The Lottery of Courage

It was a humid afternoon inside the Government Secretariat, where time seemed to move with the same tired rhythm as the slow-turning ceiling fans above.

The air hung heavy, carrying the faint smell of dust, old paper, and files that had rested too long without purpose.

In that quiet suffocation, where decisions often slept beneath layers of neglect, a small group of men gathered near the corridor, standing closer than usual, their voices lowered, yet their anger rising like heat from the sun-burnt roads outside.

“Not here…” one of them whispered. “Let’s move near the staircase… if Sir hears us, it’s over.”

They shifted cautiously, as though even the walls might listen.

And in that moment, something unfamiliar stirred within them, something that felt like courage, or perhaps only the shadow of it.

There are moments when ordinary men believe they are brave… until they stand before the power they cannot face.

A group of clerks gathered near the staircase landing, away from the main corridor. Even the peon, Rajan, had been cleverly sent away.

“Go and bring tea from the canteen,” they had told him.

But Rajan was not a fool. He walked halfway down, then quietly slipped back and hid behind the staircase, notebook in hand. He knew something worth noting was about to unfold.

That morning had not begun like any other.

The officer had called Krishnan into his room, not even asking him to sit. The door remained half open, and the entire office heard what followed.

“Work pending for three days!” the officer’s voice cut through the corridor.

“What exactly are you doing here? If this happens again, I will suspend you. Do you understand? Suspension!”

Krishnan stood there, silent, his fingers trembling slightly, his eyes fixed somewhere near the floor.

He tried to explain, about delayed files, about the system not working, but the officer dismissed him with a wave.

“Excuses,” he said coldly. “I don’t want stories. I want results.”

When Krishnan stepped out, no one met his eyes. But everyone had heard.

And something had begun to burn.

Now, near the staircase, that quiet burn found its voice.

“Enough is enough!” Krishnan burst out, his face flushed, his pride still raw. “This is not the old zamindar time! This is modern Kerala! We are government staff, not slaves!”

“Yes!” said Sreenivasan, adjusting his glasses, his voice trembling at first but gathering strength. “We studied… we passed PSC… we worked hard to get here. We also have dignity. We are not people to be shouted at like that!”

John Mathew stepped forward.

“Yesterday he shouted at me also, in front of everyone! I said ‘Good morning, sir’… he didn’t even look at my face!”

“And me?” Sudhamony’s voice rose from behind. “He told me, ‘Why is your face like this? Go and wash properly!’ What is this? Are we school children?”

Words began to spill over one another. Voices rose. Hands moved.

Anger found courage in numbers.

For a brief moment, it felt as if something real might happen.

But not everyone was carried away.

Gopalan Nair, sitting slightly apart, spoke softly, almost to himself, yet clearly enough to be heard.

“Listen… what he did is wrong… I agree. But think once, if we fight like this today, tomorrow when we sit in that chair… won’t we become the same?”

The others paused.

Then the noise returned.

Because anger is louder than reflection.

In a crowd, anger feels like courage… but wisdom often speaks in a voice too soft to be heard.

“We cannot go on like this,” Krishnan said again, quieter now, but with a firmness that silenced the room. His anger had settled into something heavier, something that demanded action.

He looked around.

“It has come to a point… it is either him or us. We cannot keep standing like this every day, waiting to be shouted at.”

A murmur of agreement moved through the group.

“Yes… correct…”

“This cannot continue…”

“At least once, someone should tell him clearly…”

Krishnan nodded.

“One person must go. Not to argue… but to speak firmly. With dignity. Let him understand we are not here to be insulted.”

The idea lingered.

For a moment, it sounded simple.

Then came the question that changed everything.

“Who will go?”

Silence followed.

Not agreement.

Fear.

Eyes dropped. Hands fidgeted. A man stared at the notice board as if it held urgent news.

No one spoke.

“Come on…” Krishnan urged. “Someone has to go.”

Still nothing. Then, almost casually, John Mathew said,

“Sreenivasan can go.” Heads turned.

“Yes… correct… he speaks well.”

“He reads books…”

“And his English is good…”

The suggestion gathered momentum, too quickly.

Sreenivasan raised his hand weakly.

“No… why me? I may say something wrong…”

Krishnan stepped closer.

“You won’t. You are the only one who can do this properly. If I go, I may shout.”

“We need someone calm,” John Mathew added.

“You have courage,” Krishnan said gently. “We only have anger.”

A pause followed. Then someone said quietly,

“We are all with you.”

That sentence decided it.

Because support always feels strongest just before you stand alone.

Sreenivasan adjusted his shirt, ran his fingers through his hair, and took a deep breath.

“Okay… I will go.”

Relief spread across the group.

Not because the problem was solved,
but because it now belonged to someone else.

Courage speaks loudly in a crowd… but when the moment arrives, it quietly chooses one man to carry its weight.

Sreenivasan walked slowly towards the officer’s cabin. Each step felt heavier than the last.

“I will tell him clearly…” he repeated in his mind.

He reached the door. Paused. Wiped his face. Adjusted his hair.

And entered.

Inside, the officer sat behind a large table. Cool air filled the room. Files were neatly arranged. A laptop screen glowed softly.

“Yes? What do you want?”

Sreenivasan stood there, unsure whether to sit or remain standing. His palms were already damp.

“Sir…”

The officer looked up, mildly irritated.

“Yes? What is it?”

Sreenivasan opened his mouth.

The words he had prepared, we deserve respect… please do not shout…, were gone.

His throat dried. His heart pounded.

The courage he had carried into the room slipped away, quietly, helplessly.

Fear does not arrive with noise… it enters softly and empties you from within.

“Sir… I… I came to say…”

“Yes?”

“Sir… I heard… there is a lottery… for staff welfare fund…”

The words surprised even him.

Everything else vanished.

“Ah yes,” the officer said casually. “Lottery tickets. ₹500 each. I have a few left. Will you take?”

“Sir… one ticket…”

“Take four.”

Without resistance, Sreenivasan signed. Paid ₹2,000.

“Very good. All the best.”

“Thank you, sir…”

And he walked out, all rushed towards him

“What happened?”

“Did you tell him?”

“Did you warn him?”

Sreenivasan stood there, his face flushed, his eyes filling.

“Give me ₹2,000… please…”

“What?”

“I bought lottery tickets…”

Silence.

Then someone laughed.

“You went to fight… and came back buying tickets?”

“That was money…for paying house rent”

They stood there, confused, embarrassed, silent.

Above them, the fan continued its slow rotation.

Behind the staircase, Rajan quietly wrote everything down.

Later, it would reach the right ears.

That evening, as the office emptied and the files remained untouched, one truth settled gently in the air,

It is easy to speak of courage in a crowd… but true courage is tested when you stand alone.

And sometimes, the fear inside us costs more than money… it costs our voice.