The Fallen Giant: A Powerful Life Lesson from a Wild Mango Tree

 

      The Fallen Giant: A Lesson from a Wild                                            Mango Tree

A Lesson from a Wild Mango Tree

It’s the weekend. Finally.

After the late-night grind of a long Friday, I felt a strange kind of relief. My brain was tired, drained, and done for the week. But the mind… the mind was still wandering somewhere, searching for peace.

That week had ended with some good work completed. And while one part of me had already started worrying about Monday, another part wanted to escape. So I got on my bike.

As I’ve said in many of my blogs, a bike ride is where I do my best thinking. That is where many answers come to me. That is where noise becomes a little less noisy.

While riding, I was thinking about my hometown and our farm, where there had been some good news recently. I’m not sure how many of you know about those tiny mangoes we find in and around the Western Ghats. We call them Wild Mangoes. Small fruits… but full of character.

This particular tree was not just another tree in the farm. It was a world by itself. A massive canopy of branches and stems. When you stood near it, you felt like a small ant. It would take at least three people joining hands to circle its trunk.

And that tree had started fruiting heavily again after two long years.

Thousands of mangoes.

As I rode, I was already smiling to myself, planning to call my mother and tell her to prepare the famous pickles we had been missing for years.

The day passed. The next day, I even discussed it with my mother. We planned to make plenty of pickles and share them with relatives and neighbours.

The Boon of the Western Ghats

Boon of the Western Ghats

Before I get to the heart of the story, let me tell you a little more about this tree.

A Wild Mango tree is a boon to the Western Ghats. Any tree fruiting this heavily is probably a great-grandmother in tree years — maybe 60 or 70 years old, maybe even more. Trees like these are not just trees. They are blessings. They protect the land, hold the soil, give shade, and feed countless birds, insects, and animals.

The taste of the fruit is mouth-watering. The dishes made from them are something else. Once you taste them, you keep waiting for that season again. And the beautiful thing is — even if you find many Wild Mango trees near each other, no two taste exactly the same.

The tree I am talking about stood more than 70 feet tall, rising above almost everything around it. Since our farm is in a hilly region, you could see two giant trees from the entrance itself, standing like guardians and welcoming you with a cool breeze. Out of those two, this one was the tallest — standing there as if it were saluting the Brahmagiri Hills.

Its canopy was like a green empire. It decided who got sunlight and who had to stay in the shade. From its height, it almost looked like it was watching over the smaller plants, the young saplings, the seasonal crops… with a kind of quiet authority.

And I still remember the life under that tree.

There was always sound there.

Birds coming and going. Wings fluttering. Small fights. Sharp calls. Sudden movement between leaves. Even when the farm looked quiet from outside, that tree was never truly silent. It had its own world running above our heads. If you stood under it for a while, you would hear that life before you even noticed it. In many ways, that sound belonged to the farm itself.

Maybe that is why the tree never felt like wood and leaves alone.

It felt alive.

It had survived years of rain, heat, wind, and dry seasons. It had stood through so much that it almost gave the feeling of permanence. Like it would be there forever. Like some things are simply too strong to fall.

The Midnight Call

place that always had shade… now open to the sky

Later that weekend, I got a call from my neighbour.

He told me there had been heavy summer rain. Strong winds. Several trees had come down.

And one of them… was our Wild Mango tree.

Usually, when you get a late-night call from your hometown, your heart already knows it is not good news. Even before you say hello, your mind starts preparing for something bad.

That is exactly what happened.

The moment I heard it, I felt as though I had lost someone who had been with us for years. Someone who had silently seen generations come and go.

As my neighbour described the scene, I could imagine it clearly.

The sky didn’t just turn grey. It became dark, bruised, and restless. The wind was no longer a light breeze. It turned into a force—heavy and angry. It was the kind of wind that doesn’t move quietly through the land, but comes as if it has something to prove.

That giant mango tree must have fought.

I could almost hear its branches groaning. Its massive limbs thrashing in the storm. For years, it had stood there as the strongest thing around, carrying that image without question. But this time, the ground beneath it had changed. The soil had softened under relentless rain. The roots, the very thing that held all its greatness together, could no longer hold that giant weight against that raging wind.

And then, with one unbearable moment, it gave way.

By dawn, the king was on the ground.

And after hearing that, I could not sleep.

I kept imagining that place in the farm.

A place that always had shade… now open to the sky.
A place that always had the sound of birds… now suddenly still.
A place that always looked permanent… now broken in one night.

I imagined branches torn apart. Tiny mangoes scattered in the wet mud. The smell of fresh, broken wood in the air. I even thought of the birds — maybe they came in the morning, circled once, and did not understand where their world had gone.

That thought stayed with me the most.

Because when something that looked eternal disappears overnight, the silence it leaves behind is louder than the fall itself.

When Strength Meets Time

Strength Meet Time

The next day, my mind kept returning to that fallen tree.

Not just because it had fallen.

But because it felt like something more had fallen with it.

A message.

Because life is also like that.

There are people who stand like that tree. Strong voice. Strong position. Money. influence. Confidence. Support. The kind of people who slowly begin to believe they are untouchable. And sometimes, we also believe it. We look at them and think, this man can never fail. This family will never see bad days. This person is too strong to break.

But life does not check your height before testing you.

Time does not care how powerful you look.

One loss. One health issue. One betrayal. One mistake. One bad season. Sometimes that is enough to bring even the strongest-looking person to the ground.

And then life does the opposite too.

The person nobody noticed yesterday may rise tomorrow. The one people ignored may become the strongest soul in the room. The one who had nothing may one day stand with more courage than the one who had everything.

Hero to zero.
Zero to hero.

Life has a strange way of moving people around without asking permission.

The Silent Lesson

Silent Lesson

That is why life must be lived with balance.

When you have everything, do not behave as if you built the sky. What you have today may not stay with you forever.

And when you do not have much, do not sit in shame as if your story is finished. Even dry land waits for rain. Even broken seasons change.

That fallen mango tree taught me something silently.

Strength is beautiful. Growth is beautiful. Standing tall is beautiful.

But pride is dangerous.

The moment we start believing, “I am the strongest. I need nobody. Nothing can happen to me,” life quietly smiles.

Not to insult us.
Not to humiliate us.
But to remind us.

We are all standing only because time is allowing us to stand.

That tree was tall. Maybe the tallest in the farm.

But the day it fell, height had no meaning.

And maybe that is true for human life too.

Do not be arrogant when life is giving you shade.
Do not feel destroyed when life throws you to the ground.

Seasons change.
Position changes.
Strength changes.
Fortune changes.

What should remain is humility.

The tree is no longer standing in the farm.

But strangely, after falling, it began standing inside my thoughts.

Even now, when I think of power, success, ego, struggle, and survival, I remember that Wild Mango tree. Not just as a tree that once stood tall — but as a life that taught me something after its fall.

Sometimes, the tallest things fall not to end their story…

but to teach ours.

I’ll park my story here for now.

This incident left me with many more thoughts, many more messages, and maybe I will speak about them in future blogs.

But for now, I leave you with this:

Has life ever shown you that strength alone is not enough?
Has something ever fallen in front of you… only to leave behind a lesson that never left your mind?

Disclaimer: This story is inspired by real-life events. Any interpretation is personal, and any resemblance to situations is purely coincidental.

The Call That Changed Everything

         The Call That Changed Everything

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Before I Tell You This…

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Some stories don’t come looking for you.

They sit quietly in one corner of your life… waiting for the right time to be told.

I wasn’t planning to write this.

It’s not dramatic. There’s no twist. No villain. No big celebration.

Just one phone call.

But sometimes, one phone call is enough to show you what strength really looks like.

We often think courage is loud.
That it stands on a stage.
That it makes speeches.

But I saw courage on an ordinary afternoon.

In a woman who didn’t prepare for it.
Who didn’t expect it.
Who simply answered a call and walked into responsibility without knowing how heavy it would be.

This is not just a story about an emergency.

It is about showing up.

And sometimes… that is the most powerful thing a human can do.

📞 It Was Just a Phone Call

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Phone rang.

Normal afternoon. Nothing unusual.

Lalitha almost let it ring once more before picking up.

“Hello…?”

Silence for a second.

Then a broken voice.

“Can you come… please…”

That was it.

No explanation. No full sentence.

But she knew.

Some voices you don’t forget. Even if years pass.

It was Aunty.

They had moved out long back. New house. Children grown. Life moved on.

But that old house… that sunlight… that garden…

They were not just landlords.

They were part of her early years. Her children’s childhood. Her memories.

And something in that “please” wasn’t normal.

🚪 No Questions. Only Action.

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She didn’t ask too many things.

Didn’t say, “What happened?”

She just called her eldest son.

“Come. We have to go.”

On the way, her heart was heavy. She didn’t show it. But inside… something didn’t feel right.

When they opened the gate, even Tommy’s barking felt different. Loud, but confused.

Inside, she saw him.

Uncle.

The same strict military man who once walked straight and spoke sharply.

Now bent. Holding his stomach. Face pale. Eyes half closing.

Aunty stood beside him. Not crying loudly. Just… helpless.

His children? All in different cities.

Pain doesn’t wait for flights.

In that moment, Lalitha wasn’t a former tenant.

She was the only person there.

🚕 The Ride That Felt Longer Than It Was

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“Auto. Fast,” she told her son.

They somehow helped him inside. Every movement hurt him. He groaned… then suddenly went quiet.

That quiet scared her more.

On the way, his head kept falling back. Eyes closing.

“Uncle… don’t sleep.”

She held his hand.

That same hand that once signed their rental agreement. That once scolded her son for plucking flowers without asking.

Life is strange.

She didn’t talk about hospital or fear.

She spoke about simple things.

“Remember the mango tree you planted?”

“You still water the jasmine every morning?”

Every time his eyes closed, she gently tapped his arm.

“Uncle… look at me.”

She wasn’t letting him drift away.

Her son sat quietly watching. Maybe for the first time, he saw his mother not just as Amma — but as something stronger.

🏥 The Corridor Decision

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Hospital lights are harsh.

Doctor examined him quickly.

Face serious.

“Strangulated hernia. It’s swelling. Risk of rupture. We need to operate immediately.”

Then the question came.

“Who is signing?”

Children were informed. One in Delhi. One in Mumbai. Trying to book tickets.

But surgery cannot wait.

Paper was placed in front of her.

For one second… fear came.

If something goes wrong?

Who am I to sign?

But stronger than fear was something else.

If I don’t sign?

She picked up the pen.

“I will sign.”

No big speech. No drama.

Just decision.

She called the children again.

“Come safely. Surgery is starting. Don’t panic.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Even though her hands were cold.

She sat next to Aunty. Held her hand. Let her cry.

Sometimes strength is simply staying.

⏳ Waiting Outside Those Doors

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Operation theatre doors closed.

Time moved slowly.

She didn’t scroll her phone. Didn’t complain. Didn’t think about dinner waiting at home.

She just sat.

Doctor finally came out.

“Surgery successful. Good that you brought him on time. One more hour… it would have been very risky.”

She closed her eyes for a moment.

Not dramatic relief.

Just a quiet breath.

👀 When He Opened His Eyes

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When the children arrived, they were tired, scared, and full of guilt.

They expected chaos.

Instead, they saw Lalitha still there.

Not as a savior.

Just present.

Later, when Uncle slowly opened his eyes, he searched the room.

Not for the doctor.

Not even for his children first.

He saw her.

Raised his weak hand.

“It was her… If she wasn’t…”

He couldn’t finish.

He didn’t need to.

After Everything Was Normal Again…

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Life moved on.

Uncle recovered. Children returned to their cities. Hospital smell faded.

But something stayed.

We often measure relationships by blood, by surnames, by legal ties.

But that day reminded me — sometimes the strongest bonds are built in rented houses, shared tea cups, small scoldings, children playing in someone else’s garden.

Responsibility doesn’t always knock politely.

Sometimes it just calls you.

You don’t get time to decide whether you are ready.

You either step forward…
Or you step back.

That day, Lalitha didn’t calculate.

She simply showed up.

And maybe that is what strength really is.

Not power.
Not noise.
Not recognition.

Just presence.

Just courage in ordinary clothes.

Because in the end, we won’t be remembered for what we owned.

We will be remembered for the moments we chose to stand beside someone when they were falling.

And sometimes…

All it takes to change everything
is answering a phone that begins with—

“Can you come… please…”

When the Breeze Brought Back a Friend

    🌿 When the Breeze Brought Back a Friend

                                      A nostalgic reflection on friendship, time, and unexpected reunions

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🪴 Balcony, Breeze, and Bees

There’s something magical about a weekend afternoon. Especially when you’re sitting in your balcony, wrapped in the soft hum of a garden that’s alive — buzzing bees, nosy butterflies, and overconfident squirrels treating your guava tree like it’s theirs.

After lunch, the swing chair becomes a portal. The breeze tugs at your thoughts, your body relaxes, and your mind… well, your mind travels. Not forward — but backward.

So come, sit with me. Close your eyes. Hear the bees hop from hibiscus to jasmine. Somewhere nearby, a bird composes a melody. And if you’re really quiet, you’ll hear laughter — not today’s, but from years ago.

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💬 The Friendships We Thought Would Last Forever

There was a time when we thought our school best friends would be part of our forever. That we’d always call, always meet, and never lose touch. We promised to attend each other’s weddings, name our kids after each other, maybe even grow old in the same colony.

But life… life has other plans. Careers, cities, families, responsibilities — they stretch us out like butter on hot toast. Slowly, those daily conversations shrink to yearly greetings. And then — silence.

Until one day, something stirs the memory.

For me, it happened in a metro.

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🚇 A Metro Ride into the Past

It was one of those rare Bangalore afternoons when the metro wasn’t packed like a tiffin box. A true miracle. I could actually stand without someone breathing down my neck. Legs weren’t twisted like yoga poses. I had full body positioning! Trust me, in Bangalore metro terms, this is luxury.

As we passed through the railway station, two elderly men — somewhere in their early sixties — boarded. They spoke Tamil, with a lilt that came only from Palakkad. Their laughter had no filters. Loud, honest, and filled with something pure — a time before smartphones, before Google, before everyone had LinkedIn but no one had time.

Let me translate what I overheard. Don’t worry — I wasn't eavesdropping. They were practically announcing their life stories over the PA system.

Friend 1: “Hey! You da? After so long!”
Friend 2: “Macha! I’m good! What are you doing here?”
Friend 1: “Going to a friend’s daughter’s wedding.”
Friend 2: “Which friend?”
Friend 1: “Vishwanathan’s daughter.”
Friend 2: “Eh! I’m going to the same one. He was my colleague!”
Friend 1: “What a small world! We were childhood friends. Haven’t seen each other since school.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Memories came rushing.

Friend 2: “Yes, yes. Life, da. Took us everywhere. Retired now. But see, destiny made us meet — in Bangalore metro of all places!”
Friend 1: “Remember the days we travelled from Walayar to Coimbatore for school?”
Friend 2: “How can I forget? And what about Rajesh Unni and Prabakaran?”
Friend 1: silent for a moment “Rajesh... passed away two years ago.”
Friend 2: “What? That health freak? The guy who drank bitter gourd juice like water?”
Friend 1: “Yes, macha. Life’s unpredictable.”

And then came the line that hit me like that one autorickshaw that always jumps the signal:

Friend 2: “When we were young, we chased jobs and money. Now, we have both — but no friends. The friendships we had in childhood were the purest. No ego. No expectations. Just hearts wide open.”

They exchanged numbers. The train arrived at their stop.

Friend 1: “Come da, let’s get down. We’ve got a marriage to attend and memories to relive.”

And just like that, they walked away, laughing, leaning on each other, into the city — and into their past.

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🏫 The School That Lives in My Head

I still had a few stops left. But my mind had already slipped back to those old school days — where the benches held secrets, the walls had witnessed dreams whispered between classes, and friendships were as simple as sharing a pencil or saving a seat during morning assembly.

So many friends. Some still around. Some drifting in and out like radio signals. Some only names on faded photographs.

They were classmates, lunchbox warriors, backbench philosophers, exam-time saviors, and those who stuck around long enough to become family.

Some were seasonal. Some, eternal. But each one? Real.

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🎒 Life, Laughter, and Letting Go

We often think friendship is about consistency. Daily calls. Weekly updates. Birthday reminders.

But maybe, it’s also about silent understanding. That even after years, when we meet — at a wedding, a bus stand, or a random metro — we can talk like nothing ever changed.

So to all my friends — whether we talk or not — thank you.

You were part of my story. A scene, a chapter, a bridge. You helped me laugh when I had no reason to. You showed up when I didn’t expect you to. And even if time pulled us apart, I still carry a little bit of you with me.

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💌 Until We Meet Again…

If you ever see me staring out the window, smiling quietly in a crowded metro, don’t be surprised. Maybe I’m not thinking about work. Maybe I’m just remembering you.

Because friendship never really leaves. It just takes the scenic route back.

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The Ant Whisperer of Dasara: A Slippery Tale from the Ghats

 The Ant Whisperer of Dasara: A Slippery Tale                                   from the Ghats

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We’ve all done crazy things in our childhood. Not the "my parents were so proud of me" kind. No, I’m talking about those things that don’t exactly earn you medals, but come back again and again as comedy blockbusters in your mind's private theater. They’re so out of the box that even the box says, “I’m out!”

Now, while scratching my head about what to write next—what people would like to read, or what would at least not make them hit the back button faster than a mosquito hits your ear—I suddenly remembered one of my all-time favorite childhood episodes.

It didn’t happen during the usual summer holidays, mind you. This was during Dasara holidays. Yes, that special time during October–November when schools close, and in our part of the world—South Canara—the world opens up.

You may ask, “Why now? Why do people suddenly step outside?”

Aah. Let me give you the secret recipe.

See, in the Western Ghats, from June to September, the place doesn't get rain—it becomes rain. Morning, afternoon, evening, night—there’s a non-stop concert by the Rain God. I’m talking Lollapalooza-level headliner rain, the kind that makes you forget the sun ever existed. The clothes refuse to dry, and the mosquitoes, leeches, and frogs decide it’s their time to shine.

The vast open verandas—once used to dry arecanut and coffee beans—turn into temporary vegetable farms. The land becomes so fertile, even cucumbers start throwing parties.

Come October, just as the Rain God starts taking breaks between his back-to-back concerts, Dasara arrives like a sweet interval scene. And that’s when magic happens. You step out, and suddenly it's like someone painted the world with 500 shades of green. The ghats, the forests, the farmland—every inch sparkles in chlorophyll glory. Even the mossy path glows like it's been polished by a thousand tiny brushes.

Now let me pause this poetic nonsense before you think I’m auditioning for a nature documentary. Because what I really want to tell you… is a story. One that involves slipperiness, stupidity, and suspense.

The Slippery Stage and My Weirdest Pet Project

Our mid-term routine was simple: Wake up to thunder that sounds like God dropped a wardrobe. Eat idli, sip steaming coffee, and watch rain pour through iron window grills like a movie curtain. Lunch. Watch rain again. And then—on lucky days—a short playtime window when the rain took a tea break.

The walking path around the house was a world of its own. Covered in pachi (that shiny, slippery moss), it was an open invitation to perform all forms of dance. One foot on the wrong patch and boom—you’re in a live episode of India’s Got Accidental Talent. From classical to hip-hop to breakdance, the pachi didn’t discriminate.

But one day, amidst all this wet drama, a thought struck me. You know how people keep dogs, cats, maybe a parrot? Yeah, normal pets. Boring. Predictable.

I, the great innovator of my time, decided to raise… wait for it… giant ants.

Yes. Not those little ones that visit your kitchen without an invite. I’m talking about the majestic, slightly scary, red-black big ants that you only find in the lush wilderness of the Ghats. They were strong, had good work ethic, didn’t bark or poop everywhere. Perfect pets, right?

Wrong. Very wrong.

But I was convinced. I found an old Horlicks plastic jar—one that once held promises of "strong bones and sharp minds." I thought, “What better place to host my mighty ant kingdom?”

So here’s what I did:

• Made tiny holes for air.

• Caught about 10 of these ants (after a thrilling Mission Impossible chase).

• Dropped a spoon of sugar inside. (Ants = Sugar = Happiness. Basic biology.)

Voila! My first ever ant aquarium. Or maybe ant prison. But who’s judging?

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The Empire That Didn't Last

For the first day or two, I felt like a zookeeper. I’d talk to them.
“Hello General Ant, how’s the sugar supply chain today?”
I even named them—Antony, Antina, and so on.

They roamed, climbed, and acted all civilised. My cousins were curious. Some laughed. One even suggested I teach them to form words like “Hi!” inside the jar.

Then came Day 3.

They were… still.

Day 4: Still still.

Day 5: Funeral procession. Inside the jar. For all ten.

My mini ant republic had collapsed. I was heartbroken.

I’d like to say I cried. But no, I was still trying to poke and see if someone was just in a meditative state. Spoiler: They weren’t.

That day, a wave of guilt hit me. Like really hit me.

I had taken wild creatures who were free, who knew the dance of rain and leaf and soil, and I had trapped them—for my own entertainment. My ant farm was, in truth, a plastic prison. I wasn’t their friend. I was their jailer. And they paid for my experiment with their tiny lives.

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The Moral of the Mossy Story

Years later, as I sip hot coffee and look out at the rain hitting my balcony grill—just like those childhood days—I smile and sigh at the same time.

That memory is still funny. But it’s also a tiny bookmark in the diary of “things that taught me something.”

It taught me about curiosity.
It taught me about boundaries.
And above all, it taught me that just because we can do something, doesn’t mean we should.

Today, when I see ants walking in a line across my kitchen floor, I step over them gently. No more ant hotels. No more sugar traps. Just quiet respect for lives far smaller, but no less important, than mine.

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Final Thought

Childhood makes us do strange things. Sometimes funny, sometimes foolish, sometimes downright facepalm-worthy. But each one teaches us, shapes us, and gives us stories to laugh at... and reflect on.

So next time you slip on moss, rear ants, or think you’ve got the next big idea—remember, it’s okay to experiment. But it's even better when your experiment ends with life, not a lesson in loss.

And if anyone asks, “What was the craziest thing you did as a child?”—you can proudly say, “Well, I ran an ant hotel during Dasara. Didn’t end well for the guests, but hey, the check-in process was smooth!”

The Unknown Person Who Became Part of Our Mornings

       The Unknown Person Who Became Part of Our Mornings

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The other day, my wife suddenly asked me, “Oyee! Some time back you were telling me about that person you used to meet every morning, right?”

I said, “Who? The one I used to talk about? That unknown person?”

She said, “Yes! That one. Why are you asking about him now?”

She explained she was watching some Korean series, and something in it reminded her of the story I told her about that person. So she wanted to know more.

I smiled and said, “Okay, if you want to talk about him now, I have to take you back in time. Hop on! Let me take you to the memory.”

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Flashback to 2019, Early Morning

It was 6 o’clock in the morning. My alarm started playing some song. I quickly paused it or hit snooze because, you know, early morning sleep is the sweetest. No matter what, the sleep god always pulls you back in.

After 10 minutes, the alarm started again. I told myself, “No, you’re not letting me sleep anymore. I have to get up.”

It was my routine to take my daughter out for a walk. She was still a baby then, so I used to carry her in my arms, take a small bag, and go out to get milk.

That was a small walk we did every day.

Since my daughter had just started exploring the world, I always let her look around. Our first stop was the play area where she loved the swing. She would enjoy playing there for some time.

After that, we’d go to the nearby store to get the milk.

While going to the store, there would be a lot of little things to look at — animated signs, birds, sounds — and she enjoyed all of it.

On our way back from the store, that’s when we saw him.

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The Unknown Person

How was he?

Tall — about 6 feet 4 inches — and probably in his mid-60s. By the way he walked and moved his hands, I noticed he was mostly left-handed.

We had seen him before, but never talked. This was the first time we actually interacted.

For some reason, his voice was so soft — very different from his strong body and look.

That day, he said, “Hi. What’s her name?”

I told him my daughter’s name.

He smiled and walked on.

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Our Morning Routine

This became our morning routine.

Next day, we saw him again. He was walking on the other side of the lane, but he came all the way to our side and said, “Good morning! Have a good day. Say hi to my daughter.”

This went on like this for a year or so.

Sometimes, we missed a day — either because we didn’t go out or he wasn’t there. But mostly, it was like clockwork.

Then Came COVID

And then COVID happened.

During the lockdown, we all stayed home, so there were no morning walks.

Whenever there was some relaxation in restrictions, I went out early to get milk — but without my daughter.

For a few days, I was able to see that unknown person again.

And then, suddenly — he vanished.

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The Void Left Behind

You know how it feels when a person you used to interact with regularly suddenly disappears?

Those small interactions — “Hi,” “Bye,” a smile, a little laugh — all positive vibes — suddenly gone.

It was strange not to see him anymore.

After some days, I asked the shop owner from where I bought the milk if he knew what happened.

That’s when my world shattered.

“Sir, he is no more.”

“What? What happened?”

“COVID.”

I heard from someone else that he had died.

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My Thoughts

I kept thinking about him.

He used to look so happy when he saw me and my daughter, especially her. I felt maybe he had a granddaughter around her age. Maybe that’s why he came every morning — to catch a glimpse of her.

The unknown person… even though I never knew his name, even though we never exchanged numbers or talked much beyond a few words, I felt really sad that he was gone.

He came into our lives as a stranger and left the same way — unknown.

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Back to Now

When my wife asked me about him, I realized this story needed to be written down.

We all have moments like this — times when we meet unknown people during travels, on trains, buses, flights, or just in everyday life.

People we talk to, laugh with, share little moments — but don’t know much else about.

And then they disappear.

As I told this story to my wife, she got a little emotional. I consoled her with one thing I always believe:

“Life will move on.”

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Have you ever met someone like that? A stranger who left a mark on your life without you knowing much about them? Share your story in the comments below. I’d love to hear.