Three Times Lucky

tri·fec·ta (n.) : A system of betting in which the bettor must pick the first three winners in the correct sequence. Also called triple.

From portals plugging anything from jobs to partners, to the matron angling for a "suitable boy" & the school counsellor evangelising the future. It's the same path to salvation for everyone. Graduate in Engineering, followed by a
Postgrad in Management. A plum job being the bonus. A jolly trio that rule our destiny. The ones to pull their cards right, by genes or means, are afforded the awe once reserved for the privileged. The rest, branded as also-rans. Fawning masses, who clearly missed the bus. And woe befall the one born with not as much ambition as the go-getter.

What chance does society offer a 'differently' abled child? The one the Gods did not favor with a scientific bend. Or a knack for numbers. The Lesser God whose children turned out with talents far removed from what the mob demanded. From experience, very little. Countless are disgorged from innumerable technical schools, and many were simply Shanghaied into it. Peer pressure or regimentation, they are the lost generation among us. Accursed to a life-path imposed on them by those who should have known better.

Ours is a society that has decided for itself that being a qualified engineer with no sense of science is eminently preferable to being a natural artist with a heightened sense of color. A world where acquired knowledge, acquired at any or all costs, should stump the gifts born with. With no shelter from the searing competition, these are allowed to die. Killed, in some cases. In later life remembered only as an afterthought. Sometimes carefully tucked into the last para of our Resumes, duly accounted as "extra-curriculars"; for even the emperor needs a jester. Ensuring that this officious piece of paper says as little about ourselves as we could allow it.

There is only space for achievers here, and the trifecta take the first row. Four years of singular devotion to exams and grades qualify them to end up in the same basement.

At code shops. At Process floors. At work.

That being the final badge of recognition. For it's not the love of Mechanics that drove us to JEE, it's the moolah. Chem to Civil, let the good times roll. And the second pull from the deck is our card to the next heaven. Two more years, and
promised land. Another life achieved.

Matters to none whether he could have felt a color, rhymed a poem, or lead the meek. For no one gave him another chance. To be himself.

This is our generation of underachievers. Blessed thrice over.