The woods are lovely dark and deep

The woods are lovely dark and deep.

Drop of water

It rained last night. And delicate drops of rainwater hung on to the edges of some leaves. I stood still, admiring them. One, in particular, caught my attention. It refracted a miniature, inverted image of the tall Mast trees in the garden — a whole world held upside down in a single trembling drop. It swayed with the breeze, alive with tension. I could sense it was holding on, aware, perhaps, of the puddle waiting below. A soft, cool wind passed by, calming my sweaty summer skin. The drop quivered. To that tiny sphere, it must have felt like a storm. Still, it held on. Then, almost imperceptibly, it gave in, rolled down, fell into the puddle, sent a ripple across the surface and disappeared. It no longer existed.

And yet, watching it felt like a lifetime.

6th May

Years ago, on this day, I lost a watch my parents had gifted me for my birthday. I was newly married and had stepped out alone to run a quick errand just a few streets away from our home.

When I returned, the watch was no longer on my wrist. I retraced my steps, asking shopkeepers and passersby if they’d seen it. No one had. I came back home in tears—it was a watch I truly cherished.

Later that evening, the husband came home from work, and I told him what had happened. He said gently, “It’s okay, let it go. That was all the runa you had with it.”

I was furious. How could he be so calm, so dismissive? He replied, “We can always buy another watch. Maybe the person who found it will cherish it. An unexpected find might have made their day better. But you know—I lost my father on this day. And I cannot buy another father.”

And every year since, I remember those words—a quiet, sobering reminder of how fragile life is, and how grief teaches us what truly stays.