Confessions of Time
The wisdom of time cannot be claimed — Only courted
Time was once my faithful companion.
Until slow whispers became my master.
In an age that celebrates speed —
Silence remains timeless.
The heart learns when the mind unlearns,
Darkness finds grace in quiet solitude,
And mistakes confess their truths in stillness.
I have no name. No destination...
Only timelessness to invite within.
Last month, in the heat-soaked plains of Rajasthan, my driver—a man with cracked palms and a parched plot in Maharashtra—pulled over at a roadside stall. An old farmer sat beneath a neem tree, his dhoti frayed, glasses dusted and cracked.
"No one understands our troubles," he muttered. "This drought is a curse."
My driver’s voice trembled:
"In my village too, the wells are dry. The pots are empty. Even the gods have turned away."
Their talk meandered—dried crops, silent skies, sleeping leaders.
The earth breaks. The clouds tease. A farmer’s tears water only his pride.
— Kurinjippattu, Sangam Poetry (1st century BCE)
Years ago, just after wrapping a film, a financier called me:
“Pick your hero. Your story. My money.”
The scent of power lingered in his car.
He rang a superstar:
"You’ll do this film. My terms."
The star stammered.
I froze.
That night, unsure if it was destiny or a descent, I opened the Panchatantra. The first tale I read:
The Weaver, the Carpenter, and the Barber
Three friends found gold in the forest.
The weaver left to get food—poisoned it.
The others plotted to kill him.
They all died.
The gold lay untouched.
Moral: Greed destroys before it satisfies.
I never returned the financier’s call.
I used to believe my journey was rare—fighting gangsters in film finance, facing betrayal, navigating power games.
But it wasn’t unique.
The faces had changed.
The weapons were now contracts.
The greed wore cologne.
Akbar’s poets bowed to their patrons.
Today’s creators bend to venture capitalists.
Duryodhana clung to power over truth.
Today’s boardrooms do the same.
The dice may be digital, but the fall remains ancient.
Even my driver’s despair was not new.
The fields are barren. The gods look away.
The king’s wealth multiplies.
— Mesopotamian Tablet, 1800 BCE
A true storyteller doesn’t seek applause.
He waits for silence.
The kind of silence that arrives when the listener hears their own heart echo through the story.
Come. Sit. Not before me — but before the fire time forgot.
Pour your modern pain into the old well.
I’ll show you its roots.
“My lover left,” you say?
Read about Shakuntala — whose ring was lost in the river of forgetting.
“I feel unseen,” you whisper?
Ask Van Gogh’s sunflowers — they too longed for light.
In the hush between these lines,
do you hear your own story knocking?
But beware... not all stories deserve to be retold.
You carry a map.
Etched in clay tablets older than any god.
The truth is not hidden.
You are simply remembered.
You are not lost.
You are a verse in a poem that began with the first star.
“You are not a drop in the ocean.
You are the ocean in a drop.”
— Rumi
When the ache rises —
remember:
The same moon that saw Ashoka cry now dries your tears.
The same wind that carried Kabir’s songs now carries your sighs.
You are not alone.
You are an echo of eternity.
Stories are not told.
They are remembered.
