Worn by Time, Held by Faith: The Oldest Things I Still Use

Worn by Time, Held by Faith: The Oldest Things I Still Use

In a world that worships the new—be it gadgets, garments, or fleeting trends—there are some things in my life that have defied the tides of time, surviving the entropy of years not merely as artefacts, but as daily companions. They are not just old possessions; they are silent witnesses of my journey, sagas wrapped in leather, ink, thread, and prayer.

A humble belt, looped around my waist each morning, has no brand name to boast nor shine to dazzle the world. Its faded stitches, frayed holes, and softened hide speak not of decay but of devotion. It has seen me through seasons of scarcity and abundance, tension and ease. It clings not to fashion, but to function—an emblem of endurance, like time’s patient grip around the body of man.

My Bible—worn, weathered, yet ever wondrous—is more than a book. It is a reservoir of wisdom where my soul often drinks in silence. Its corners are curled, its margins ink-stained with musings that once trembled on the brink of despair or delight. Some pages bear the scent of old incense; others are tear-salted with the aches of prayer. It is no longer just printed parchment but a living manuscript, hand-annotated by the pilgrimage of my life.

Then comes my Chalisa collection—devotional hymns to deities who have often been the unseen company in my solitude. Folded, re-folded, tucked in sacred corners of my room or bag, these booklets sing in Sanskrit and Hindi, echoing the legacy of saints and seekers. I recite them not as a ritual but as a conversation, a chant that stitches the self to the sacred.

And lastly, my rosary—those knotted beads gliding –  through fingers like droplets of divine time. Every bead, every repetition is a stepping stone towards stillness. It is both my rhythm and refuge. In crowded places or empty nights, it turns my chaos into cadence. It binds not only prayers but the quiet discipline of the heart.

These are the relics of my soul’s survival—simple, sacred, and serenely strong. While the world upgrades and replaces, I hold onto them, not out of nostalgia, but reverence. They have aged not in years but in depth.

There is a quiet dignity in using the same thing for decades. It anchors you. It whispers, “You have not drifted too far; you still belong to something timeless.”

In closing, a few lines to linger on:

In leathered loop and tattered page,
I find my past, my prayers, my age.
Not worn-out things, but sacred thread—
That bind the living to the dead.

So let the new rise, sleek and fast,
I’ll walk with relics from my past.
For in these things the soul shall see
The grace of age, the gift to be.

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