I came back home, ignited a stick of tobacco--my sole companion in the retreat--and thought, "Time is out of joint, O cursed spite! That I was ever born to set it right". In that Hamlet's frame of mind, I kept sticking to the sofa for hours, closing my eyelids and those helpless, demanding and desperate eyes of 'the young injured souls' kept haunting me.
All my dreams have faded now, I still hold myself responsible for not being able to dare lose my job for the sake of upholding the fair play in our institute. I left my poor little kids to get a better career and ended up finding myself in 'the ocean of corruption'.
O God! Save me from this filth and send me back to my previous village school where I might not be getting half the salary I am getting here but still my conscience would be safe from pricking, where I might be having lesser Audio-Visual Aids but no one would ever dare to do such acts that would make the talent become deaf and blind in hopelessness and despair. (The end)
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