I wanted my own rock band and stuff like that, but things didn't

Hear the words of Prateik Babbar, who spoke with candor of youthful longing and unfinished dreams: “I wanted my own rock band and stuff like that, but things didn’t work out. I didn’t have the patience to write my own songs and learn it and everything.” In this confession lies the story of countless souls, who dream with fire in their hearts, yet find themselves halted by the slow weight of discipline. For the dream is swift like lightning, but the making of it is long and heavy like stone.

He speaks first of desire—the yearning for a band, for music, for glory. This desire is noble, for all great things begin in longing. The young dreamer sees the stage, the roaring crowd, the thunder of instruments, and feels destiny in his bones. Yet between the dream and its fulfillment lies a path paved with toil. The writing of songs, the hours of practice, the study of craft—these demand patience, the willingness to labor long before the harvest arrives. And this, Babbar admits, was the place where his spirit faltered.

The ancients too saw this struggle. Consider the tale of the sculptor who dreamed of shaping a god from marble. In his vision, the figure stood already alive in the stone, majestic and eternal. But when he took up the chisel, days turned into months, and months into years, as each stroke seemed small and insignificant. Many abandoned their stones unfinished, their dreams locked forever within. Only those with patience saw their visions emerge, enduring the monotony of detail until at last the statue breathed.

History offers us examples of both triumph and failure in this truth. Beethoven, though struck deaf, labored with infinite patience over his symphonies, writing note upon note in silence until music eternal was born. His greatness was not merely talent, but the endurance to write and rewrite. Yet many others, equally gifted, never offered their songs to the world because they lacked the courage to sit in stillness and endure the long apprenticeship of art. The difference between dream and reality was not inspiration, but patience.

Babbar’s words are not merely regret, but a lesson for those who listen. He shows us the cost of impatience: that a vision may die unborn, that the fire of a dream, if not disciplined, becomes smoke in the wind. But there is also wisdom in his honesty, for he names aloud what many hide: that the path of creation is harder than the dream of glory, and that without endurance, even the brightest flame fades.

The lesson, O seekers, is this: do not despise the small, daily labors that seem dull beside the grandeur of your dream. If you would have a band, write the first lyric. If you would craft a song, play the first note. If you would master an art, endure the repetition, the tedium, the mistakes. For patience is the bridge between vision and reality, and without it, no dream may cross.

The practical counsel is simple: begin where you stand. Do not wait for greatness to arrive full-grown, but grow it in yourself through steady practice. Set aside time daily to learn, to write, to improve, even when progress seems slow. Remember that the masters of every craft were once novices who refused to give up. Guard your patience as your most precious tool, for with it, you may turn even the faintest desire into a legacy.

So let Babbar’s words ring not as lament but as warning and guide: “I didn’t have the patience to write my own songs.” May those who come after him learn the lesson he shares. Dream with fire, yes—but temper that fire with patience, and you will see your vision made flesh, your songs sung, your dreams brought to life upon the stage of the world.