Time has quietly become a luxury. And we don’t even question it anymore. We just accept it, negotiate with it, stretch it, complain about it.

Kumari didi, my helping hand, often says, “Didi, do minute toh baitho.” And I just smile. Even those two minutes feel like something I have to earn. Or worse, postpone.

We say we don’t have enough of it. We chase it between deadlines, emails, WhatsApp pings, and the constant need to respond. Everything feels urgent. Everything feels like it cannot wait. And somewhere in that rush, we forget what it actually feels like to have time at all.

And then I think of Naghma. She is no more. She used to watch me rush through everything, almost amused, almost concerned. There was a calm in her I never quite had. From her, I learnt something simple and rare. To pause. To pray for others.

Maybe that is what I miss the most today. Not just her, but that unhurried way of being.

To write something meaningful, to build a story that has depth and not just noise, you need time. Not just hours carved out of a busy schedule, but unclaimed, unhurried time. The kind where a thought is allowed to sit, wander, return, and reshape itself.

Because writing is not just about putting words together. It is about allowing something to grow inside you before it finds its way onto the page. That part cannot be rushed. No matter how much we try, or pretend otherwise.

But the world we live in today has very little patience for that kind of process. Everything demands immediacy. Quick responses. Quick opinions. Quick conclusions. Even thoughts are expected to arrive fully formed, as if reflection is some indulgence we can no longer afford.

And slowly, without realising it, we begin to deny ourselves the very space that makes our words, and our lives, meaningful.

Restful thinking is not laziness. It is a discipline. It is the ability to pause without guilt, to step back without feeling left behind. It sounds simple. It isn’t.

In fact, it is becoming harder.

When the mind is not constantly pushed to produce, it begins to notice things it would otherwise miss. Small details. Subtle emotions. The quiet shifts in people and situations. This noticing is where writing gets its texture. It is also where life gets its depth.

But we don’t give ourselves that chance anymore.

Good stories are rarely born out of urgency. They come from stillness. From moments where you are not trying too hard to say something, but are instead trying to understand something.

The same is true for how we live. When we allow ourselves time to think, our responses soften. Our conversations become less reactive, more considered. Even our relationships feel a little easier, a little less strained.

And yet, there is a strange contradiction we live with.

We write endlessly about slowing down. We admire the idea of balance, of mindful living, of doing less but doing it well. These ideas sound wise. They sound aspirational. They look good in columns, in books, in conversations.

But in our own lives, we resist them.

We fill our days so we don’t have to sit with ourselves. We equate busyness with importance. There is comfort in saying we are occupied, constantly engaged, always doing something. It gives us a sense of purpose, even when that purpose is thin.

And maybe that is the uncomfortable truth. It is not just the world rushing us. We are also choosing the rush.

To do less feels unfamiliar. Almost uncomfortable. As if we are stepping away from something essential.

But doing less is not about withdrawal. It is about choosing depth over volume. It is about allowing a few things to matter fully, instead of many things barely.

When you slow down, you are not losing time. You are, in a way, reclaiming it.

Perhaps the real issue is not that time is scarce, but that we have stopped giving ourselves permission to experience it differently. We measure it, optimise it, schedule it, but rarely inhabit it.

We are present everywhere except in our own thoughts. And that should worry us more than it does.

Maybe the shift is not about finding more time. It is about trusting that the time we already have can be enough. To sit with an idea a little longer. To not rush to respond. To let silence do some of the work.

Because in the end, the stories that stay with us, the decisions we don’t regret, and the connections that feel real all come from a place that cannot be hurried.

Time, then, is not just a resource. It is a way of being.

And perhaps the quiet courage lies in choosing to slow down, even when everything around us is moving faster.