Because I Want To

In the crowded lanes of Lucknow, lived Aarav, a 24-year-old singer with a raspy voice and an unwavering dream. Every morning, while the city groaned awake, he’d sit cross-legged on his rooftop, riyaaz echoing through the dawn mist.

He wasn’t born with a golden voice. In school, people laughed when he sang. But Aarav wasn’t chasing applause—he was chasing truth. Every evening, he juggled delivery gigs to fund studio time. Every night, he returned home exhausted but practiced again, whispering melodies into his pillow.

Years passed. His songs on YouTube barely crossed 500 views. His friends moved on—to jobs, marriages, comfort. Relatives mocked, “Kya milega iss awaaz se?”
Aarav would just smile and say, “Mujhe kuch milna nahi. Mujhe sirf karna hai—because I want to.”

One winter night, a local café invited him to perform. The crowd was noisy, uninterested. But midway through his set, the power cut out. Silence.

Then, Aarav began singing—unplugged, raw, unfiltered. No mic. No spotlight. Just voice and heart.

By the end, the room stood still.

No, it didn’t go viral. No record label called. But that night, a girl in the audience cried. A stranger clapped like a friend. And for the first time, Aarav felt heard—not by the world, but by life itself.

Aarav is still not famous. Still not "successful."

But every morning, he sings.

Not for fame.
Not for likes.
Because he wants to.

Proud Ghissu.
For the ones who keep going—not for the prize, but for the passion.