How do you perceive time? Do you see it, or do you feel it? Confused? I think it’s both.
Now, at 51,I’ve lived long enough to see and feel the weight of time. I don’t have to look far to find its imprint. After a childhood spent moving from place to place as an Army BRAT, I eventually settled in one spot because life demanded it—or perhaps, because I let others decide for me.
For over 25 years, I’ve watched time slowly weave its way into my life, as the world around me changed, almost imperceptibly, day by day. The changes were so subtle that I hardly noticed them. But when I look back, the difference is overwhelming, and so much of it is irreplaceable.
I see it most vividly in the slow fading of a generation. So many beloved uncles and aunts, who once filled my life with warmth and laughter, have quietly merged into the timelessness of memory. Their absence forces me to confront the harsh truth of life—death. It saddens me, this growing void where they once stood. At first, the emptiness they left was so small that I barely noticed it, but with time, it has grown larger, more profound, and that terrifies me. I don’t want to lose any more of them, but I know that with each passing day, I am.

I see it in my father, once the fastest runner in his college days, now gently slowing down. Twenty years ago, I struggled to keep up with his brisk walk. Now, as we stroll and chat, I find myself moving ahead of him, something I never imagined would happen. I slow my pace to match his, but we both know—he feels it, and it hurts him. But then, he’s a war veteran—age is just another battle he’s fought, one of many.

And then there’s my mother, whose stories of folk tales and mythology over lunch are a comforting echo of my childhood. I listen as she repeats the same tales, and I’m suddenly struck by the memory of my nani maa, doing the same with her. I remember how my mother would listen patiently, just as I do now. When did this shift happen? When did my mother, once so vibrant, grow old? And when did I?

But if there’s one thing that remains unchanged, it’s my mother’s insistence that I eat—and eat—and eat some more. Every meal at home feels like a grand feast, with her piling food onto my plate, urging me to have just one more roti, one more spoonful of sabzi, one more helping of dessert. She’s relentless, determined to make sure I’m well-fed, even if it means I practically become the menu!

And as much as I joke about it, deep down, I know I’ll miss this one day. I’ll miss her gentle scolding when I refuse a second helping, her watchful eyes making sure I finish my plate. I’ll miss the way she shows her love through food, through making sure I’m never hungry, never without her care.

Yes, we all sense, feel, and see time passing by. It’s happening all around us. The good part is, you can cherish every moment, but the sad part is, there will come a time when you’ll miss the loud TV blaring your mother’s favorite bhajans and katha vachak. You’ll miss seeing “Mom” or “Dad” lighting up your screen with countless calls and messages. You’ll long for the warmth that once surrounded you, their tight hugs, their very presence.

And you’ll miss those endless meals, where the food was just an excuse for the love they poured into you. One day, the table will be set, but the voices that once filled the room will be gone, leaving behind only echoes of laughter and care.

So, while you still can, savor every bite, every story, every moment. Because time, relentless and quiet, will keep moving, and one day, these simple, everyday things will be the memories you hold onto the most.

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Suvi