Chandigarh/Srinagar, July 16: I am where grey clouds settle like soft wool over a mountain-bound home, life presents itself not as a race or a burden, but as something more gentle—an unfolding, a breathing-in, a long and strange miracle.
There is, perhaps, no single way to live life, but if there were a secret, it might be this: live as if it is an event. Not a punishment, not a checklist, but a slow-burning ceremony of being here, now.
Mornings, especially, deserve reverence. They are not just alarms and to-do lists—they are thresholds. A fresh breath from the lungs of the universe. The first light that spills across a floorboard, the scent of dew on bark, the sharp clarity of silence before the world fully wakes—these are more than background details. They are reminders. That life resets each dawn. That you get to begin again.
Elevenses—those mid-morning moments of pause—carry their own quiet wisdom. A cup of black coffee, warm between your palms, in a dim room with soft rain muting the outside world, can hold more meaning than hours of noise. In that pause, you meet yourself. The bitterness of the coffee is real. So is the comfort. You sip both. That is what life does: it gives you both.
Daylight hours stretch out not to be conquered, but to be noticed. In the routines of working, walking, listening, or even worrying, the texture of being alive is woven. Someone once said, “We do not remember days, we remember moments.” The echo of laughter in a hallway. A hand briefly touching yours. The feeling of being understood, even wordlessly. These are not side effects of living. These are life.
As the sun lowers itself behind rooftops or trees, the evening drapes itself across the hours like a shawl. This is the time for reflection—not the kind that demands answers, but the kind that holds questions gently. You ask yourself, without panic: Who am I becoming? What did today teach me about love, or grace, or patience?
Night, in its silence and darkness, is not emptiness—it is mystery. It is where we meet the dreams that guide us, and the fears we must cradle. It is where truth often whispers clearest. In the flicker of a candle, or a sliver of moonlight sneaking into your room, there is poetry.
Rainy days, like the one outside this imagined house on a forgotten mountain road, offer a special kind of instruction. They slow everything down, ask you to sit still. To not run from your own company. The storm does not care if you’re productive. The clouds do not demand your perfection. In fact, they wash it away.
And a cup of coffee—simple, dark, honest—becomes a ritual. A way to anchor yourself when everything else spins. Steam rising from the rim, mingling with the mist outside your window, becomes a symbol of presence. This moment, fleeting and complete, is enough.
A life well lived is not measured in milestones, but in attention. In how you see the world. Feel it. Respond to it. Not just on the good days, but especially when things are uncertain. Life asks that you show up—not always strong, not always joyful—but real.
It asks that you listen to birdsong, even when your heart is heavy. That you make time to touch another’s shoulder. That you cry, fully. Laugh, deeply. Sleep, without guilt.
We are not here merely to survive, nor to strive endlessly. We are here to participate in the great, strange, aching beauty of being human. To walk barefoot across a wooden floor, to hear the kettle boil, to be surprised by kindness. To grow old, if we’re lucky. To be present, whether or not we understand the point of it all.
Because maybe life is not meant to be solved—but simply lived. One breath, one step, one moment at a time.
