Chandigarh, Nov 2: There comes a point in life when you begin to wonder if you’ve ever truly known anyone at all. You look back and realise you’ve spent years interpreting people, trying to read them like unfinished books. Yet, each time you thought you reached the last page, you found another story hidden between the lines.
It took me thirty years to understand someone— why she spoke less and prayed more, why her silence was her way of surviving, not surrendering. That love can be both the storm and the calm one can take mistakenly for forever.
We meet people, we name them with our versions of truth — kind, cruel, loyal, dishonest — but maybe these are not truths at all, just reflections of who we were when we met them. Maybe we never know people; we only know our feelings about them.
So who decides the truth of people?
No one does. It just lives — quietly — changing shapes with time, memory, and distance.
And perhaps that’s what growing up really means: learning to live with the fact that truth is never singular, and that every person you love is a version of someone you’ll never fully understand.
There are facts, and there are opinions.
A fact is that the sun rises every morning — whether the day turns warm or stays cold is only a matter of perception. The truth of its rising doesn’t change. People, too, exist like that — the fact of who they are remains, but the way we see them keeps shifting. We build opinions, we create versions, we tell stories — some in love, some in pain — and yet the final truth of a person isn’t ours to decide. Maybe it belongs to God. Maybe the universe keeps its own quiet record, writing their deeds and silences into the fabric of time, deciding what remains of them when we’re gone.
