I was scrolling through my phone again—past the hour I’d promised myself—when I heard an old man say:
“You’re all becoming digital dust.One crash, and it’s like you never existed.”

His words stayed.Because maybe… we already are.

When was the last time we held a photo—not swiped it, but held it?Or opened a letter written by someone we love?
When did handwriting stop being a part of memory?

I miss that.The weight of pictures.The pauses in ink.The quiet, steady presence of paper.

We didn’t just take photos back then—we lived them.Albums weren’t files; they were stories.Letters weren’t texts.They were proof someone cared enough to pause.

Like every year since 1999,July returns with Kargil memories.Back then, letters still carried hearts across distances.And for many who lost someone,those pages became sacred—the last thread to a voice they’d never heard again
My parents still have many letters from their parents ..a silent witness of their younger selves .I have a few too—creased and fading.But my daughter barely has any …
We live in clouds now—our memories floating in servers,one forgotten password away from vanishing.

But I’ve started again writing again for my daughter.. for myself ,Not out of nostalgia—but to leave behind something real.Something she can hold when I no longer can.
Because one day,when the screens go dark,when the noise fades,and I no longer exist in physical form—I want her to find more than pixels.
Not just my words,but the outline of a life lived—a wanderlust soul who travelled far and inward,who tried to heal as a doctor
Perfectly imperfect—as a mother, a daughter,a seeker, a sister& a friend—a woman who stumbled and soared,but always showed up with what she had,and gave it the best she could.
She tried.Fully and fiercely coz stubborn she was …
….Suvi’s Scribbles