范成章
chengchangfanThere is something about Indian people that I find endlessly captivating, something that goes beyond beauty, beyond charm, beyond anything words can ever quite explain. It’s not just how they look, though they are, to me, some of the most stunning people in the world. It is the way they carry their spirit in every movement. The way their hands dance as they speak, the way their eyes light up even in silence, the way their smiles, those enormous, uninhibited, shining smiles, can make you forget every sorrow you’ve ever known, if only for a moment. I admire how they shine. How they glow not because of what they wear, but because of what they carry inside. There is a kind of joy in them, generous and open-hearted, the kind of joy that does not ask for permission to be shared. Even in the smallest villages, where life is humble and quiet, I was overwhelmed by how freely they gave. Not grand things, not lavish things, but meaningful things. A tiny packet of roasted corn, a piece of candy tucked into my palm like a secret, a scrap of hand-stitched cloth pressed into my hands with a smile that seemed to say, remember us. And I do. I remember all of them. Every gesture. Every kindness. Every unexpected moment of real, human warmth. I want to be more like them. I want to be someone who gives without hesitation, someone who glows simply by being fully present, someone whose smile carries the sunlight of a whole nation. And yes, I bought their traditional clothes, the kind meant for weddings, for rituals, for sacred days. I bought them not because there was a reason, but because I fell in love with how it feels to be wrapped in India. To wear something that holds history, devotion, and color all at once. India, you are not just a country to me. You are a feeling. You are a memory. You are a lesson in generosity. I love you. I love your people. And I mean that truly, deeply, entirely.
06.10 20:48
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![The people of India have the most beautiful eyes.
Yes, as cheesy as it may sound,
but I mean every word.
It’s like a candle is lit within them,
flickering gently, warm, ancient, and still.
Sometimes I wonder how they carry so much light in their gaze,
as if mirrors reflecting a version of myself I’ve never truly seen.
A kind of shine I’ve never owned.
A kind of trust I’ve never dared to give myself.
A kind of sacred softness I never knew I needed.
Five times I’ve journeyed from Taiwan to India in less than a year,
over 4,000 kilometers each way.
For escape, and simply searching,
for a piece of myself, bit by bit.
And each time, wondering
if India could offer me a kind of light again.
One I could hold,
even if just a little,
even if only for a moment.
Along the way, I passed many temples.
But one, small, weathered, and quietly alive,
felt like it had been waiting for me all along.
Hidden in plain sight, carved by time and silence.
I stepped inside barefoot, knelt before its god with trembling breath,
and for the first time in a long while, I prayed.
Not for success.
Not even anything of great importance.
But for the courage
to return to myself,
to the place within me
that still remembers how to feel.
I prayed that my depression would no longer devour me.
That I could crawl out from the darkness,
not in a blaze,
not in triumph,
but gently.
That I could finally become the one I once was,
or maybe someone even better.
That I could have my light back,
even one tiny matchstick at a time.
Lighting my way,
my hope, my belief, my rebirth,
flame by flame.
Even if it flickers.
Even if it almost goes out.
Even if I must cup it with both hands to keep it alive.
Because even the smallest light
is still light.
And maybe that’s what makes me feel so different this time.
Before, whenever I left India,
I felt it deep in my bones.
I will return.
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