Gitanjali – A Heartbeat

Title: Gitanjali – A Heartbeat

Rajiv had always been the silent sort. Not shy, not socially awkward—just silent. He listened more than he spoke, absorbed more than he expressed. People said he was wise beyond his years, but Rajiv never believed them. In truth, Rajiv didn’t trust his own thoughts, let alone anyone else’s words.

He worked at a modest bookstore in Pune, tucked between a pharmacy and a café, where the scent of ink mingled with bitter espresso. His days were quiet, filled with the rustle of pages and the murmur of customers. But inside, Rajiv’s mind never stopped. There was a pulse there—a question, a whisper—
“Are you enough?”

Years ago, he had ignored that voice. As a teenager, he used to write poetry—strange, vivid lines that felt like dreams trying to speak. His teacher once called it "the language of a soul too honest for this world." But then came the ridicule of peers, the comparisons, the slow erosion of belief in his own words.

He stopped writing.
Then he stopped painting.
Then he stopped playing the tabla his grandfather had given him.
And eventually, he stopped even telling himself what he felt.

Rajiv became efficient. Practical. Self-conscious.
At every crossroad, he asked: “What will they think?” instead of “What do I want?”

But conscience… conscience is stubborn.

One rainy evening, a young girl came into the store—no more than thirteen, drenched and breathless. She asked for a book on poetry.

“Any poet. But real poems. Not the kind that rhyme just to sound cute.”

Rajiv raised an eyebrow. Then, without speaking, he reached under the counter and handed her a worn-out copy of Tagore’s Gitanjali.
Her eyes lit up. “You read this?”

He nodded.

“I want to write like this,” she whispered.

Something in Rajiv stirred. That old voice—the one he had silenced—returned, faint like a distant flute. The girl left, thanking him.

That night, Rajiv stayed late in the store. He found an old notebook tucked behind the register. Its pages were yellowed, the corners curled. He opened it—and his own teenage poetry stared back at him.

Crude, yes.
But alive.

A trembling began in his chest—not fear, not excitement, but the sound of conscience waking up.

Rajiv sat down and wrote a single line:
“Once we become self-conscious, there is no end to it; but once we start to doubt ourselves, there is no room for anything else.”

And for the first time in years, he didn’t ask what anyone would think of it.

He just listened—to the Gitanjali of his heart.


---