范成章

chengchangfan

I once believed a broken heart could never be whole again. But it wasn’t sadness I carried—it was absence. A silence so loud it swallowed me whole. I stopped asking to be understood. Somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to understand myself too. And then—I decided to return to India. It didn’t come with answers. It met me with dust in the air, colors that clung to my breath, noise that refused to be ignored. It met me with eyes that didn’t flinch at sorrow, and smiles that had nothing to give—but gave everything. In that beautiful disarray, something inside me stirred. Not clarity. Not peace. But a soft trembling—a whisper: You’re still here. I remember the morning a horseman carried me into the open wild. The ride was reckless, electric. We weren’t fleeing. We were flying—with grief, maybe. Or joy wearing the mask of fear. I screamed into the wind—not because I was hurting, but because I was finally allowed to be loud. Who are you, really, when no one’s watching? For the first time, I didn’t answer. I listened. One night, I met an old man whose eyes had outlived lifetimes. He looked at me like he’d seen me before— in another world, or maybe just between the pauses in my breath. He said, “You are Shaan Veer now.” शान वीर—quiet pride after the storm. “You are no longer a tourist. You are family of India.” And I believed him. Because by then, I had stopped chasing the shadow of who I once was. I was becoming someone new— still tender, still unsure, but becoming, all the same. India didn’t save me. It never promised healing. It simply held me open in its arms and called my broken pieces beautiful. The truth? It hurt—at first. The memories, the unsaid, the ache that had no language. But slowly, the bleeding quieted. And the glass within me— it shattered, yes— but into something radiant. Scattered like stars across the night sky, the kind you keep wishing on, even after you’ve stopped believing. And maybe that’s what hope really is.

05.01 22:11

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