I found it tucked away…

between things I don’t even remember keeping…

A simple pen.

Soft white… with a quiet inscription—Netra Kumbh 2025.

And just like that—

I wasn’t here anymore…

I was there.

Among the chaos… the faith… the dust… the smiles.

Among strangers who didn’t feel like strangers for long.

And then… Ramcharan.

Actually… two Ramcharans.

From the same village.

Same name.

Fifty years apart.

For a moment, I stood there—

genuinely confused…

trying to make sense of who was who in the midst of heavy OPD of Netrakumbh Eye Camp (Mahakumbh 2025)..

And they laughed.

That warm, unfiltered village laughter—

at my city-bred confusion.

The younger one… named after the elder.

Because once…

the elder Ramcharan had saved his father.

And just like that—

a name became a story…

a quiet legacy passed on.

And then there was him…

the 90-year-old gentleman.

Standing there in line waiting patiently for his turn ..not fragile—

but full of something far stronger than age.

With a soft pride in his voice, he tells me his story when his turn comes up as I was examining him“From the year I was born…

till today…

I have taken the holy dip in every Kumbh.”

One Kumbh at a time.

One lifetime of faith…

flowing as steadily as the river itself.

Moments like these…

you don’t realise when they settle inside you.

Until something so ordinary—

a pen—

quietly opens a door

you didn’t even know you had closed.

Maybe…

memories were never meant

to live only inside phones.

Maybe they need texture…

weight…

a presence you can hold.

So they can take you back—

not just in thought…

but in feeling.

Because sometimes—

it’s not about what the object is.

It’s about…

who you were when you held it.

— Suvi’s Scribbles