At The Mercy Of Fate (A Dramatic Monologue) Poem by ashok jadhav

(The stage is dim. A single figure stands center stage. The sound of a distant clock ticking. He speaks slowly, as if weighing each word.)
So this is what it feels like—
to stand without reins,
to watch life move
while my hands hang empty.
I once believed I was the master of direction,
that effort was a steering wheel,
that willpower could bend the road.
I thought choices guaranteed outcomes,
that planning was protection.
How foolish certainty sounds now.
(He looks at his hands.)
These hands once shaped tomorrow.
They signed papers, sealed promises,
pointed confidently forward.
They built hopes brick by brick,
trusting that stability was earned.
But now—
these same hands tremble,
not from weakness,
but from knowing they hold nothing.
I am at the mercy of fate.
(Pause.)
Not destiny as poetry likes to dress it—
not fate as comfort.
But fate as silence.
As suddenness.
As the cold truth that nothing waits for permission.
One moment, I was moving forward.
The next—
the ground shifted.
A decision I did not make.
A call I did not expect.
A turn I never saw.
And just like that,
control became memory.
(His voice rises.)
Tell me—
what do you do
when effort no longer matters?
When the strongest will
is lighter than circumstance?
When every path you prepared
is erased without explanation?
You stand.
You breathe.
You endure.
(Softly.)
And you realize
how small a human plan truly is.
I raged at first.
Yes—I raged.
I demanded fairness from chaos,
logic from loss,
answers from silence.
I asked why diligence failed me.
Why discipline did not defend me.
Why honesty was not a shield.
But fate does not argue.
It does not explain.
It does not apologize.
It simply acts.
(He steps forward.)
And there I was—
stripped of certainty,
waiting on outcomes I could not influence,
watching life decide
without consulting me.
I had become a passenger
in my own story.
(Pause. His voice lowers.)
There is terror in that realization.
A deep, hollow terror.
Because control is comfort.
Illusion, perhaps—
but comfort nonetheless.
To lose it
is to feel naked before time.
Every morning I woke
not knowing what would fall next.
Every night I slept
unsure what would remain.
Plans felt ridiculous.
Hope felt dangerous.
Even prayer felt uncertain—
not because I stopped believing,
but because I learned belief
does not guarantee mercy.
(He looks upward.)
Is this humility?
Is this punishment?
Or is this simply
the condition of being human?
Because stripped of power,
I saw the truth:
We are always
at the mercy of fate.
We just forget
when life behaves.
(He exhales.)
Something changed in the waiting.
Not the situation—
that remained cruelly still.
But me.
When you cannot control the storm,
you begin to study your breath.
When you cannot choose the outcome,
you begin to choose your response.
I stopped fighting fate
as if it were an enemy.
I stopped demanding it behave.
Instead—
I listened.
I learned patience
not as virtue,
but as survival.
I learned acceptance
not as surrender,
but as strength reshaped.
Because there is dignity
in standing steady
even when the ground is not.
(His voice steadies.)
Being at the mercy of fate
does not mean being powerless.
It means power changes its address.
It moves inward.
To endurance.
To perspective.
To the quiet refusal
to become bitter.
Fate may decide the event—
but it does not decide the soul.
(He gathers himself.)
I do not know what comes next.
I no longer pretend to.
But I know this—
if fate chooses for me,
I will choose who I am within it.
I will not let uncertainty
make me cruel.
I will not let loss
empty me of meaning.
I stand here—
unarmed, unprepared, uncertain—
yet awake.
Still breathing.
Still human.
(A long pause.)
At the mercy of fate, yes—
but not without courage.
Not without choice.
Because even when life decides,
how we live the decision
is still ours.
(Lights fade. Silence.)