I grew up in a middle-class, working-class family where life revolved around work. My parents labored endlessly, and their idea of fun was taking us to the park. Even then, while we ran around carefree, they sat together on the bench, whispering about the next bill, calculating how to stretch every rupee, every dollar, every ounce of energy. Their lives were a constant negotiation between responsibility and survival.
For years, I believed my path would be no different. I imagined myself joining the cycle of endless work, exhausting my body and spirit to provide for my family, hoping that by the time age caught up with me, I’d have just enough to sustain myself. That was the script I thought I had to follow.
But something has shifted. These days, I’ve started to dream — not the fleeting kind that comes with sleep, but the conscious, deliberate kind that plants hope in the cracks of reality. I know there’s a high chance I may never achieve all that I dream of, and strangely, I’m at peace with that. Because I’ve realized it’s not the fulfillment of dreams that keeps us alive, but the act of dreaming itself. To imagine a life beyond the grind is not foolish; it’s a declaration that we deserve more than survival.
For the first time, I’ve made a bucket list. Ninety percent of the items feel out of reach, but they’re there anyway. To act as reminders of what I want, of who I am beyond the paycheck. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. And even if someday never comes, the list itself is proof that I’ve allowed myself to hope.
Being practical is wise, yes. But sometimes, being impractical and daring to dream of possibilities is what makes life bearable. Dreams are the spark that light up the monotony, the quiet rebellion against a world that tells us to only endure. They are the whispers that say: you deserve better, you deserve more.
Word Hues 