Whispers that stayed.

 One day, like any other, I went on a run till the Lalbagh Botanical Garden. Running had become a sort of ritual for me a way to feel alive, to push myself, to be alone with my thoughts yet surrounded by the world. I love sunrises and sunsets, the way they slowly take over the sky, painting everything in warmth. I love the stars and the moon, the way they watch over us in silence. Nature has always felt like home to me,the lakeside, the rustling leaves, the calming roar of a waterfall. And most of all, I love people and their stories.

That’s probably why I enjoy talking to people so much hearing about their lives, their triumphs, their losses. But the ironic thing? The moment someone asks about me, I go on a tangent. I distract them, lead the conversation somewhere else. Not because I don’t have stories.I have plenty but because I don’t know why I never want to "open up" that well when it's about me. It’s annoying, really. I’ve been told that. And yet, here I am, always searching for another story to collect.

That morning, I reached the garden breathless, sweat clinging to me, my heart pounding against my ribs. As I slowed down, I walked towards the entrance near the lake a familiar spot where I often sat to catch my breath and just exist for a while.

There, on a weathered stone bench, sat a grandpa, his frame slightly hunched but his presence oddly strong. He watched the water, the ripples, the reflections of time itself. I smiled at him, all sweaty and ugly from the run, and he smiled back. And oh, the way his wrinkles lit up, folding and unfolding into something so deeply human, so profoundly content it made him look so unbelievably happy.

"Out for a run early in the morning, dear?" he asked, his voice soft but firm.

I nodded, still catching my breath. He must have seen how I gasped for air because he immediately offered, "Do you need some water? I can get you some."

I shook my head, waving him off. "No, thatha, sit down. I'm completely fine."

He chuckled, a knowing kind of laugh, and then said something that struck me deeper than I expected. "Don’t go on runs often if they leave you this exhausted."

I huffed a small laugh. "It's just that I've lost the habit of it."

He nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. "Habits are meant to be practiced and protected, not lost, isn’t it?"

There was a weight in the way he said it, a quiet history in his words. And then, out of nowhere, he said something I never expected.

"There was a time when everyone in the street I lived feared me. No one dared to glance at me or my family. I was that big of a goon. And then life happened."

I sat up straighter. A goon? Him? The gentle old man sitting beside me, watching the world pass by with the patience of someone who had nothing left to chase?

He sighed, looking towards the lake as if the water could carry away his regrets. "Now, I come here every day. I sit. I watch. And I let life make me feel helpless about the things I once controlled."

He stopped mid-sentence, staring back at the waterfall in front of us, then added, "But... it also showed me the power of a disciplined mind. The power of not giving people the control over our reactions. Everything keeps changing, you know. Sometimes you have to accept it, but sometimes... sometimes you can't let certain things change."

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying his words into the quiet morning, and suddenly, my exhaustion felt insignificant compared to the weight of what he had just said.

I looked at him, really looked at him. Here was a man who had once lived on the edge of fear and power, and now he was just another human, sitting by a lake, reflecting on the life he had led.

Something about his words made me restless. If everything changed, if even the most powerful became powerless, if life had its own ways of molding us, then… what was the point?

"So, does that mean having big dreams is useless?" I asked suddenly. "If everything at the end is going to go still, if we all end up sitting by a lake watching time pass, what’s the point of dreaming big?"

Thatha smiled,a slow, knowing smile that came from a place of deep understanding. "Ah, but you see, child, dreams are not about reaching a destination. They are about movement. A river knows it will one day meet the ocean, but that doesn’t stop it from carving through mountains, nourishing lands, shaping the earth as it flows. Dreams are not meant to be measured by whether you ‘get there’ they are meant to shape the kind of person you become while you chase them."

I stared at him, his words sinking into me, deeper than I expected.

"You know, thatha," I said, "we spend so much time trying to shape life the way we want, but life has a way of shaping us when we aren’t paying attention. And by the time we realize it, we’ve either grown into something we’re proud of, or we’re left wondering where we lost ourselves."

He smiled, nodding slowly. "That’s the thing about time. It doesn’t stop to ask if you’re ready. It just moves, takes you with it, whether you like it or not. And sometimes, the only thing in your control is who you choose to be while it passes."

I turned towards the lake, watching the tiny ripples disappear into the vastness of the water. Maybe life was like that small choices, small changes, all merging into something bigger. And maybe, just maybe, the key wasn’t in resisting the change, but in deciding which parts of ourselves were worth preserving no matter what.

I turned back to him. "Then maybe I should keep running. Not away from exhaustion, but towards it. Towards discipline. Towards control over my own mind."

He smiled back. "As long as you remember to choose which parts of yourself to hold onto and which ones to leave behind."

The sun climbed higher, the lake shimmered, and as I stood up, stretching my legs, I felt lighter. Not because I had run, but because I had learned.

I jogged away, throwing one last glance at the grandpa who was now just a stranger again. But somehow, I knew I’d carry his words with me, long after my footprints faded from the path. Because some people leave their mark not through fear, not through power, but through the quiet wisdom of having lived. And those marks? Those stay forever.