The Degree in the Dustbin - Healing Dialogue for a Overqualified Delivery Boy
- Madhukar Dama
- Apr 10
- 3 min read
Location: A shaded corner near Madhukar’s courtyard. Cow dung-smeared floors, birds chirping, scent of tulsi in the breeze.
Characters:
Madhukar – The quiet, old scientist-turned-hermit.
Ravi – 26, B.Tech in Mechanical Engineering, now delivering food on a second-hand bike. Burnt out, sarcastic, hiding despair behind humor.
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Scene opens:
Ravi sits on a rock, helmet beside him. Dust on his shoes. Sweat on his back. A bag with a crumpled Zomato jacket lies on the ground. He keeps checking his phone for orders.
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Madhukar:
Put the phone down, son. Let the world hunger a bit for once.
Ravi (half-smiling):
If I’m late, they give one star. If I’m early, no one notices.
If I cancel, they reduce my incentive.
This app is stricter than my engineering college.
Madhukar:
And what did your college promise you?
Ravi:
A future. Respect. Money. A chair and AC, at least.
Instead, I got placement rejection, family tension, and a city that doesn’t care if I sleep hungry.
I topped my class, sir. Mechanical engineering, 8.7 CGPA.
Now I deliver pasta to kids half my IQ.
Madhukar:
Then maybe IQ is not the real measure of intelligence.
Ravi:
What is, then? Endurance?
How long I can survive on 22 rupees per kilometre?
Madhukar:
No. Intelligence is knowing where to stop digging before you hit emptiness.
Wisdom is knowing when to plant a seed instead.
Ravi:
I tried, sir. Applied to over 300 jobs. Made resumes, gave interviews, even paid money to some consultancy.
Eventually… I gave up. Now I earn enough to pay rent and send 2000 home to Amma.
But something in me… is dying.
Madhukar:
What is dying?
Ravi:
I don’t even know what I love anymore.
I wanted to design machines, work in renewable energy, invent.
But now I can’t even afford a laptop.
Madhukar:
Ravi… did you want to design machines, or did you want to be seen as someone who designs machines?
Ravi (stares):
What do you mean?
Madhukar:
Sometimes, we chase an identity, not a purpose.
A degree is not a destiny.
You’re more than the label they printed on a convocation day.
Ravi:
But what else am I supposed to do? Deliver food my whole life?
Madhukar:
No. Deliver honesty first.
Begin by saying: “This life I’m living… is not the one I imagined. But it’s real. And I’m here now.”
Then ask: “What can I learn from this?”
Ravi:
What is there to learn in this?
People don’t even say thank you when I hand over their food.
They just grab, slam the door, and rate me 4 stars.
Madhukar:
Then let it teach you humility.
Let it teach you that value is not always visible.
And let it teach you to build something with your hands — not just dreams in your mind.
Ravi:
Like what?
Madhukar:
You fixed bikes for your college friends, didn’t you?
Ravi:
Yeah… I used to enjoy that.
Madhukar:
Then start again. Fix things. Make things. Don’t wait for a company.
Be your own workshop. Even under a tree.
Even one repair at a time.
What matters is that you create again. Not for salary — for sanity.
Ravi:
But people will laugh. Say “BTech ban gaya mechanic.”
Madhukar:
Let them. It’s better to be a mechanic with peace than a graduate with pills.
Ravi (quietly):
I did try antidepressants. But they made me numb.
So I deleted the therapy app and downloaded Zomato.
Madhukar:
Then maybe healing isn’t in an app.
It’s in remembering who you were before the world told you who to be.
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Silence. Ravi takes a deep breath. A sparrow hops near his foot.
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Madhukar:
That degree in the dustbin? Let it go.
But not what it stood for.
Dust off your hands. Begin again.
Make your own syllabus.
And this time — include joy.
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Ravi looks at his hands. Calloused. Greasy. Strong.
A hint of something returns to his eyes — not yet hope, but direction.
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