“When Ignorance Becomes an Offence: The Quiet Confessions of an Unintentional Lawbreaker”

“When Ignorance Becomes an Offence: The Quiet Confessions of an Unintentional Lawbreaker”
Have you ever unintentionally broken the law?

If we answer honestly—without the halo of self-righteousness—we may have to nod, however reluctantly. The law, like the air we breathe, surrounds us. It governs how we drive, how we pay taxes, how we build our homes, how we express ourselves, even how we forward a message on social media. Yet, like the air, we often notice it only when we gasp for breath.

I have often reflected upon this question, not merely as a citizen, but as an educator, a Principal once entrusted with discipline and decorum. And I confess—yes, there may have been moments when I crossed the invisible lines, not out of malice, but out of ignorance, haste, or misplaced assumption.

The Complexity of Law in Modern Life

In ancient India, the concept of Dharma—as elaborated in texts such as the Manusmriti—was not merely legal but moral and cosmic. Law was intertwined with righteousness. To violate Dharma was to disturb the harmony of the universe.
Contrast this with today’s legal frameworks—intricate, layered, and ever-expanding. In India, the Constitution of India is one of the lengthiest written constitutions in the world. It is comprehensive, yet its complexity means that even well-meaning citizens can falter unknowingly.
For instance:
– Parking in a no-parking zone “just for five minutes”.

– Forwarding an unverified message without realising it may violate provisions under the Information Technology Act, 2000.

– Missing a tax deadline by oversight.

– Using copyrighted material in good faith, unaware of infringement.

None of these acts may stem from criminal intent. Yet, ignorance, as the Latin maxim reminds us—ignorantia juris non excusat—ignorance of the law excuses no one.

The Slippery Slope of Convenience

Sometimes, we bend rules in the name of convenience. “Everyone does it,” we say. That dangerous justification has toppled empires and reputations alike.

History is replete with examples where minor ethical compromises snowballed into colossal consequences. In the Indian epic Mahabharata, a single act of moral blindness—when silence prevailed over justice in the Kuru court—ignited a devastating war. No one intended a holocaust at the outset; yet complacency and quiet complicity paved the way.

Unintentional lawbreaking often begins not with rebellion, but with rationalisation.

Between Law and Conscience

As someone shaped by Jesuit discipline and later entrusted with guiding young minds, I have often emphasised that character is what we do when no one is watching. Laws regulate society; conscience regulates the self.

Philosophers like John Locke argued that laws exist to preserve life, liberty, and property. But laws alone cannot create virtue. They can restrain misconduct; they cannot manufacture morality.

In schools, I witnessed students break rules unintentionally—uniform infractions, late submissions, minor mischief. Their defence was often, “Sir, I did not know.” Sometimes it was true; sometimes it was convenience dressed as innocence. The line between ignorance and negligence is often thin as a razor’s edge.
And perhaps the same applies to us adults.

The Digital Age: A Minefield of Invisible Laws

In our times, technology has added new dimensions. A careless click, a casual share, an emotional comment—these can cross legal boundaries instantly. We inhabit a world where the law travels faster than thought.

The digital citizen must be doubly cautious. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the smartphone can be swifter than both.

As an author and blogger, I tread carefully. Intellectual property, defamation, privacy—these are not mere technicalities; they are ethical responsibilities. Words, once released, cannot be recalled like arrows mid-flight.

The Humility of Self-Examination

To admit that one might have unintentionally broken the law is not a confession of criminality; it is an acknowledgment of human fallibility.

We are finite beings navigating an infinite web of regulations.
Yet this realisation can be transformative. It urges us to:

– Read before signing.

-Verify before forwarding.

– Pause before reacting.

– Learn before judging.
It fosters humility.

Law as a Teacher, Not a Tyrant

Law, at its best, is not a whip but a compass. It directs rather than merely punishes. When we inadvertently err, the lesson lies not in fear but in correction.

In my 65 years of life, shaped by Nepalese childhood lanes, Indian constitutional values, and the disciplined corridors of boarding schools, I have learnt this much: breaking a law unintentionally should awaken awareness, not despair.

Mistakes are the tuition fees we pay to wisdom.

A Gentle Conclusion

Have I ever unintentionally broken the law? Possibly. In small ways, unnoticed perhaps. But each reflection refines the soul.

For in the grand courtroom of existence, the final judge is not merely the statute book—but our own awakened conscience.

Let us therefore walk carefully, not out of fear, but out of respect—for society, for justice, and for the unseen threads that hold civilisation together.

For the law may be written in books, but its true spirit must be engraved in the heart.

Ink Drawn from Wounds and Wings”Is Great Writing Born of Pain or Pleasure?

“Ink Drawn from Wounds and Wings”
Is Great Writing Born of Pain or Pleasure?

What makes one write well? Is it the silent ache that sits in the corner of the heart like an uninvited guest, or the gentle warmth of joy that spreads like early morning sunlight across a winter courtyard? Is writing carved out of wounds, or does it rise like a hymn from happiness?

As I sit to reflect—perhaps as a retired Principal who has seen both the applause of annual days and the loneliness of empty corridors—I am inclined to say: it is neither pain alone nor pleasure alone that makes one write well. It is the honest conversation between the two.

The Ink of Untold Pain

Pain is a stern teacher. It chisels the ego, humbles the spirit, and forces us to look within. The death of a loved one, the quiet disappointment of being overlooked due to age, the sting of isolation when social circles shrink—these experiences carve deep furrows in the heart. And as the old idiom goes, “smooth seas do not make skilful sailors.”

History stands testimony to this truth. The poetry of John Keats, written under the shadow of illness, carries an intensity that transcends time. Rabindranath Tagore’s verses often bore the fragrance of sorrow mingled with spiritual longing. Pain, when refined by reflection, becomes philosophy.

In my own life, the sudden collapse of educational support after my grandfather’s demise taught me resilience. Those were days when survival itself was a silent examination. Such experiences do not merely hurt; they deepen. And depth, my friends, is the soul of writing.

Untold pain seeks articulation. Words become therapy; sentences become confessionals; paragraphs become bridges between isolated hearts. When one writes from pain, authenticity flows unfiltered.

The Music of Pleasure

Yet, if pain were the only source, literature would be a cemetery of laments.

Pleasure, too, plays its part. The laughter of a grandson, the melody of a harmonium at dusk, the serenity of a raga like Bihag floating through the evening air—these moments colour writing with tenderness.

Think of William Wordsworth, who found profound poetry in daffodils dancing beside a lake. Or consider Rumi, whose ecstatic verses sprang from spiritual joy. Pleasure refines perception. It teaches gratitude. It allows the writer to celebrate life rather than merely endure it.

Pleasure gives wings to words. It ensures that writing does not become a valley of shadows but also a meadow of hope. As the Bhagavad Gita reminds us, equilibrium is wisdom—“Samatvam yoga uchyate.” Balance is the true art.

The Alchemy of Both

In truth, good writing is born in the crucible where pain and pleasure meet. Pain provides depth; pleasure offers light. Pain gives gravity; pleasure grants grace. One roots us; the other lifts us.

A writer who has only known comfort may skim the surface. A writer who has known only suffering may drown in it. But one who has walked through both—the thorn and the rose—writes with resonance.

Writing, then, is not an exhibition of wounds nor a parade of pleasures. It is an act of transformation. The untold pain becomes empathy; the private joy becomes generosity. And somewhere between the two, a universal truth emerges.

A Personal Reflection

Perhaps, in this phase of life—post-retirement, navigating relevance, finances, memories, and music—I realise that writing has been my quiet companion. When the world seemed distant, the pen remained faithful. When applause faded, reflection deepened.

Pain sharpened my pen. Pleasure softened my tone.
And thus, my words carry both salt and honey.

The Source Within

So what makes one write well? It is not merely suffering nor solely happiness. It is awareness. It is the courage to feel deeply and the humility to express honestly. It is the willingness to turn life itself into literature.

For writing is not about displaying scars; it is about turning them into stars.
It is not about counting blessings; it is about sharing them.

In the end, the finest ink is distilled from a heart that has both wept and rejoiced—and chosen to remain grateful.

Because the true writer does not ask whether pain or pleasure is greater;
he simply listens to both—and writes.

Standing on Their Shoulders: Are We Better Than Our Parents, or Merely Different?

Standing on Their Shoulders: Are We Better Than Our Parents, or Merely Different?

Every generation quietly asks the same unsettling question: Are we doing better than our parents did at our age? And somewhere, in another room or another decade, parents wonder whether their children are truly prepared for the world that lies ahead.
It is a comparison as old as civilisation itself.

When I look back at my own parents’ generation, I see resilience carved out of scarcity. They lived in times when comfort was a luxury, not an entitlement.

Opportunities were limited, yet their determination was limitless. They walked miles for education, saved every coin, and built homes brick by brick — not merely of cement, but of discipline and sacrifice. Their word was their bond; their integrity, their inheritance to us.

We, on the other hand, inhabit a world flooded with information, technology, and choice. We travel faster, communicate instantly, and dream globally. At our age, many of us have earned degrees our parents could not access, explored careers they never imagined, and voiced opinions they might have suppressed. By material standards, we may appear “ahead”.

But progress is not a straight line; it is a layered tapestry.

The Measure of “Better”

If “better” means greater financial security, access to healthcare, global exposure, and technological competence, many of us may indeed be better off. A young professional today can access online courses from Oxford or IIT, connect with mentors across continents, and launch enterprises from a laptop.

The world has shrunk; possibilities have expanded.
Yet, if “better” means emotional endurance, patience, community bonding, and contentment with little, then our parents may still outshine us. They knew how to wait. They knew how to repair instead of replace. They valued relationships over reactions.

In an era without social media applause, they quietly did their duty.

Perhaps we have gained speed but lost stillness.

We have gained voice but sometimes lost depth.

We have gained choice but often lost certainty.

Context Shapes Capability

One must never forget that each generation fights different battles. Our parents contended with economic instability, limited infrastructure, rigid hierarchies, and fewer rights. We contend with hyper-competition, digital overload, mental health crises, environmental anxieties, and an ever-moving benchmark of success.

It would be unjust to compare two generations without accounting for their contexts. A farmer who tilled land under the scorching sun and sent his child to school performed an act of greatness. That child, who later navigates global corporate corridors or educational leadership, builds upon that greatness.

The fruit does not compete with the root.

As Isaac Newton humbly remarked, “If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” Our parents are those giants.

Evolution, Not Rivalry

The real question is not whether we are better than our parents, but whether we are worthy of their sacrifices. Have we honoured their struggles by becoming responsible, ethical, compassionate human beings? Have we preserved values while embracing change?

In many Indian homes, the intergenerational dialogue often oscillates between nostalgia and impatience:
– “In our time, we never spoke back.”

– “In your time, things were simpler.”

Both statements are true — and incomplete.
Times were simpler, yes, but opportunities were fewer. Today’s youth enjoy liberty, but carry invisible burdens of comparison and performance. Our parents built stability; we are called to build sustainability — emotional, social, environmental.

The Silent Inheritance

There are certain inheritances with no bank records:
1. The habit of rising early.

2. The discipline of finishing what one starts.

3. The reverence for education.

4. The belief in God or in goodness.

5. The courage to endure quietly.

These are not outdated virtues. They are timeless anchors.

As someone who has seen decades of change in education and society, I often feel that each generation must refine, not reject, the previous one. We polish the diamond they mined.

So, Can We Do Better?

Yes — but only if “better” means wiser, kinder, and more balanced.

We may earn more, travel more, and know more. But unless we also love more, respect more, and endure more, progress remains hollow.

– Let us not compete with our parents; let us complete them.

– Let us not measure success only by height, but by roots.

– Let us remember that a tree grows taller not by denying its soil, but by drawing strength from it.

They walked so we could run,
They were saved so we could spend,
They prayed so we could dream,
They endured so we could ascend.

If we must outgrow them,
Let it be in gratitude, not pride;
For every step we take ahead
They walk beside us — inside.

In the end, generations are not rivals in a race. They are chapters in the same book — each incomplete without the other.

The Law of Human Dignity: A Home for Every Heart

“The Law of Human Dignity: A Home for Every Heart”

If I were granted the solemn privilege to change just one law on this restless planet, I would not begin with taxation, nor borders, nor commerce. I would begin with something far more fundamental — the right of every human being to dignity, belonging and basic security.

I would enact a universal, non-negotiable law titled:

“The Law of Guaranteed Human Dignity and Belonging.”

This law would ensure that every person born on earth is entitled to three inviolable assurances:
1. A safe shelter to call home.
2. Access to nutritious food and primary healthcare.
3. Equal protection of dignity irrespective of race, gender, religion, age or economic status.

It sounds idealistic. But so did the abolition of slavery. So did universal suffrage. So did the right to education.

Why This Law?

Having spent nearly four decades in education — twenty years guiding institutions as a Principal — I have seen how insecurity corrodes the soul. A hungry child cannot concentrate. A humiliated adult cannot contribute. A displaced family cannot dream.

The Mahabharata reminds us that “Dharma protects those who protect Dharma.” If society protects the basic dignity of its people, society itself becomes protected. The Bible echoes this in Matthew 25:40 — “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”

History and scripture converge on one truth: civilisation collapses not from lack of wealth, but from lack of compassion structured into law.

Homely — Not Merely House-Bound

Notice the word homely. It does not mean merely possessing four walls and a roof. It means feeling wanted. It means sitting at a table without fear. It means knowing that tomorrow will not snatch away your bread.
Aristotle wrote that man is a “social animal.” Indian philosophy goes even further: Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam — the world is one family. Yet our global laws often divide, classify and exclude.

We have international trade laws stronger than international compassion laws.

We protect patents more fiercely than people.
We legislate profits but negotiate humanity.

If one law could reverse this imbalance, it would be one that legally binds governments to prioritise human dignity before economic metrics.

The Economic Argument

Critics would argue: “Who will pay for this?”

But the question is flawed. Studies across developed and developing nations show that investment in housing, nutrition and preventive healthcare reduces long-term costs in crime control, emergency care and social unrest. In simpler terms, neglect is far more expensive than compassion.

Scandinavian social models, though imperfect, demonstrate that strong welfare frameworks correlate with higher happiness indices. Bhutan measures Gross National Happiness. Even in India, constitutional directives under Articles 38 and 39 urge the State to promote welfare and minimise inequalities.

The intent exists. The enforcement is fragile.

The Psychological Dimension

Loneliness has become a modern epidemic. I have often felt, as many elderly individuals do, that society moves on swiftly, leaving seasoned experience behind.

When belonging erodes, even prosperity tastes hollow.
A law guaranteeing dignity would not merely build houses — it would build inclusion policies for the aged, the disabled, the marginalised and the unemployed. It would mandate community engagement initiatives, mental health accessibility and intergenerational programmes.

A child should not grow up feeling invisible.

An elderly person should not fade into silence.

The Philosophical Core

John Rawls proposed that a just society is one we would design from behind a “veil of ignorance” — not knowing what position we would occupy. If tomorrow you might be born poor, disabled or displaced, what law would you demand today?

Surely not one protecting luxury yachts.

Surely one protecting survival and dignity.

The Upanishads whisper, “Tat Tvam Asi” — Thou art That. The suffering of the other is not separate from me. If law could reflect this metaphysical unity, mankind would not merely coexist; it would co-flourish.

The Practical Framework

Such a law would require:
1. Mandatory allocation of a fixed percentage of GDP towards basic human security.

2. Transparent social audits.

3. Community-based implementation.

4. Severe penalties for discrimination or systemic exclusion.

5. Global cooperation under a strengthened United Nations Human Dignity Charter.

It would not eliminate greed, but it would legally restrain indifference.

Would It Make Mankind Happy?

Happiness is not a permanent festival. It is quiet security. It is sleeping without fear. It is working with hope. It is ageing with respect.
When basic anxieties are removed, creativity blossoms. Science advances. Art flourishes. Crime declines. Families stabilise. Nations progress.

A homely world is not a utopia. It is a moral decision.

After years of witnessing classrooms, corridors of administration, seasons of struggle and seasons of grace, I have realised one truth:

People do not ask for grandeur. They ask for fairness. They ask to be seen.
If law could guarantee that — truly guarantee that — earth would begin to resemble home.

For Every Heart

Let no child sleep beneath a sky of fear,
Let no old eyes fade without a cheer.
Let bread be shared and doors stay wide,
Let dignity walk by every side.

May colour, creed and coin lose might,
Before the lamp of the human light.
May law not rule with an iron hand,
But hold the weak with courage grand.

If earth must spin through storm and flame,
Let kindness be its truest name.
And when we leave this mortal dome,
May we whisper softly —
“At last, the world felt like home.”

Two Hearts, One Hope: How Women and Men Search for Their Dream Partner

Two Hearts, One Hope: How Women and Men Search for Their Dream Partner

From time immemorial, the search for a life partner has been one of humanity’s most enduring quests. Across cultures, generations, and geographies, this search has taken different forms—sometimes romantic, sometimes pragmatic, sometimes painfully silent.

Yet, beneath all variations lies a shared human longing: to be understood, accepted, and loved.

Though women and men often appear to approach this search differently, their dreams intersect far more than they diverge.

How a Woman Looks for Her Dream Man

For many women, the idea of a “dream man” is less about perfection and more about emotional safety. While outward attributes may initially catch the eye, it is inner steadiness that usually captures the heart.

A woman often looks for reliability before romance. She values a man who keeps his word, whose presence calms rather than confuses, and whose actions echo his promises. Emotional availability matters deeply—someone who listens without judgement, respects boundaries, and allows vulnerability without ridicule.

Security, in a woman’s eyes, is not always measured in wealth or status. It is often found in consistency of behaviour, mutual respect, and shared values. A sense of humour, empathy, and the ability to grow together weigh heavily in her assessment.

Above all, many women seek a partner who treats them as an equal—someone who celebrates their ambitions, acknowledges their individuality, and walks beside them rather than ahead or behind.

How a Man Looks for His Dream Partner

Men, too, carry dreams—though they may articulate them differently or less openly. A man often begins with attraction, but what sustains his interest is peace of companionship.

Many men look for a woman who brings emotional balance into their lives—someone who understands their silences as much as their words. Respect and admiration play a crucial role; a man wishes to feel valued not merely for what he provides, but for who he is.

Trust, loyalty, and warmth are often at the core of his search. He seeks a partner who believes in him during moments of doubt and stands firm during storms. While independence is admired, emotional connection remains essential—shared laughter, shared struggles, and shared dreams.

For a man, the “dream girl” is often someone who makes life feel less burdensome and more meaningful, someone with whom he can remove his armour and simply be human.

Where Their Searches Meet

Despite perceived differences, the paths of men and women converge at several vital points. Both long for authentic connection, mutual respect, and emotional honesty. Both fear betrayal, loneliness, and being misunderstood. Both hope for companionship that matures with time rather than fades with novelty.

The real dream partner, for either gender, is not flawless. It is someone willing to learn, unlearn, apologise, and grow.

Love is rarely about finding the “” person; it is about becoming the right partner.

A Gentle Reality Check

Modern times, with their fast-paced lifestyles and digital illusions, have complicated relationships. Unrealistic expectations, social comparisons, and fear of commitment often blur clarity. In such a world, patience becomes revolutionary, and sincerity becomes rare currency.

Dreams in relationships are not meant to imprison partners in rigid ideals. They are meant to guide hearts towards compatibility, compassion, and companionship.

Beyond Dreams, Towards Understanding

In the end, the dream man and the dream woman are not characters from fantasy but companions in reality. They are shaped not just by desire, but by understanding, sacrifice, and shared resilience.

When a woman looks for her dream man and a man looks for his dream partner, both are, in truth, searching for the same thing: a soul that feels like home.

And perhaps that is the most beautiful dream of all.

Before the Applause: The First Thing I Do When Joy Knocks

Before the Applause: The First Thing I Do When Joy Knocks

Amazing news rarely arrives politely. It does not knock and wait; it barges in—sometimes at dawn, sometimes between two ordinary sips of tea—and rearranges the furniture of the heart. It could be a long-awaited call, a message glowing on a small screen, or a sentence uttered so casually that it takes a moment to realise its weight. When such fantastic news arrives, people often imagine fireworks: loud calls, hurried sharing, instant celebration. Yet, if I am honest with myself, the very first thing I do is none of that.
I pause.

Yes, I pause—because joy, like grief, deserves a moment of silence.

Before the world is informed, before congratulations begins to pour in, I step back and allow the news to settle. I let it sink into the crevices of my being, the way rain seeps quietly into dry earth. In that pause, I listen to my own breath, suddenly lighter, suddenly grateful. It is my way of saying to life, I have received your gift.

That stillness is sacred. It protects the news from being diluted by noise or rushed into performance. In a world addicted to instant sharing, restraint becomes a form of respect. Not every joy needs an audience immediately; some joys need intimacy first.

Once the moment has settled, my thoughts instinctively turn inward—and upward. Gratitude follows pause as naturally as dawn follows night. I acknowledge the invisible hands that made this moment possible: the effort I put in, yes, but also the kindness of people, the mercy of time, the grace of circumstances, and often, the silent blessings that worked behind the scenes. I whisper a quiet thank you—to God, to destiny, to life itself—depending on the language my heart chooses that day.
Only after gratitude do I reflect.

Fantastic news is rarely isolated; it is usually the fruit of long seasons of waiting, failure, patience, and hope. I revisit those unseen chapters—the doors that closed, the nights of doubt, the small perseverance that went unnoticed. The good news then stops being just a happy ending; it becomes a meaningful continuation. Reflection turns excitement into wisdom.

Then comes the human instinct—to share.
But even here, I choose carefully. I reached out first to those who walked with me when the outcome was uncertain: the ones who listened without solutions, who believed when logic did not, who stayed when applause was absent. Sharing joy with them feels less like an announcement and more like completion of a circle. Their happiness adds weight to my own.

Celebration does come, eventually. Sometimes it is loud, sometimes understated—a smile held longer than usual, a cup of tea tasting inexplicably better, a song played on repeat. I have learnt that celebration need not be extravagant to be sincere. Contentment often wears simple clothes.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, fantastic news humbles me. It reminds me that success is not a permanent address, only a passing milestone. Today’s miracle can become tomorrow’s memory if not handled with grace. So I try to remain grounded, aware that life has its rhythm—rises and falls, applause and silence—and both are teachers in their own way.
So what do I do first when amazing news arrives?

I pause.
I give thanks.
I reflect.
I share thoughtfully.

And only then do I celebrate.
Because joy, when treated gently, lasts longer—and when welcomed wisely, it deepens the soul rather than merely exciting it.

In that first quiet moment, before the world knows, I allow myself to feel it fully. And that, I have realised, is the truest celebration of all.

Postcards to What We Left Behind

Postcards to What We Left Behind

There are people, places, habits and passions that once lived at the very centre of our days—and now exist only as faint echoes. This blog is a quiet letter to them all.

To forgotten friends, families, hobbies and interests—
this is not an apology.
It is a remembering.

Once upon a time, friendship was not scheduled; it simply happened. It arrived barefoot, unannounced, knocking not on doors but on hearts. Friends knew the geography of our silences, the grammar of our laughter, the pauses between our words. We shared cups of tea that grew cold because the conversation was warm. Today, many of those friendships sit archived in phone contacts, their names glowing silently, waiting for a call that never comes.

Life, we tell ourselves, became busy.
But perhaps we became careless.

Families, too, slipped into the background—not because love diminished, but because familiarity bred postponement. “I’ll call tomorrow,” became a sentence with no calendar. The elders waited, their memories sharper than their hearing, hoping to recognise our voice before time erased theirs. The children grew, faster than our awareness, learning to pronounce the world without us watching closely enough.

Homes turned into transit points.
Conversations into bullet points.
Relationships into obligations.

And then there were our hobbies—the quiet companions of our youth. The sketchbook now gathers dust. The harmonium waits patiently, its keys yellowing, still tuned to ragas that once healed us. The morning walks, the evening runs, the handwritten journals, the half-finished poems—all suspended mid-breath, like paused music. These were not mere pastimes; they were mirrors, reminding us who we were when no one was watching.

We often say, “I don’t have time.”
But time was never lost—only misplaced.

In the great marketplace of adulthood, interests that did not earn applause or income were slowly traded away. We learnt to value productivity over presence, urgency over depth. Notifications replaced knocks on the door. Screens replaced shared skies. We became efficient, informed, connected—and strangely alone.

There is a particular loneliness in modern life:
the loneliness of having everything, except the things that mattered.

Yet memory has a gentle rebellion of its own. It surfaces in the smell of old books, in a song from the 1960s, in a childhood street glimpsed from a moving car. Suddenly, the past does not feel distant; it feels patient. Waiting. Not accusing us—just asking quietly, “Do you remember?”

Remember how friendships were slow-cooked, not microwaved.
How families were anchors, not WhatsApp groups.
How hobbies were prayers in disguise.

This is not a call to return entirely to what was—time does not walk backwards. But it is an invitation to retrieve. To write one message. To make one call. To open one forgotten notebook. To sit beside someone without checking the clock. To allow ourselves the luxury of being human again.

Because what we abandon does not always disappear.
Sometimes, it waits for us—
in the margins of our lives,
hoping we will one day turn the page.

Let us, then, send postcards to what we left behind.
Not with regret, but with grace.

Not to mourn the past, but to reclaim the parts of ourselves we unknowingly set down along the way.

After all, a life well-lived is not measured only by what we achieved—
but by what, and whom,
we chose not to forget.