Give it for Me

By Dharmpal Singh

Once upon a time in a small Indian town, nestled between dusty roads and mango trees, a young man sat casually with his elder brother’s friends on a warm Sunday afternoon. The air was thick

with the scent of fried snacks and the slow hum of ceiling fans. Laughter echoed from the veranda, where men in their twenties and thirties lounged in plastic chairs, sipping tea and sharing stories of exams, jobs, and dreams deferred.

The conversation flowed easily until one of the elder friends, a man named

Raghav, raised a philosophical point: “God is the maker of man’s fortune.” The young man, barely out of college, confident and candid, responded without hesitation: “No, brother. Man is the maker of his own fortune.”

His words sliced through the comfort of the afternoon like a sudden breeze. The group chuckled, some amused, others intrigued. Raghav leaned forward, his eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in curiosity.

“Why do you say that?” he asked. “I’ve tried multiple times to clear the civil services exam. The first time, I failed. The second time, I gave it everything— but still, I wasn’t selected. After two honest attempts, I was so disheartened that I decided to quit.”

The young man listened, sensing the weight behind the words.  Raghav continued, his voice softer now.

“But then,” he said, “my teacher called me and said something that changed my life: ‘You gave the exam twice for yourself. This third time, give it for me.’”

The sentence hung in the air like a prayer.

“It hit me hard,” Raghav said. “So I gave the exam one more time—not for my own ambition, but as a way to honor my teacher’s belief in me. And you know what? I cleared it.”

The group fell silent. The young man nodded slowly, absorbing the shift from self-driven effort to purpose-driven perseverance.

That powerful sentence—‘Give it for me’—became etched in Raghav’s mind. It wasn’t just a plea. It was a transfer of belief, a handoff of hope.

Years passed.  Raghav became a mentor  and teacher himself, guiding students through the maze of competitive exams and corporate interviews. He carried the memory of his own turning point like a torch, waiting for the moment it would be needed again.

One day, that moment arrived.

His student, Subhajit Bhagat, stood at a similar crossroads. Subhajit was brilliant—sharp in logic, eloquent in speech, and meticulous in preparation. But brilliance doesn’t always guarantee success. He had already appeared in interviews for two major companies visiting his engineering college campus. Both times, he wasn’t selected.

The failures shook him. His confidence, once steady like a well-optimized algorithm, began to fragment. He questioned his worth, his preparation, even his luck.

When the third company arrived, Subhajit decided not to sit for it. “I’m done,” he told Raghav. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

Raghav didn’t argue. He simply looked at him and said, “You’ve given two interviews for yourself. Now give this third one for me.”

Subhajit paused.  The words felt familiar, yet foreign.  He didn’t fully understand them—but he respected his teacher. So he agreed.

Reluctantly, he appeared for the interview. Not out of ambition. Not out of hope. But out of gratitude.

This time, he succeeded.

The shift was subtle but profound.  Subhajit hadn’t changed his resume. He hadn’t learned a new skill overnight. What changed was his emotional architecture.  He wasn’t operating from fear or ego.  He was running on borrowed belief—on the quiet power of someone else’s faith.

That small shift—from self-doubt to doing something out of purpose—

transformed both their lives.

The student had become the teacher. And the cycle of belief had come full circle.

Raghav watched Subhajit walk into his new job with pride—not because he had taught him everything, but because he had passed on the one thing that mattered most: the ability to carry someone else’s hope when your own feels too heavy.

In the  world  of systems and  networks,  we often  talk about  “redun- dancy”—the idea that when one node fails, another can take over. In human terms, belief works the same way.  When your own confidence crashes, someone else’s faith can act as a backup.  A human UPS. A silent power source.

“Give it for me” is not just a phrase.  It’s a protocol.  A way to reroute emotional energy when the primary source is down.

It’s the teacher who lends you his belief. The parent who prays for your success. The friend who says, “I know you can do this,” when you’re ready to quit.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes.

The story of Raghav and Subhajit is not just about exams or interviews. It’s about the architecture of encouragement. About how belief, when shared, becomes a system of resilience.

In a world obsessed with self-made success, we forget that no one truly builds alone. Behind every achievement is a network of silent supporters— mentors, teachers, friends—who kept the system running when the main server was down.

So the next time you feel like quitting, remember:  you’ve given it for yourself. Now give it for someone who believes in you.

Because belief, when passed on, becomes legacy.

 Moral of the Story:

Success isn’t always born from personal ambition. Sometimes, it’s powered by borrowed belief. When your own drive falters, let someone else’s faith carry you forward. In life’s most critical moments, “Give it for me” can be the reboot your system needs.

By Dharmpal Singh