst part? Most don't even realize they've taken this path.Not until it's too late.But it doesn't have to be.

You can still choose to stop decorating and start forging.

The tapri quieted for a moment. Arjun could hear the distant clink of a spoon against a glass, the occasional rattle of the chaiwala rinsing cups.

"Now imagine," Gupta sir said, "that you are the blacksmith. But this forge isn't made of iron and fire."

He gestured around them.

"This college—is your forge. Your books—your tools. Your attention—your flame. And your future? That's the blade."

"Every lecture you attend? A hammer strike. Every hour of deep focus? A sharpened edge. Every distraction you resist? An impurity burned away."

"And every reel you binge… every class you skip… every lie you whisper to yourself—rust."

He leaned back again.

The cruelest part? The forge never screams when you waste time. It stays quiet.

Just like focus—sometimes it doesn't shout, it whispers. In those whispers, a life is shaped, choice by choice. Until one day… the battle comes.

And you realize your sword? Was never ready. Just decoration.

Arjun looked down at his hands, suddenly aware of how still they were. How quiet failure could be.

Gupta sir's voice softened, but his words didn't.

"You think your parents gave you four lakh rupees for a seat in this college?"

He shook his head.

"No, Arjun. They gave you four lakh hopes. Sacrifices. Prayers stitched into every rupee. Some students use that money for Wi-Fi and Zomato. They scroll. They chill. They party. But ask yourself—if your father had handed you four lakh in cash and said, 'Invest this in your future'—would you spend it on cold coffee and Netflix?"

"And don't even get me started on relationships," he said with a sigh. "Fall in love, sure. But don't fall out of yourself. You chase people who won't even remember your favorite song five years from now… while you ignore the person staring back at you in the mirror."

He let that one sit.

"The forge," he said, "isn't punishment. It's privilege. It's where greatness is born. Some students avoid it all four years—and walk into life unarmed. But others… they step in. Bleeding. Tired. Doubtful. But they show up. And when life throws its worst—they don't break. They fight back."

He placed his cup down and stared at the floor, as if it held memories from long ago.

"Do you think I preach because I am successful?" he asked, voice low. "No. It's quite the opposite. I have seen more failure than you could imagine. But I learnt. I failed in silence. I bled quietly. I just never stopped forging. What I say to you now? It's just a fragment of what life beat into me. Only because I made that choice—when I had nothing left but fire and time."

He looked up again, eyes sharp.

"If you never try, you can never fail. But that's not courage—that's fear, dressed up in comfort."

"And fear," he continued, "only has two meanings."

"Face Everything And Rise... or Forget Everything And Run."

"It takes backbone to live the life you actually want. Real risk. Real pain. Real effort. It's impossible to live without failing at something—unless you live so cautiously that you never truly live at all."

He let that sink in.

"And in that case... you've already failed by default."

He let out a breath, like someone finally laying down a burden.

"There's a saying in Kannada," he added, voice suddenly tender. "Everyone works and runs behind a piece of bread, cloth, and land."

"But in the end… all a man really needs is ಆನೆ(aane)."

"Not the elephant," he said, smiling. "(ಆ)aarogya — health. And (ನೆ)nemmadi — peace of mind."

"That only comes when you stop lying to yourself. Stop fooling yourself. And others. That's when the rust clears."

Then his tone changed, almost like a quiet verdict.

"Raj's father has promised him a job. He can afford to chill. His road was paved before he stepped in here."

"But you? You don't have that parachute."

"And the worst mistake you made… is tying your future to someone else's privilege. You followed his pace, not realizing he was walking downhill while you were meant to climb."

Arjun felt something twist in his chest. Like truth setting fire to excuses.

Gupta sir stood slowly, stretched his back, and picked up his steel cup.

"Arjun, you don't need to be perfect. You just need to be aware. Show up to your forge. Strike the hammer. Even if it's just for an hour a day."

"Because your future? It's quietly waiting… in the fire."

He stood up, left the bench with the empty steel cup in hand, and stepped into the fading glow of streetlamps and the soft unraveling of evening noise——behind him, only the hush of cooling air remained… and a forge, newly lit and crackling deep in Arjun's chest.

[To be continued...]

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*having an area of hardened skin