Still Waiting... My Life in the Shadow of Godot

    There are moments in life when time seems to stretch endlessly moments where hope clings to the edge of routine, and all one can do is wait. Reading Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot felt like reading my own inner diary two men, Vladimir and Estragon, waiting for someone who never arrives. Much like them, I too have stood in the silence, waiting for opportunities, for recognition, for a single sign that all my efforts were not in vain.

    “Nothing to be done,” Estragon sighs, and how many times have I echoed that in my own heart? After submitting applications, preparing lectures, and working tirelessly, the silence that followed often felt heavier than rejection. The play isn’t just about waiting for a person it’s about waiting for meaning, for clarity, for validation in a world that often offers none.

    There were times I prepared for an interview that never came, or stayed hopeful for a reply that never reached. And like Vladimir says, “We wait. We are bored. No, don’t protest, we are bored to death, there’s no denying it.” Yet we go on.

    The existential ache of Godot matches the weight I sometimes carry in my chest the tension between persistence and hopelessness. But perhaps Beckett isn’t mocking our waiting perhaps he’s honouring it. Because in the act of waiting, there’s still faith. I may not know when or if the call will come, but like Estragon, “We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?”

So I continue. I revise. I prepare. I wait. Maybe my Godot is just delayed. But I’ll be here.

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