Beyond One's Control (A Dramatic Monologue) Poem by ashok jadhav

(The stage is dim. A single chair stands slightly off-center. The speaker paces, then stops, as if listening to something only he can hear.)
They keep telling me,
"Calm down. Handle it."
As if every storm
waits politely for permission.
As if chaos asks
whether I am ready.
But some things—
no matter how tightly you grip them—
slip through your fingers.
Some things are
beyond one's control.
(Pause.)
I was taught to manage life.
To plan, to organize, to prepare.
I was told effort is the cure
for every uncertainty.
So I learned schedules.
I learned discipline.
I learned the art of holding myself together
even when the world shook.
I believed responsibility
meant authority.
I was wrong.
(He laughs softly, without joy.)
Because life does not follow instructions.
It does not obey calendars.
It does not care how carefully
you stack your reasons.
One unexpected message,
one irreversible moment—
and suddenly,
everything I managed so well
was no longer mine to manage.
(He grips the chair.)
I tried harder.
Of course I did.
I tightened rules.
I measured words.
I monitored every breath,
as if vigilance itself
could rewrite reality.
But effort met its limit.
And I learned the cruelest lesson:
Control is conditional.
(Pause.)
Tell me—
what do you do
when the problem is not skill,
not negligence,
not lack of will—
but the simple fact
that it cannot be fixed?
When the lever does not exist.
When the door will not open.
When the fire will not listen
to reason?
You stand there,
hands full of methods,
staring at something
that refuses to be managed.
(His voice lowers.)
That is when panic begins.
Not loud panic—
the quiet kind.
The kind that lives in the chest.
The kind that whispers at night,
"Try again, "
even when there is nothing left to try.
I blamed myself.
That is what we do.
Because self-blame feels active.
It feels useful.
If it is my fault,
then maybe it is my fix.
But some realities
do not respond to guilt.
(Pause.)
Illness.
Loss.
Time.
Another person's choice.
No amount of discipline
commands these things.
They are not challenges—
they are conditions.
(He looks outward.)
Being beyond one's control
does not mean being meaningless.
It means being untamable.
And untamable things
are not conquered—
they are endured.
(A long silence.)
Something shifts
when you stop fighting
what refuses to move.
Not relief—
not at first.
But clarity.
You realize that control
is not the center of strength.
Response is.
You begin to ask different questions.
Not, "How do I fix this? "
but, "How do I live with this? "
Not, "How do I regain command? "
but, "How do I remain human? "
(He sits.)
I am still responsible—
just not for everything.
I am responsible
for how I speak
when words cannot change outcomes.
For how I stay
when escape would be easier.
For how I keep my integrity
when results are no longer negotiable.
(He exhales.)
That is a harder responsibility
than control ever was.
Because control flatters the ego.
But endurance tests the soul.
(Pause.)
I no longer pretend
that I can manage all things.
I manage myself.
My honesty.
My patience.
My refusal
to become cruel
just because I am powerless.
(He stands slowly.)
Some things remain
beyond my control.
They always will.
But they do not get
to decide
who I become.
(A pause.)
That choice—
is still mine.
(Lights fade. Silence.)