Kuchh Khas Hai Hum Sabhi Mein

My Life, My Way

I was born in Sundargarh, and Sundargarh is where my story both begins and, in a way, ends. Not in defeat, but in quiet fulfillment. My education started here, in the classrooms of local schools, and ended here too—no grand universities, no metropolitan degrees. Yet, within these boundaries, a world opened up to me through words, ideas, and the gentle push of a father who believed in the power of curiosity.

From my earliest school days, my father sat me down with Hindu mythologies, English and Odia newspapers, and blank pages. “Read beyond the textbook,” he’d say. “Write what you feel.” I did. Poems came first—short, clumsy lines about rain on tin roofs. Then stories. Then essays. I never stopped. That habit became my compass.

After higher secondary, I dreamed big. English Honours. Then post-graduation in Journalism. I saw myself in press rooms, interviewing leaders, writing columns that mattered. But life, as it often does, took a different turn. The dream didn’t materialise. Instead, I found myself in classrooms—not as a student, but as a teacher.

I taught in schools and colleges across the region. The pay was modest, the infrastructure basic, and too often, the colleagues uninspired. Professionalism was a rare guest. I grew restless. Teaching, I realised, was my passion—but not in spaces that dimmed it. So I left. Not in anger, but in search of purity.

From then on, I became a tutor. One student at a time. No bells, no attendance registers, no politics. Just learning. My mantra was simple: “Do it yourself.” I wasn’t there to lecture. I was there to listen, to guide, to facilitate. I may not have been a great teacher, but I was a good listener. And that, I believe, made all the difference.

I gave my students a launching pad. Watched them take off. Some became engineers, some doctors, some writers, some teachers were better than I ever was. I smiled from the sidelines. By 2006, I stopped formal tutoring too. The classroom had served its purpose. My role had evolved.

I never chased government jobs. Never sat for a single competitive exam. I didn’t want the stereotype—the 9-to-5, the pension, the salutes. I kept this quiet. Not out of shame, but because I hadn’t yet “proved” myself in the world of creativity. The world demands titles, publications, awards. I had none. But I had stories. Poems. Ideas. A voice—soft, but mine.

I’ve always admired Shashi Tharoor. Born in London in 1956, he became a global citizen—a UN Under-Secretary-General, a Union Minister, an MP from Thiruvananthapuram, and above all, a writer of rare eloquence. I never met him, but I’ve read every book, watched every speech, followed every column. He taught me that language is power, that ideas can travel farther than passports, that one can serve the world with a pen as much as with policy.

I may never stand where he stands. But I walk my own path. And on this path, I’ve learned something profound: Kuchh khas hai hum sabhi mein. There is something special in each of us.

We may not hit the headlines. We may not have plaques on our walls. But God has given us unique gifts—mine is the ability to listen, to guide, to write from the heart. I’ve honored it. Not for fame. Not for money. But for joy.

This is my autobiography—not of achievements, but of choices. Of passion protected. Of a hobby that never died.

Dear readers/friends, this is also your story. You have a gift. A spark. A khasiyat. Don’t let the world bury it under duty or doubt. Paint at midnight. Sing in the shower. Teach a child. Write a line. Follow your hobby, your passion, your truth.

Because in the end, the greatest success is not in being seen—it’s in being true.

And in that truth, we all shine.
Kuchh khas hai hum sabhi mein.
I found mine.
Now go find yours.

Sanjay Pattnayak
Sundargarh