I don't think I have the patience required to undertake projects

Hear, O children of vision, the words of Ram Gopal Varma, who confessed with candor: “I don’t think I have the patience required to undertake projects as huge as ‘Baahubali.’ You need to spend a lot of time and years to make something empowering like that.” These words do not diminish him but instead reveal a great truth: that monumental works demand not only talent and imagination, but also the endurance to see them through. For it is not brilliance alone that raises temples or empires, but the slow labor of many years, guided by unwavering patience.

The origin of this reflection lies in the making of Baahubali, one of the grandest films ever conceived in Indian cinema. Its director, S. S. Rajamouli, and his team toiled for years, weaving together armies, landscapes, myths, and legends into a saga that stirred millions of hearts. Such an undertaking was not a spark of a moment, but a fire tended day after day, year after year, until it grew into a beacon. Ram Gopal Varma, himself a filmmaker of daring vision, acknowledges this truth: that such monumental creation requires a kind of patience he himself did not claim to possess. In this humility lies wisdom.

Consider, O listeners, the builders of the Great Wall of China, who labored not for months, but for centuries. Generations passed, hands changed, rulers rose and fell, yet the wall endured, stone upon stone, until it stretched across the mountains like a dragon guarding the earth. This is the spirit of Baahubali and all works of vast scale: they are not the children of haste, but of time, of vision wedded to endurance. Without years of patience, no wall would have stood, no epic would have been born.

Yet let us also see the deeper meaning in Varma’s words. He reveals that each soul has its measure, its rhythm. Some are called to swift projects, to many smaller creations, birthed quickly and with intensity. Others are called to the long path, to endure decades for a single work. Neither is lesser, for both serve the tapestry of human achievement. The wisdom lies in knowing one’s own nature—whether you are the sprinter who creates in bursts, or the marathoner who labors for years on one vision.

But those who would attempt the monumental must gird themselves with patience. They must accept delay, failure, and the long silence between triumphs. They must be willing to sow without harvesting for years, trusting that their labor will one day bear fruit. This is why such projects are rare, why such creations shine like jewels in history—because few are willing to endure their weight. The story of Baahubali stands as proof: greatness on that scale is never rushed.

The lesson, then, is clear: honor the labor of time. If you are called to build something vast, do not fear the years it demands. Let your patience be as strong as your vision. But if your nature calls you to swifter works, embrace that as well, and do not curse yourself for not walking another’s path. For creation wears many faces, and each soul must discover the form in which their fire burns brightest.

Practical actions flow from this truth. When beginning any project, measure not only your talent but also your endurance. If you seek to create something great, prepare your heart for the long road. Train your mind to endure delay and disappointment. Surround yourself with others who share your vision, for patience grows stronger in fellowship. And if your path is shorter, create often, create bravely, and let your works, though smaller, accumulate into greatness.

Thus do we honor the words of Ram Gopal Varma: that Baahubali was not only a film but a monument to patience, to time, to years of labor made holy by vision. Carry this teaching, O children of tomorrow, and remember: to create is always noble, whether in quick strokes or in slow-building epics. But when you choose the path of the monumental, know this—it is patience that makes stone into a temple, words into a saga, and dreams into a legacy.