When the Bees Came Calling

                           🐝 When the Bees Came Calling

                                               “A Weekend, A Memory, A Message from the Hive”

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🌤️ A Usual Weekend... Until It Wasn't

It was just past 2:30 in the afternoon. I was lounging on the couch, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling through the usual mix of news, memes, and randomness. Just another weekend. Nothing special.

Then I heard it—that soft, familiar buzz.

Three honeybees had flown into my living room. Hovering, darting, making that distinct “hummm” that’s hard to ignore if you’ve grown up close to nature.

Now, bees wandering into my home isn’t all that unusual. With a balcony full of plants and fruit trees all around the house, they’re regular visitors. But something about this visit… it tugged at a memory.

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⏪ Rewind: A Farm, a Summer, and a Box Full of Bees

I was maybe 13 or 14. Summer holidays. The kind where time slows down, and the only plan is to stay outdoors.

I was at my grandmother’s home—the place where mud meets memory, and every tree had a story. One afternoon, she mentioned casually,

“Near the gate… by that old tree… I think there’s a honeybee nest splitting. We should move them before they abscond.”

Soon enough, the village “bee man” arrived. I still remember the smell of the smoke, the way he moved with calm confidence. And me? I was wide-eyed. Curious. Buzzing with excitement.

I joined in, of course. First as a spectator. Then, slowly, as a participant.

“They’re calm when they’re together,” he said. “Especially Indian bees. You won’t get stung if you’re gentle.”

He handed me the smoke can, and soon, I was helping move a living swarm—my fingers trembling but heart racing. I even helped shift the queen.

Sure, a few bees stung me. But that sting? It was nothing compared to the thrill of being part of something so ancient and alive.

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⏩ Fast Forward: Silence Where Buzz Once Lived

Years passed. On another visit to the farm, I ran to check the hive boxes we had installed after those adventures. One, two, three…

But something was wrong.

One box—the liveliest one, always filled with the hum of life—was quiet. Too quiet.

I walked over, crouched, and saw them… dozens of bees lying still beneath the stand. Lifeless.
I opened the lid. Even the queen was gone.

I asked around. Researched. Pieced it together.
Nearby farms had sprayed chemicals. The bees, doing what they always do—collecting nectar—brought back poison instead.

That hive had been bursting with honey. Now it was a grave.

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🐝 When the Bees Spoke

As I sat on the sofa that weekend, watching the three little bees move around my hall, it was like something shifted. The hum became a conversation. A whisper.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe not.
But I heard them.

🐝 Bee 1: “It smells familiar… This used to be a safe zone. The garden still blossoms.”
🐝 Bee 2: “Let’s just rest a while. So many of our kind are gone. Lost to sprays and smoke.”
🐝 Bee 3: “But look! Guava flowers outside… Maybe there's still hope.”

And then the memories poured in.

🐝 Bee 1: “Do you remember the mango grove near the old well? Lush blooms, no sprays. Every flower welcomed us.”
🐝 Bee 2: “That land is barren now. Concrete has replaced trees. Where do bees go when there’s no home left?”
🐝 Bee 3: “I tried the sunflower fields. The nectar tasted wrong. We lost many sisters there.”

A quiet hum. A moment of mourning. And then—resolve.

🐝 Bee 1: “We’ve survived storms. Fires. Even floods. We’ll keep flying.”
🐝 Bee 2: “Do humans even know? Without us, their plates would be empty.”
🐝 Bee 3: “Let’s go. The guava blooms won’t last long.”

And just like that, they were gone. Out through the window, into the light, and onto the guava tree.
Back to work. Back to saving the world, one flower at a time.

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🌱 Why This Matters—To You, Me, and Everyone Who Eats

Bees don’t just make honey.
They make life happen.

Over 75% of the food we eat relies on pollinators like them. Fruits. Vegetables. Even coffee.

In India, we’re lucky to have native bees like the Indian honeybee (Apis cerana indica)—hardy, humble, and used to our ways.
Then there’s the stingless bee, tiny and gentle but mighty in pollination.
And the rock bee (Apis dorsata)—wild, strong, and fierce, nesting high on cliffs and tall trees.

But they’re disappearing. Quietly. Rapidly.

And the world is barely noticing.

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🌻 What Can We Do? (It’s Simpler Than You Think)

• 🌼 Plant more flowers. Native ones. Ones bees love.
• 🚫 Avoid harmful pesticides. Even better, go organic.
• 🍯 Buy local honey. Support your neighborhood beekeepers.
• 🐝 Teach kids about bees. Let them grow up buzzing with awareness.

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💛 A Final Thought

That day, I didn’t just meet three bees.
I reconnected with a part of myself.
A boy who once held a queen bee in his hand. A boy who watched life fly. And die.

Maybe those bees were messengers. Maybe memories. Maybe both.
But one thing I know for sure—
When bees come calling, listen. They carry stories, and warnings… and hope.

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TIME: Between a Hi and a Goodbye

                          TIME: Between a Hi and a Goodbye

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It was one of those days—quiet, reflective, and somewhat blank. You sit, fingers poised above the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike, but your mind feels like a paused clock. Ideas that once flowed freely now seem to have taken a long vacation.

And when that happens, there's only one place I turn to: my archive of old thoughts, scribbles, half-written poems, and emotional outbursts frozen in words. On this particular day, I found something special—something I wrote back in 2013.

It was raw, hesitant, and deeply personal. At that time, I was unsure whether to even share it. The introvert in me whispered, “Why risk the judgment?” The perfectionist in me muttered, “It’s not good enough.” And the self-doubter asked, “Who’ll even read this?”

But another voice—one that has grown louder over the years—answered, “Why not?”

If someone reads it and smiles, isn’t that worth it?
If someone sees their own reflection in my words, haven’t I connected?
If I am not here one day, and these words remain, won’t they keep me alive in a way?

So here it is. The poem I wrote on an ordinary workday in 2013, when I dared to be different for a moment:

TIME

TIME to say HI
TIME to say GOODBYE
TIME we live in between HI to BYE
is just a TIME… that goes like a blink of an EYE.

TIME we came to the earth,
Till the TIME we stand by our own,
TIME we stand to walk, till we run full grown.

TIME we cross teenage to reach Adulthood,
TIME we grow, still searching for “what is good?”

TIME we pause and think…
“What have I achieved?”
“What have I made?”
“What should I have done?”

TIME and AGAIN, the “WHAT I” questions return...
And by the TIME “WHAT I” finds answers,
TIME whispers — “Your TIME is up… Please pack, and move on.”

GOODBYE...

TIME moves on.
TIME moves on...
But the “I”… is gone.

The Meaning Behind the Poem

At first glance, you may ask — Why so much about TIME? Why so repetitive? What is this really about?

Let me explain.

This poem is a metaphor for life. A life that begins with a simple “Hi” — the cry of a newborn. It then travels through milestones: walking, talking, playing, learning, failing, winning, loving, grieving… until one day, it ends with a “Goodbye.”

Everything we experience — childhood innocence, teenage rebellion, adult responsibilities — it all happens in the short blink that is life. Think of it: in the cosmic calendar, our entire life is less than a heartbeat. So what truly matters?

Not money. Not medals. Not promotions.
But memories. And moments. And meaning.

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“What Have I Done?” — A Story from the Mirror

Let me tell you a story that brings this thought home.

There was an elderly man named Murthy. He lived alone in a quiet house filled with old photographs and unsaid words. One day, a curious neighborhood boy visited him.

“Uncle, what do you do the whole day?” the boy asked.

Murthy smiled. “I talk to time.”

The boy frowned. “Huh?”

Murthy walked to a shelf and picked up an old black-and-white photo.

“This,” he said, “is me when I graduated top of my class.”

He then pointed to another. “This was when I met the love of my life. We danced in the rain that day.”

Photo after photo, he described memories — some joyful, some painful, but all real.

The boy, still confused, asked, “So you don’t feel bored? Living alone?”

Murthy looked at the clock and replied, “I’ve lived so much that now, I just sit and remember. That’s enough.”

The boy didn’t understand it fully then, but years later, when he stood at Murthy’s empty house after his passing, he whispered, “Now I get it.”

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What Is the “What I” Moment?

We all, at some point, confront that silent self-inquiry:

• What have I achieved?

• What legacy will I leave behind?

• What did I miss chasing things that didn’t matter?

And the irony is, many find answers when time is no longer a luxury. When youth fades. When ambition dims. When silence is no longer peaceful but deafening.

We run behind goals, fame, promotions, and numbers. But in the end, all we truly leave behind is a story.

Your story is your "What I" moment.

So write it well.

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Everyone’s Timeline Is Different

Some people achieve greatness at 21. Others bloom at 60. Some support from behind the curtain. Some shine in the spotlight. But no role is smaller than the other.

Think of a movie. The hero may steal the screen, but it’s the supporting cast, the crew, the writer, the editor — all working in tandem — who make the story meaningful.

That’s life. You may not always be the star, but your part is vital.

Even if you only light one lamp in someone’s darkness, you’ve mattered.

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Why I Finally Shared This

Back in 2013, I never imagined that I would write blogs or tell stories. I had doubts about my English. I worried if people would laugh at my thoughts. I feared that I’d be labeled too emotional or too abstract.

But over the years, I realized: words are not for validation, they are for expression.

One blog may not change the world.
But it might change someone's world.

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TIME… and Legacy

Someday, I may not be here. That’s just reality.
But if someone reads these blogs years later, and smiles — that’s my legacy.
If someone says, “This reminded me of my childhood,” — I’ve succeeded.
If someone wipes a tear or bursts into laughter — I’ve lived, truly.

Your digital words might outlive your physical presence.

So write. Share. Express. Speak.
Because Time is listening.

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Final Thoughts: Your TIME Is Now

If you're reading this today, pause for a moment.

Look at your life.

Ask yourself: What have I done that truly mattered?

Don't wait for the perfect time to start something. There's no such thing.
Start with broken words. Hesitant steps. Unpolished emotions.
Start anyway.

Because someday, your “Hi” will meet its “Goodbye.”
And in between, make it count.

Let your memories outlive you.
Let your moments become someone else’s meaning.
Let your TIME… be remembered.

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