Man Proposes, God Disposes (A Dramatic Monologue) Poem by ashok jadhav

(The speaker stands alone at dusk. A half-packed suitcase lies at his feet. Papers—plans, letters, dreams—are scattered around. He speaks to the silent sky.)
So this was the plan.
This—neatly measured, carefully folded future.
I charted it like a map,
every turn calculated, every risk tamed by reason.
I believed foresight was power.
I believed effort was enough.
I said, "By this age, I will arrive."
I said, "By this season, I will succeed."
I said, "By this year, happiness will be earned."
How confidently I spoke—
as if tomorrow had signed a contract with me.
(He picks up a paper, laughs bitterly.)
Look at these schedules!
Deadlines marching like obedient soldiers.
Ambitions standing tall, saluting my will.
I mistook preparation for command,
mistook intelligence for authority.
I worked.
Yes—I worked honestly, tirelessly.
I sacrificed sleep, comfort, even love.
I told myself, "This is the price of certainty."
I believed the universe respected diligence.
But the universe does not negotiate.
(Pause.)
It listens.
Then it decides.
One phone call—
and years collapsed into silence.
One illness—
and strength became a stranger.
One accident—
and the future I rehearsed vanished backstage,
never stepping into the light.
Tell me—
where was my logic then?
Where was my discipline, my will, my clever planning?
I stood there—
plans in my hands,
and fate calmly closed the door.
(His voice hardens.)
Do not misunderstand me.
I am not accusing God.
I am accusing myself—
for thinking I could corner destiny
with ink and intention.
I forgot something ancient.
Something simple.
Something whispered by generations
but shouted only in loss:
Man proposes.
God disposes.
I proposed success—
God proposed humility.
I proposed permanence—
God proposed change.
I proposed control—
God proposed surrender.
And how cruel surrender feels
to a mind trained to conquer!
(He looks upward.)
Why give us dreams
if You reserve the right to undo them?
Why place fire in our hearts
only to remind us of our smallness?
(A pause. His tone softens.)
Or perhaps—
You never meant to destroy the dream.
Perhaps You meant to reshape the dreamer.
Because now—
I see differently.
I see that effort is not ownership.
That desire is not destiny.
That the road bends not to ambition
but to wisdom.
I see that failure is not always punishment.
Sometimes it is protection.
Sometimes it is redirection.
Sometimes it is mercy disguised as loss.
(He gathers the scattered papers slowly.)
I proposed a life of certainty.
God disposed of my arrogance.
I proposed applause.
God disposed of my need for it.
I proposed arrival.
God disposed of my impatience.
And in the ruins of my plans,
something quieter stands—
acceptance.
Not resignation—
acceptance.
I will still plan.
I will still dream.
I will still work.
But now—
I will leave room
for the unseen hand,
for the unanswered prayer,
for the possibility that what I want
is not always what I need.
(He closes the suitcase, gently.)
I propose.
God disposes.
And somewhere between the two—
I learn to live.
(Lights fade.)