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Maya had always been a dreamer, even as a little girl. She used to fill notebooks with ideas for ads, movie scripts, and short stories. But the city had worn her down. The grind, the competition, the expectations—everything felt so much heavier here than it did in the small world she came from.
As she sat there, her thoughts swirling, she suddenly noticed an elderly man seated at the far end of the café. He was hunched over a notebook, scribbling away with a furrowed brow, pausing occasionally to sip from his cup. He looked out of place amidst the sleek modernity of the café, his tattered overcoat and thick, square glasses giving him an air of nostalgia. But there was something about the intensity with which he wrote, his complete absorption in whatever story he was crafting, that struck Maya.
For a long moment, she simply watched him, wondering what stories he had to tell. What had brought him here, to this café, on a rainy afternoon? Did he, too, have dreams once that were larger than life? And if so, had he achieved them?
She was lost in thought when the man looked up and caught her gaze. Embarrassed, she quickly looked away, pretending to check her phone. But when she glanced up again, he smiled softly, a knowing kind of smile, as if he understood the questions she was too afraid to ask.
That evening, Maya returned to her apartment feeling different. She couldn’t quite place it, but something about that quiet encounter had shifted something inside her. Maybe it was seeing someone so consumed by their passion for writing, or maybe it was the realization that even in a city as overwhelming as this one, there were pockets of quiet where dreams could still take root.
Maya sat down at her desk, the blank page on her laptop screen staring back at her. It had been a while since she’d written anything outside of work, and the thought of starting again was daunting. But she reminded herself of why she had come here in the first place, what had driven her to leave behind the safety of home and throw herself into the unknown.
It wasn’t just about the job or the paycheck. It was about creating something that mattered, something that would leave a mark—if not on the world, then at least on herself. And that, she realized, was enough.
She took a deep breath and began to type.
Over the next few weeks, something in Maya shifted. She stopped feeling like she was drowning in the city and began to move with it. She started taking long walks in the evenings, observing the people around her—the street vendors, the office-goers, the couples stealing moments of affection on park benches. She found inspiration in the small, everyday stories that unfolded around her, stories that she had been too distracted to notice before.
Her writing, both at work and on her own time, started to flow more easily. The ideas came faster, more naturally, and she found herself feeling a renewed sense of purpose. The city hadn’t changed, but she had. She had stopped looking at it as a battleground and started seeing it for what it was—a living, breathing organism full of stories waiting to be told.
One evening, as she walked home from work, the rain began to fall once again, softly at first and then in heavy sheets. She ducked into a small bookstore to wait it out, the familiar scent of old pages wrapping around her like a warm embrace. As she browsed the shelves, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was her mother.
Maya hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Maya! Finally! I’ve been calling for days. How are you? When are you coming home?”
Maya smiled softly, her heart full as she looked out at the rain-drenched streets. “Soon, Ma. I’ll be home soon.”
The city would always be there, waiting with its dreams and its challenges. But for the first time, Maya felt like she didn’t need to choose between the two worlds. She could belong to both—the city beneath the lights, and the home that had shaped her.
And with that thought, Maya knew she had found her balance.
Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati , Assam , India
9/10/2024
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