The Wheel Of Fortune Turns (A Dramatic Monologue) Poem by ashok jadhav

(A large circular shadow looms on the backdrop, slowly rotating. The speaker stands beneath it, as if caught in its motion.)
So—
it has turned.
I felt it before I saw it.
That subtle shift in the air,
that quiet click of something immense
changing position.
They warn us, don't they?
They say, "Nothing lasts."
But warnings are gentle things,
and the wheel is not.
One moment I stood at the top—
steady, confident, illuminated.
The ground beneath me felt permanent.
I mistook height for safety.
That was my first mistake.
(He circles slowly.)
At the top, you forget gravity.
You forget that ascent
contains the seed of descent.
You start believing
the view is yours by right.
I did.
Applause sounded like proof.
Success felt earned—and eternal.
I told myself this was stability,
not luck.
I spoke of merit,
never of mercy.
(Pause.)
Then the wheel of fortune turned.
Not gradually.
Not with courtesy.
But with the suddenness of truth.
One loss.
One reversal.
One hour that erased years.
And I—
I who once looked down—
was now looking up,
watching others stand
where I once stood.
(His voice tightens.)
How quickly respect becomes memory.
How swiftly certainty loosens its grip.
At the bottom, everything sounds different.
Laughter echoes longer.
Silence weighs more.
You learn which voices stay
when the music stops.
(Pause.)
I raged, of course.
I cursed the unfairness of it.
I asked why effort was not insurance,
why loyalty did not anchor fate.
But the wheel does not justify itself.
It turns.
That is its only promise.
(He looks at the rotating shadow.)
Look at it—
no beginning, no end.
Only movement.
Those above fall.
Those below rise.
Not because they deserve it—
but because the wheel demands balance.
(His tone softens.)
In falling, I learned things
height never taught me.
I learned how fragile applause is.
How temporary power can be.
How quickly identity dissolves
when position is removed.
But I also learned something else.
I learned humility.
Not the performative kind,
but the quiet recognition
that none of us owns our moment.
We borrow it.
(Pause.)
When the wheel lifted me,
I thought I was chosen.
Now I know—
I was only next.
And so are we all.
(He steps forward.)
This knowledge changes how you stand.
You no longer look down with pride,
nor up with envy.
You look across—
with understanding.
Because everyone is riding the same wheel,
just at different points.
(A slow breath.)
The wheel of fortune turns.
It always has.
It always will.
The tragedy is not falling—
it is forgetting that rising was never permanent.
The wisdom is not climbing—
it is remembering to remain human
wherever the wheel places you.
(He stops, facing the audience.)
I do not know where I will be
when it turns again.
Above.
Below.
Somewhere in between.
But I know this—
I will not confuse position with worth.
I will not mistake height for truth.
Because the wheel does not ask permission.
And when it turns—
it turns for everyone.
(The shadow continues to rotate as the lights fade.)