And So, Time Just Floated By

By Prisha Nanda, B.A. Honours Economics

Edited By Nandana

A book sat on a shelf in the library, unassuming and forgotten. It wasn’t new; its spine faded, its cover half torn, and its pages carried the unmistakable weight of time. I borrowed it because I recognised the title, thinking it might pass the time until I found another book I actually wanted to read. I expected nothing of it. At first, that expectation held, the words registering in my head but not quite piquing my interest. But as days passed, it began to feel how an old song one used to love would—comforting yet exciting. As weeks passed, the corners of the pages softened under my fingers, and the cover became something I was eager to crack open. Somewhere between the lines and with time, the “filler” book became one of my all-time favourites, a gateway into a whole universe.

Time has a strange way of working, casting its spell on everything we touch, leaving both physical and intangible marks. Soon, I realised it wasn’t just me who had read the book but also several others. That seemingly unremarkable book had its story etched into the lives of everyone who had turned its pages before me—and now it carried a part of me too. But isn’t that true for everything? We carry time with us in everything we do, in who we are, in the objects we claim to love, the people we hold dear, and in the stories we tell.

And isn’t that the beauty of it? Whether it’s a childhood photograph, curled at the edges, slightly blurred as though it’s retreating into the past; pebbles smoothed by endless waves, like small miracles on the sea shore; trees standing tall despite having been split by several storms and earthquakes. Or humans, with our faces growing wrinkled like maps charting years of laughter, sorrow, and love. Time, with its fleeting nature, leaves behind something lasting. It gives us not perfection, but presence. The presence of memories and a life well-lived.

Time does not create the flawless or the pristine, but the lived-in, the weathered, and, most importantly, the real. It doesn’t take our lives away from us but softens sharp edges, turns annoyance into fond memories, and repairs what’s broken. It marks us forever, giving us layers of experience and growth. A book, once inconsequential, now holds a place in my heart, not for its perfection, but for its story, woven into mine, and the lives of countless others.

(bonus meme)