✍️ Usha Maniar

Today, on my way to work,
a sudden dizziness stopped me.
I sat quietly on a chair at the bus stand,
watching people rush—
to offices, to markets,
to villages, to temples,
and some, perhaps,
already on their journey to eternity.

For a while, I felt weak,
but as I sipped water
and watched the world run by,
a strange peace filled my heart.

I realized—
life’s truth is not in running,
but in pausing.

Like muddy water stirred by motion
becomes clear when it rests,
the restless mind too
finds clarity in stillness.

Life is too short—
why waste it in endless chase?

If we can quiet our desires,
control our needs,
we will no longer need to run after life.
Instead, life itself
will come to rest in our hands.

🌸 Pause… and life will unfold its path. 🌸

The rain began as a blessing — the earth breathing with perfume, the world softened, and our family laughing together under a tender, silver sky. We savored that gentle wonder, thinking only of joy and the small comforts of home.

But the blessing turned relentless. By morning the drizzle was gone; a heavy, smoky downpour took its place and would not relent. Streets filled, drains failed, and the city’s heartbeat quickened with fear. People hurried from offices to homes; we returned and clung to one another, grateful at first, then anxious as the water rose.

Night fell heavy and wild. The river of rain swallowed roads, toppled houses, and swept away memories with merciless current. From our ninth-floor window we watched the city drown — neighbors’ rooftops appearing and vanishing like islands, distant cries threading the humid air. The government cut the power to prevent more tragedies, and darkness mapped itself across the city like a second flood.

I remember holding my children and my husband close and feeling a small, sharp truth: life is fragile in ways we do not want to accept. We spend years fretting over a future we do not own, while the present—this single, bright, breathing day—slips unseen through our hands. In those hours, fear taught me humility.

By the fifth day the waters began to be fought back, but not without cost. Homes were ruined, people were homeless, and the streets were full of stories of sudden loss. We counted ourselves lucky — our family safe, our home still standing — and I thanked God in whispers for the mercy that had spared us. Yet the grief around us lingered: neighbors who had lost everything, families who would never be the same.

Twenty years have passed since that dreadful downpour, but when I close my eyes I still see that smoky rain and hear the echo of voices calling for help. The memory still brings tears, and with it a lesson: nothing is guaranteed. What we hold today is all we truly possess — so live it fully, love fiercely, and hold your people close. That is the only message this night left me to give.

After you left, only your shadow stayed,
Each page I write bleeds with your name.
They say no one dies of love’s absence,
But I know—I stopped living the day you were gone.

Your image lingers, etched upon my soul,
A tender portrait time can never erase.
Every memory breaks me quietly,
Every silence is filled with your voice.

I have befriended solitude,
And tied my heart to pen and paper.
For a wife, her husband is the whole universe—
And without you, mine has turned to dust.

What joy can matter,
When every breath aches for you?
So I pray to the heavens each night:
Call me home,
Let me rest where you are,
For even eternity feels too long without you.

— Your Wife