Up In Smoke (A Dramatic Monologue) Poem by ashok jadhav

(The stage is dim. A faint haze drifts through the air, as if something has just burned. The speaker stands amid scattered papers—charred at the edges. He holds one, lets it fall.)
So this is what remains.
Ash.
Silence.
The smell of something that once mattered.
(Pause.)
I had plans.
Careful ones.
Measured.
Layered with hope and reason.
I drew lines where life should go,
believing precision could protect me.
I said, "If I do this, then that will follow."
I said, "Everything is under control."
I said, "Nothing can go wrong."
How innocent that sounds now.
(He kneels, picking up a blackened page.)
Look at them—
my plans.
Once crisp with certainty,
now curled and blackened,
like leaves after fire.
They didn't collapse slowly.
They didn't warn me.
They didn't weaken over time.
They went up in smoke.
(His voice hardens.)
One moment I was standing on solid ground.
The next—
the floor vanished.
A meeting canceled.
A promise withdrawn.
A door shut without explanation.
Years of preparation erased
in the time it takes for flame to breathe.
(Pause. He exhales.)
Do you know the cruelty of total failure?
Not the kind that teaches gently,
but the kind that leaves nothing standing.
The kind that doesn't say "try again, "
but whispers, "Start over."
(He rises slowly.)
I searched for mistakes—
some small error to blame.
I replayed every choice, every word,
desperate to locate the spark
that caused the fire.
But sometimes,
there is no mistake.
Sometimes, effort burns anyway.
(Softly.)
That is the hardest truth—
that work does not guarantee survival.
That intention does not insure success.
That even the best-laid plans
are fragile as paper.
(He looks into the distance.)
People say, "Learn from it."
As if loss is a classroom.
As if devastation comes with instructions.
But when everything fails at once,
learning feels like an insult.
Grief comes first.
(A long pause.)
I mourned those plans.
Not because they were perfect,
but because they carried my belief.
They were proof that I dared to hope.
And now—
hope feels dangerous.
(His voice regains strength.)
Yet here I stand.
Among ruins.
Still breathing.
And that means something remains
that fire could not consume.
(He brushes ash from his hands.)
Plans may go up in smoke,
but will does not burn so easily.
Purpose survives heat.
And from ashes—
new blueprints emerge.
(Pause.)
I will plan again.
Not with arrogance,
but with humility.
Not with certainty,
but with courage.
Because failure may destroy the structure,
but it cannot destroy the builder.
(He looks upward.)
Let the smoke rise.
Let it sting my eyes.
I will see through it.
For even after everything is lost,
there is still one plan left—
to rise.
(Lights fade slowly.)