It's June 2001. I'm 22 years old, sitting in a crowded UP government bus, bumping along the muddy and pathetic road to Lucknow. My mind is swirling with one thought: the first thing I'll do when I reach the hostel is shave off my mustache.
Today is the first day of my engineering college. But achieving this milestone was a battle - a fight waged with blood, sweat, and five long years of emotional turmoil. Sitting beside me is Alok, a boy five years my junior. He's beaming with pride, glowing like the happiest person alive. After all, he cracked this exam on his very first attempt. But me? My joy feels muted, tinged with the weight of lost time - a half-formed smile. I feel late? very, very late. Once Alok's guide and mentor, I am now his classmate. It doesn't seem fair. But I have to accept this new reality. For five years, I poured my heart into this goal, battling setbacks and self-doubt. Finally, I've made it - but the victory doesn't feel sweet.
Five years ago, I was a bright student. I passed my 12th exams with first division and ranked 3rd among more than 500 students. I loved reading stories and poetry books, and yes, I even wrote a small storybook along with many poems. You could ask me anything about movies or cricket, and I'd provide an answer in a fraction of a second - often with critical commentary as a bonus. People in my colony called me an all-rounder, and my professors nicknamed me the "long-distance horse" because, despite skipping many classes, I managed to outperform their favorite students.
I dreamt of becoming a star - someone who shines. I had my star moments: reciting poetry in front of an audience of 800 at a poetry fest in college , feeling like a true star. Another golden moment was performing mimicry of a few actors at a college function. Those were the golden years of my life.
I wanted to escape the small town where people imposed unfair rules that I was forced to follow. I hated it. I craved freedom. I wanted to shave my mustache, but it wasn't allowed back then. In small-town Uttar Pradesh, shaving off your mustache wasn't just a personal choice - it was a badge of honor, a symbol of achievement. Only doctors, engineers, or civil servants had "earned" the right to go clean-shaven. For anyone else, it was an act of defiance. I despised these unspoken rules; they felt like chains, tethering me to a rigid society. Shaving my mustache was more than just grooming - it was rebellion. It was a declaration of freedom. That's why I was determined to clear my engineering entrance exam and liberate myself from these societal oppressions.
Today, after five years, I feel the taste of freedom. If I hadn't cleared this exam on my last attempt, I'd have been doomed to a life of running my father's business - a life I hated. The very thought sends a shiver through me. An 8x8 shop, caged by dusty shelves, endless haggling, and waiting - always waiting - for customers. It was a life that stifled me, like a bird with clipped wings.
As the bus jolts past Fatehpur the next city on the way, my gaze lands on a larger-than-life poster of Devdas. There's Shahrukh Khan, gripping a bottle, his face a portrait of despair. It's magnetic. I stare at the poster, and something shifts inside me. This is me, I think. The years of ego clashes with my father, impulsive decisions, and an addiction to movies that derailed my focus - they've all led me here. Despite being a bright student , my failures stretched like a shadow over the last five years. Why? Even I can't fully explain. Maybe it was fate; maybe it was me.
But now, I have a second chance. And, of course, the mustache must go.
The bus comes to a halt near my stop. With Alok trailing behind, I step off, walking a kilometer to my hostel. The room is simple, clean, and mostly empty. I set down my bag in a corner, only to realize I left my newly bought shaving kit at home. I glance at my watch - it's 10:00 a.m. I have to report to college at 10:30 a.m., and it takes 10 minutes to get there. That leaves me just 20 minutes to shave and get ready. Determined to start this new beginning with a fresh start, I rush to a local grocery shop and buy a razor, blade, shaving cream, and brush. Back in my room, I unpack the razor and blade, holding the cold, sharp metal in my hands.
My reflection stares back at me in the small mirror. I see it all etched into my face - the years of failure, the stubbornness, the sacrifices of my parents, and the fragile hope in my mother's prayers. I lather the shaving cream onto my mustache, watching it froth and cover the remnants of my old self. As the blade makes its first stroke, I feel a shift. With every swipe, it's as if I'm scraping away the burdens: the self-doubt, the regrets, the weight of societal expectations. My ego, immaturity, and impulses all seem to melt away. Foam mixed with tears slides off, leaving raw skin - and a lighter heart.
By the time I make the final stroke, I pause, taking a deep, deliberate breath. My face in the mirror feels unfamiliar yet hopeful. I'm no longer weighed down by the past. I see a new landscape of hope, optimism, and dreams. A new playground awaits - a chance to start fresh, armed with maturity, responsibility, and courage.
My mustache is gone, but in its place, I've earned my freedom.
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