I Went Anyway

There is something strangely comforting about knowing what you want.

Not knowing whether you will get it. Not knowing how it will happen. Not even knowing if you are good enough yet.

Just knowing that you want it.

A few hours into that train journey, somewhere between Delhi and Kolkata, I remember feeling good.

Not because I knew what was going to happen.

I didn't.

The songs weren't ready the way I had planned. I didn't know if I would meet him. I didn't have a proper plan for what would happen once I reached Kolkata. There were plenty of reasons to wait until everything was more certain.

But sitting there by the window, with the rain outside, I thought:

At least I know I want this.

I want this badly.

And there is something beautiful about that.

We spend so much of our lives trying to figure out what we should want. What is practical. What makes sense. What has a reasonable chance of working. What other people will understand.

Sometimes we forget that simply wanting something deeply is itself a kind of clarity.

"At least you get to chase something that you always dreamt of"

That thought stayed with me.

Because not everyone gets to know what they want.

And even fewer people are willing to find out what happens if they actually go after it.

We often think courage means being fearless.

I don't think it does.

I think courage is sometimes much more ordinary.

It is booking the ticket.

It is getting on the train.

It is going when the plan isn't perfect.

It is allowing yourself to be hopeful without being promised anything in return.

And then, sometimes, reality answers you differently than you hoped.

I didn't meet him.

My first reaction was shock.

For a moment, everything I had imagined the journey would be was simply not going to happen.

But you learn something about yourself in moments like that.

You can either let the disappointment become the story, or you can ask yourself what you can still do.

So I kept myself together.

I did what I could.

I wrote the letter.

I left the songs.

And I went back to the station.

At least I tried.

That sentence sounds small.

It isn't.

We are taught to measure things by outcomes. Did you get the opportunity? Did they say yes? Did the song get picked? Did the dream come true?

But there is another way of looking at it.

Sometimes the outcome is outside your control.

The attempt isn't.

You can control whether you showed up.

Whether you prepared.

Whether you took the chance.

Whether you knocked on the door.

Whether you tried again after the first door didn't open.

And maybe that is why I came back feeling lighter.

Not because I had succeeded.

I hadn't.

Not because I had received an answer.

I hadn't.

But because there was no longer a question hanging over me.

I knew.

I knew I wanted this.

And I knew I had tried.

Maybe that's all we can really ask of ourselves.

Not that every dream comes true.

Not that every risk pays off.

Not that every person we want to reach will open the door.

But that when something matters enough, we don't spend the rest of our lives wondering what would have happened if we had tried.

There is a particular kind of regret that comes from not trying.

It is quieter than failure.

It doesn't arrive immediately.

It sits somewhere in the back of your mind and keeps asking the same question:

What if?

I think I would rather know.

I would rather take the train.

I would rather arrive and find that the person isn't there.

I would rather come home with nothing except a letter, a pendrive, and the knowledge that I went.

Because sometimes the point isn't getting there.

Sometimes the point is becoming certain that you were willing to go.

And maybe that's what I mean when I say:

I went anyway.

Not because I knew it would work.

Not because I knew I would succeed.

Not because I wasn't afraid.

I went because I wanted to.

NOTE : You already have it in you; the journey simply proves it.