This photograph in my phone’s album, inspired me today, to write. For those who enjoy the art of storytelling, please do give it a read.

……

As the two elderly gentlemen stepped out for their customary evening stroll, they found themselves once again facing the familiar, horizon bathed in a soothing bluish hue. They settled onto the same weathered stone pillar that had become their daily respite.

Seated side by side, they discussed the latest updates on their children and grandchildren, as they did every day. Tales of a lurking leopard in some far corner of their village was also delved into. They recalled their days of youth that now seemed like ancient history, shared same old anecdotes and jokes that they laugh at with the same glint in their eye as if they are hearing it for the first time.The visit of Modi Ji to Uttarakhand also took center stage in their discussion. They expressed their thoughts on the political landscape and the changes they had witnessed over the years, from their prime to the twilight of their lives.

They reminisced about the days when they could race up mountain slopes without gasping for breath and now found themselves taking frequent breaks just to cover a kilometer!
They marveled at the transformations that time had wrought. The well-paved road they now ambled upon had once been a rough trail cutting through lush green forests. The solid stone pillar that supported them had its origins as a massive, ancient rock that had slowly drifted from its original place. The panoramic horizon, once unspoiled by any structures, was previously just a dense forest.

As one of the old men reached down to pick up his fallen HMT wristwatch, they both had an epiphany. Time, they realized, was the ultimate master, shaping their world and destiny in ways they hadn’t foreseen. They saw in that dropped wristwatch a profound reminder that we are all slaves to time, its unyielding march making even the most spirited of youths bow before its power.