The Safest Place to Fail
A short story about the email we never send
“I will send it today. Without fail,” Raghav’s neighbour screamed from the side window.
Raghav had been hearing this sentence for a week. He looked at the neighbour with a straight face, then at the old man sitting across the street, reading his newspaper. He wanted to say something, but his mind flashed images of biryani.
At first, his mind refused to accept reality. It couldn’t imagine eating anything other than the promised biryani. For two days, it rejected normal food like a protester on a hunger strike, throwing out whatever Raghav put into his body. But when the magical biryani didn’t arrive, his body surrendered and returned to dull survival meals.
“Don’t eat now,” the neighbour shouted again.
“Wait for the biryani today. You can complete your goal until then. Today is the last day, remember?”
Then he disappeared—presumably to marinate chicken and his hope for a delicious meal.
***
Raghav stood at the window, as he did every morning, watching the neighbour vanish. He wondered when the man would stop promising and actually send the biryani. It had been over a week. Promises arrived daily. Food never did.
Every morning, the neighbour also reminded Raghav of his goal.
Send one email.
One email. One attachment. One magazine. The start of his writing career.
A magazine that published essays about quitting jobs and finding oneself in European cafés. Raghav had never been to Europe, but he had thoughts. Strong ones. That should count.
But that day was the last day for submissions of the year. Raghav had missed it last year, and the year before that—either because he couldn’t perfect it, or because life came in the way. He didn’t want to miss it this year.
At 10:08 a.m., Raghav opened Gmail.
Subject: Submission
Too confident.
He added Humorous.
Deleted it. Humour was subjective, dangerous, and slightly unpatriotic.
Added Short.
Deleted it. Length anxiety. Also, he didn’t want to offend the editor by guessing his height.
He closed Gmail.
***
From the open window came the neighbour’s voice.
“I’ll do it today,” he said on the phone.
“I just want to go through the recipe once more.”
Raghav went to the window, hoping to convince the neighbour to make the damn biryani even if it was imperfect. Then his eyes fell on the old man across the street, reading the newspaper as always, wearing a faintly sarcastic smile. Raghav wanted to run over and confront him, but didn’t.
Raghav nodded, even though no one was watching. He thought the neighbour was right.
Reasonable man. After waiting so long, who wants badly made biryani?
Raghav opened his essay, hoping to perfect the line that bothered him most.
Just one line needed fixing.
The line exposed a weak paragraph.
The paragraph exposed a soft opening.
The opening exposed an identity crisis.
He closed the document. His chest tightened, his heart sprinting like Usain Bolt late for rent.
He leaned back in his chair, hoping for inspiration.
***
From next door came the neighbour’s voice:
“I rushed last time,” he said.
“This time I want to do it properly.”
Raghav wiped sweat off his temple.
Good man. Learns from mistakes.
Maybe I should also perfect it a little more. With more zeal.
He took a tea break.
While the kettle boiled, Raghav remembered his college blog. A forgotten URL. A forgotten version of himself. He remembered refreshing the page after posting, waiting for comments.
One had arrived.
Decent. Needs depth.
Depth had taken fifteen years. It still hadn’t arrived. Somewhere along the way, his dream of becoming a writer had curled up and gone quiet, waiting to be let into the real world.
***
Back at his desk, Gmail waited. Patient. Accusatory.
He attached the file.
His finger hovered over Send.
His brain woke up like a legal department on caffeine.
What if this magazine isn’t aligned with my voice?
What if they don’t like it?
What if my friends read it and pretend they didn’t?
What if I find out I’m not a good writer?
His phone buzzed.
Last hour for submission.
His fingers panicked. He detached the file.
Outside, the neighbour laughed.
“No no,” he said. “Tomorrow is safer.”
Raghav clenched his fists. Then softened.
The neighbour wasn’t wrong.
Safety first. Always.
Raghav noticed the old man across the street. The old man smiled, then returned to his newspaper. Raghav almost walked over to confront him, but his phone buzzed again.
45 minutes remaining.
Raghav checked the magazine’s FAQ section.
We read everything.
Suspicious.
Don’t wait for perfection.
Unrealistic.
He felt personally attacked.
He opened Twitter—for like-minded people, but mostly validation.
A writer he followed had tweeted: Sent my draft without overthinking. Accepted!
Raghav closed the app.
Some people are just perfect writers, he thought.
***.
From next door, the neighbour’s voice dropped.
“I don’t want to mess it up,” he said softly.
“This thing means a lot to me.”
That line stayed.
Raghav remembered when writing had meant everything to him—how hours disappeared while he wrote, how he used to tell people, I’m working on something. Fifteen years had passed, and he hadn’t sent a single piece.
***
At 12:19 p.m., Raghav decided the problem was timing.
He was a morning writer.
It was afternoon.
Afternoons were for reflection, dignity, and naps.
He shut the laptop and slept.
A knock woke him.
Raghav ran to the door.
It was the neighbour.
For one irrational second, Raghav believed.
The biryani was here.
Faith rewarded.
The neighbour looked tired.
“I keep telling myself I’ll send it,” he said.
“But honestly… as long as I don’t send it, I can still believe it’s good.”
Raghav’s brows tightened.
“You didn’t make biryani?” he asked quietly.
The neighbour shook his head and walked back toward his house.
***
Raghav, tired and angry, walked toward the neighbour.
The neighbour turned. “I promise tomorrow,” he said, his eyes misty with guilt and regret.
Raghav’s gaze drifted to the old man across the street. The old man lowered his newspaper to see what was happening. Their eyes met.
Raghav remembered the last time he had looked into those eyes. Fifteen years ago, when he first rented this place. He remembered the old man asking what he wanted to be.
“A writer,” Raghav had said, without thinking twice.
He remembered fighting with everyone—his family included—to pursue that dream. Leaving home. Leaving a well-paying job. Renting this small apartment to save money. Manuscripts stacked on the writing-cum-sleeping desk. Meagre jobs taken to survive until someday he became what he had always dreamt of.
It had been fifteen years.
“I promise tomorrow, I will surely send the biryani,” the neighbour said again.
Raghav froze.
He had heard this before.
Not just from the neighbour.
From himself.
He looked at the old man. The old man smiled and nodded.
Raghav watched vehicles pass on the street, one after another, just like his life.
He ran back to his apartment and opened the drawer beneath his desk.
Stacks of paper.
Same font.
Same title pages.
Different years.
He closed the drawer.
He returned to his desk.
Gmail was still open.
Unsent.
Pure.
Untouched by reality.
And suddenly, the pattern snapped into focus.
As long as the email stayed unsent,
the essay could be brilliant.
Praise could exist.
Rejection could not.
This wasn’t hesitation.
It was preservation.
Fear wasn’t blocking him.
Fear was protecting him—from finding out how far he could fly.
***
“Maybe next week,” the neighbour said.
“What’s the hurry anyway?”
Raghav laughed. Short. Sharp.
The neighbour wasn’t cautious.
He was rehearsing avoidance out loud.
And Raghav had been calling it wisdom.
For years.
Since the first notebook.
The first abandoned blog.
The dream he spoke about carefully, so it wouldn’t have to prove itself.
The fear of judgment suddenly felt lighter than the weight of never knowing.
Raghav placed his fingers on the keyboard.
Deleted the subject line.
Typed again.
Submission
He attached the file.
He did not reread the essay.
He did not reread the email.
He did not negotiate.
He clicked Send.
The screen paused.
The cursor blinked once.
Then disappeared.
One line appeared:
We’ve received your submission.
Nothing else.
No applause.
No rejection.
No ceremony.
Raghav closed his laptop.
Until now, the dream had only existed where it couldn’t fail.
Now it existed where it could.
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