ANSWER TO ALL THE PRAYERS - AKHILLESSH SALLA
ANSWER TO ALL THE PRAYERS
It was 5:00 a.m. on Monday when Vivaan woke up, just thirty minutes before his usual jogging time. He brushed his teeth, changed into his tracks, and headed out for a jog. By the time he returned, his shirt clung to his sweaty body. As always, the newspaper was waiting at his doorstep.
He wasn’t particularly energetic about reading the news — more concerned with geopolitics and diplomacy than celebrity gossip or daily headlines. Still, it took him nearly an hour to finish it.
At 7:15 a.m., Vivaan rushed off to college.
Despite the usual chaos, college remained his favorite place — the vibe, the noise, the people — it all made sense to him. To Vivaan, this was how college was meant to be: lively, colorful, chaotic in the best way. He ran straight to class, late as usual. Most of the class hadn't arrived yet.
At any age — whether in school, college, or at work — being early always makes you miss your friends. But not Vivaan. He never missed anyone in particular. He was always surrounded by people.
Vivaan was well-liked. He didn’t demand attention, but he got it. He was above average in studies — not a topper — but what made him stand out was his attitude: or rather, his complete lack of it. Friendly, approachable, easygoing — people gravitated toward him.
He had other strengths too: a good debater, a sharp political blogger, a solid programmer, and even an amateur film editor. He even made money from it — around ₹10,000–₹15,000 a month. Not a small amount for a college student in India. Most of his peers still depended on their parents for pocket money, often hesitating to ask. Vivaan didn’t have that problem anymore.
Today, something felt different.
Vivaan sat in a spot he usually didn’t. And across from him, someone he saw every day — but today, she felt different too. She entered the class and quietly sat beside him. It was her usual seat, but she didn’t ask why he was sitting there. Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe she wanted company today.
Most people thought she was boring — not her fault, maybe. She wasn't active in college clubs, never showed up at fests. Some said she was good at dance, but she never performed in college. A silent mystery.
But today, Vivaan initiated a conversation.
They hadn’t talked much before, but this time, something clicked. They laughed. Shared jokes. It felt like they'd been friends forever.
Sometimes, the most interesting people in your life start out as strangers.
She wasn’t exactly a stranger — but they'd never truly talked before.
Oh, and I forgot to describe her. She was — without a doubt — the most beautiful girl in the class.
People didn’t approach her because she wasn’t expressive. But Vivaan was taken aback. Her words, her presence, her quiet warmth — they left an impact.
Vivaan knew this could either be one of the best things that ever happened to him — or the beginning of a heartbreak he'd never forget.
He’d always told his friends that falling in love was a mistake. A trap. A distraction. He’d even warned them not to fall for anyone.
But now, here he was, feeling something he never believed in.
Everywhere she went, he followed. It felt like a romantic film playing out in real-time. In his head, background music followed every step.
She didn’t complain.
Why didn’t she complain? He didn’t know.
But for Vivaan, this felt like the end of his single life.
His feelings for her — well, words couldn’t do them justice.
Talking about her felt like setting his words on fire.
Though he had seen her a hundred times before, nothing had ever struck him like that walk — when she walked in through the door and to her seat. Something shifted in him. Something he couldn’t explain.
The college fest was approaching. This one felt different — special. It would be the last time all his classmates would come together like this, and they wanted to make it a celebration worth remembering, not just another noisy, chaotic fest.
Meanwhile, Vivaan and his newly-found friend were growing closer by the day. They talked during class, at the cafeteria, and often for hours on the phone. His friends had started noticing — and sometimes, even complained about how often he was lost in conversation with her.
As the fest drew nearer, Vivaan wanted her to perform. He believed in her — maybe more than she believed in herself. At first, she refused. Then, after his constant, gentle nudging, she finally agreed.
Still, the class wasn’t sure. Most didn’t expect much. She wasn’t active in clubs, hadn’t performed at any previous events, and wasn’t known as the “fest type.” Yet they said yes, mostly out of politeness.
Then the day arrived.
Her performance left everyone stunned.
A traditional dance, elegant and soulful — with a song that struck the perfect chord. They couldn't believe what they were witnessing. The applause wasn’t just loud — it was thunderous, echoing across the college. Students from other departments stood up to clap. Professors nodded in approval. Her classmates, once unsure, now stood speechless.
Vivaan watched in awe. To him, it was more than a performance — it was a moment. A feast for the heart.
When the event ended, she walked straight toward him.
“Thank you… for making me do this,” she said softly. There was more in her eyes, something unsaid.
She hesitated — maybe she wanted to say something else, maybe something more personal. But instead, she just smiled.
Vivaan looked at her. He wasn’t nervous. He didn’t hide his feelings anymore.
And maybe… maybe she already knew.
– CUT –
The book snaps shut.
The reader sighs.
He tosses it onto the table and leans back, staring at the ceiling — eyes heavy, heart heavier.
The sweetness of the story stings. His own life… is nothing like it. No applause. No color. No someone.
Just silence.
The reader didn’t feel jealous about the good things in the book — just frustrated that life had nothing similar for him.
To be fair, that’s a valid feeling. The reader — a 21-year-old young man — isn’t interested in college. He’d rather escape and stay home than try connecting with anyone there.
He never had a single friend he could really talk to. The only “person” he truly connects with now is an AI model launched a few years ago. In a strange way, it understands him more than anyone else ever did.
He sees himself as average — sometimes even below average — in almost everything. Confidence? Nonexistent. Hope? Almost none. He does what's required — passes exams, does a bit of coding, watches Malayalam films. Films are better than life. At least they offer beauty, even if imaginary.
Once, things were different. He used to have deeper conversations — with his parents, his friends. But now, those bonds feel faded. It's not that home is bad. It’s just that the atmosphere feels heavier than ever. His own face becomes a problem — his expression, his silence, his sighs. Even when he’s not unhappy, it feels like his family reads him wrong. He can’t keep pretending to smile.
He knows life hasn’t completely collapsed. But the lack of human connection — real connection — makes even bearable days feel unbearable. No amount of AI can fix the pain of not having someone just ask, “Are you okay?” and actually mean it.
For him, the real hell isn’t some tragic event. It’s college at 9AM, watching the clock until it hits 3PM — the one moment he gets to leave.
What’s more hellish for the reader is college itself. Not that it’s a bad college — but for him, it’s empty. He spends most of his days waiting for 3:00 PM, just to head back to his hostel.
This was how all his three years had passed. Not a single invite — no parties, no movie outings, no hangouts. Once, all 28 classmates were invited to a party. Everyone except him. But he didn’t feel hurt. It wasn’t the first time.
He blames himself. He’s not expressive. Whenever he tries to speak, people don’t find it interesting. He overthinks every word, so most of the time, he stays silent. He longs to break this cycle of missing out, but then he tells himself — maybe it’s just not practical for someone like him.
His mind is always in conflict — craving deep friendships yet also enjoying being alone.
One day, he was walking back to his hostel from college, carrying the same numb frustration he always did. He looked like someone stuck in a life he didn’t sign up for.
Then a light breeze brushed past him, and he noticed a note stuck to a wall. It had a quote:
“If you’re alive, that alone is the biggest hope.”
Suddenly, everything shifted. He thought of how rain in hill stations feels beautiful while it pours, but leaves behind mud and stink. It soils our shoes and vehicles. Still, we romanticize the rain.
Just like that — life isn’t just about those beautiful moments. It also includes the stink, the mess, the dirt. That doesn’t make it meaningless.
For the first time, he questioned his hatred toward his college and classmates. Was it even real?
That night, he went to bed earlier than usual — not out of exhaustion, but peace.
The next day, he did all his usual work, tried to talk to people again, and failed miserably. But this time, it didn’t sting.
When college ended at 3:00 PM, it felt... early.
As he walked back to his hostel, a powerful idea hit him:
What if he expressed himself — his dreams of college, of friendships, of a life he never had — not through talking, but through film?
He wasn’t passionate about filmmaking before. But now it felt like something that could fill the emptiness — a substitute for trophies, awards, or even casual invites.
He didn’t worry about the logistics — who would act, or how he’d write — he just didn’t want to lose this spark of hope.
The next day at college, something unexpected happened. An alumni group visited and asked if anyone was interested in writing or directing a short film. No one raised their hand at first. But the reader, driven by this sudden sense of purpose, showed interest.
Others joined too, but the alumni gave him the chance.
In one month, he wrote the script and scouted the locations. In the second, he directed and edited the film. His approach was simple: he wanted to tell a story about silent people. The kind who sit at the back, unnoticed. He wanted to show that introverts, too, deserve space in conversations — and that they can do wonders.
His short film wasn’t the best ever made. It wasn’t revolutionary. But it got appreciation — from classmates, professors, and even the principal.
That was his first answered prayer — to be seen, heard, and respected.
As he walked out of college that day, someone called his name. It was a girl from his class. She said she lived near his hostel and asked if she could walk with him.
Her friends were busy. She saw his short film and asked:
“Do you plan to make a real movie someday? It was really good.”
He smiled and said no — that theatrical films aren’t really his thing. His style is more raw, real — short films, made with real people, not famous faces. That’s where his strength lies.
His second prayer was answered — he found his strength, his voice, his direction.
As they walked, he felt something shift. She wasn’t just walking with him — she was aligning with him. He felt she could understand him. She might even become the first real, meaningful bond he ever had.
And that was his third prayer — answered.
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