04 October 2026 • Life Lessons • Gratitude • Being Present

"Sometimes we protect things so carefully that we forget to enjoy them."

A few days ago, I opened the cupboard and saw the large storage box where I keep my watches. I had not worn most of these watches in a long while. 

For many months, I was fascinated by watches. I spent my hard-earned money buying digital, quartz, automatic, and a few luxury watches too. I watched videos about them repeatedly, compared designs, looked at their tiny movements, and felt excited whenever a new one arrived.

I loved holding them. I loved the weight of a watch in my palm, the intricate details on the dial, the sound of the strap closing around my wrist.

But I hardly wore them.

I kept them safely inside the storage box.

Every time I took one out, I made sure to check for dust. I’d gently wipe it with a microfibre cloth, paying close attention to the metal, the glass, and the strap. Even a tiny scratch would bother me.

That afternoon, I noticed a scratch next to the crown on one of the watches. I became anxious. I felt annoyed. I then looked at it again. That scratch wasn’t really damage. It was a memory. 

I had worn that watch on my birthday. Throughout the day, it sat on my wrist. I walked, travelled, ate, and spent the day with my family and friends.

The scratch told me something a perfectly preserved watch inside a box never could.

I had actually used it, and it carried those memories. It had become a part of my story.

Suddenly, I started thinking about all the other things I owned. I realised I often kept them safe instead of actually enjoying them.

There is a notebook my father gifted me on my 24th birthday.

I recall the first time I opened it. The cover felt like soft leather, and the pages were so pristine that I hesitated to jot anything down. I used it for a few days before I stopped.

It remained on my desk.

One evening I picked up the notebook and flipped through its pages.  Most were still blank, and it looked brand new. I knew exactly why. I didn’t want to spoil it.

I wanted my handwriting neat and my sentences grammatically correct and polished.  Crossing out words or lines would make it look messy. 

My father gifted it to me to write in, not to keep it as a desk ornament.

So I started using it again. One of the first pages I wrote was about my family and how much I love them. I wrote about the little things I appreciate and the feelings I do not always say out loud.

The pages now have crossed-out words, unfinished writings, not-so-beautiful sentences, and handwriting which changes when I write quickly.

But somehow, I find it even better. It has become part of me.

Maybe that’s what I have been missing.

We spend so much time keeping things perfect and in brand-new conditions that we sometimes forget to enjoy them.

We buy an expensive shirt and leave it in the cupboard because we are waiting for the right occasion. We buy expensive shoes and worry about getting them dirty.

We keep the lovely perfume for some special day. We save the expensive chocolate for guests.

We keep the best crockery untouched. We buy something beautiful. Then, we become afraid to use it.

I completely understand the feeling. We work hard for these things. We don't want them to get damaged.

But a strange thing happens when we keep everything for later.

Later keeps moving ahead.

There is always another special occasion. Another festival. Another better day. Another reason to wait.

I notice the same habit in myself with moments, not just possessions.

I sit down for food I really enjoy. The food smells wonderful. I take the first bite and taste it. It is heavenly. But somehow my hands reach for my phone. 

A reel starts playing.

Then another, and it goes on.

By the time I finish eating, my plate is empty, but I don’t even remember the taste of the food.

I was there. But I was not truly there.

That thought bothers me.

Why do I wait for a delicious meal and then spend half of it watching somebody else’s life?

The same thing happens during conversations.

My father talks to me. A friend tells me something.

A relative shares a story I have probably heard before.

Sometimes I listen with my phone in my hand. I look down for a second. I check a notification or open an email for no reason. I come back.

I am physically sitting there, but my attention keeps escaping.

And attention is one of the simplest ways we show someone that they matter.

I think about that whenever my pet comes and sits beside me.

There are moments when he simply wants to be near me. He doesn't ask for anything complicated. He looks at me, waits for a little affection, and settles down.

Then I remember how quickly life changes.

I have felt this in my life too. I often realise how much something matters only after it has disappeared. I miss people after they leave.

I open old photographs and suddenly wish I could return to a normal afternoon that seemed completely unimportant when I was living it.

I remember a laugh. A voice. A meal together. A conversation with one of my favourite people. Someone sitting beside me. And then comes the painful thought,

I didn't know if that was the last time.

The last meal rarely feels like the last. The last conversation usually sounds completely normal.

The last time I sit beside someone I love does not come with a warning.

Life simply keeps moving. 

This is why I’m starting to view everyday moments differently.

Not because I want to make every second dramatic.

I don't.

Some days are boring. Some meals are ordinary. Some conversations go nowhere. Sometimes I simply sit and do nothing.

That is fine too. Being present doesn't mean finding deep meaning in every minute.

Sometimes it simply means eating while eating. Listening while listening. Walking while walking. Sitting beside someone without checking the phone every few seconds.

Wearing the shirt today instead of waiting for an occasion. Enjoying the watch and accepting that it may get more scratches. Writing in the notebook even if the handwriting looks terrible.

I still take care of my things. I clean them regularly. I still keep some belongings safely. But I don’t want to protect them so much that they are never even used.

A watch is there to be worn. A shirt is meant to be worn. A notebook is meant to be written in. 

Beautiful things make sense when they are part of our life, not when they are put on shelves as brand new. A scratch becomes a memory. A food stain reminds us of a meal we had someday.

Those worn-down shoes have the memories of places we have walked. An untidy notebook even helps us retain our thoughts for a long time.

Maybe wear and tear is not always damage.

Sometimes it is proof that we experienced something. Proof that we went somewhere. Proof that we lived. 

We don’t know how much time we have. We don’t know how many more days are left. 

I don’t know which meal will be my last one. Which conversation with a person I love will be my last one. Maybe even a simple evening today will one day feel more memorable than anything else. 

It makes me pay closer attention to the moment. The watch still has its scratch. I think I finally understand why I don’t mind it anymore. I don’t want to keep all the good things for a special day I can’t see. 

I want to use them while I’m here and let life leave a few marks behind.

Because one day, those marks might remind me that I was there.

A Bhopal That Stayed With Me - The Tribune