The Unseen Altars Where I Laid My Dreams

The Unseen Altars Where I Laid My Dreams

Some lives are composed like ballads—rich in rhythm, remembered in chorus. Others, like mine, are quieter—more akin to ancient ragas heard in distant temples, their notes soaked in longing, discipline, and grace.

I did not inherit a staircase to climb. Instead, I found a rope and began to braid it with strands of hope, toil, and unyielding faith. In the theatre of life, where many actors change masks to suit the script, I remained the stagehand—sweeping, arranging, enduring—so that others could perform without stumbling. And yet, there was no audience to applaud.

In the earliest chapters of my journey, while others memorised poems or solved equations under lantern light, I was learning the science of survival. Education was not handed to me; I chased it like a famished soul runs after a mirage. There were days when books were a luxury and meals a miracle. But I swallowed my hunger, fed my dreams instead, and walked miles not only to reach school, but also to escape the gravitational pull of despair.

I wore hand-me-downs stitched with dignity. I learnt to smile through the fog of want. Festivals arrived at my door not with sweets or sparklers, but with questions: “Can I afford a gift of joy this year?” Even so, I lit my own lamp—a flickering resolve that kept burning through the darkest nights.

As the wheel of life turned, I stepped into roles that demanded more giving than receiving. I became the provider—not just of food and fees, but of courage, confidence, and quiet wisdom. There were moments I stood on the edge of exhaustion, but turned back—not because I couldn’t jump, but because there were others depending on my balance. I sacrificed dreams of travel, ambitions of grandeur, and at times, even the luxury of rest. Each sacrifice folded into another, like origami—plain from outside, but carrying intricate design within.

I’ve walked through life like an unsalaried saint—offering my time, intellect, and intuition to the altars of duty. I postponed pleasure, parked my passions, and politely declined desires that didn’t align with necessity. I trained others to fly while I stitched my own broken wings quietly behind the curtain.

Some might ask, “Was it worth it?” But worth is not always measured in wealth or recognition. I measure it in the smiles I lit, the silences I endured, and the souls I nurtured. I measure it in the mornings when the sun rose upon a roof I could call my own, however modest. In the pride of seeing others stand taller because I chose to bend.

Philosophers say that true sacrifice is when you give up something valuable, not expecting anything in return. But I did not give in despair. I gave with the quiet confidence that some blessings are born only through burning—like camphor offered to the divine.

Today, I walk slower, with the scent of wisdom in my stride. I no longer run after recognition; I carry contentment in my satchel. I still have dreams—simpler ones, perhaps, but not less sacred. A walk under the trees, a good book, a warm cup of tea, and a quiet evening where no one needs anything from me anymore. That, too, is a triumph.

And if my story is never told in grand auditoriums or printed in glossy magazines, so be it. The universe keeps a more accurate record—in stardust, in echoes, in the silent applause of the soul.

For I have lived a life of giving—uncelebrated, perhaps, but undeniably noble.

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