Meals have a way of bringing people together — laughter, chatter, and the comforting rhythm of serving and sharing. Yet, even around the same dining table, it’s fascinating how different we all are. One meal, one moment, yet so many unique choices on every plate. Isn’t life a bit like that too?

Have you ever noticed how, at a dinner table, everyone reaches out for something different?
Someone can’t eat without Tabasco sauce.
Someone else wants just a spoon of curd to cool things down.
Another loves that tangy pickle bite with every morsel, while one insists the food tastes best plain, unaltered.

A family of four — and four different taste buds.

Same dish.
Different condiments.
Different preferences.

That’s exactly how life is.
We all have the same gift — one life — yet each one of us chooses to flavour it differently.

Some chase success like spice — the more intense, the better.
Some crave peace — like a soft dollop of thick yoghurt gently layered over everything to keep cool.
Some need excitement, change, and a dash of adventure — they’re the ones who love the tangy zest in every moment.
And some, quietly and steadily, prefer life simple — wholesome, steady, uncomplicated.

But the beauty lies in this very difference.
Imagine if everyone liked the same condiment — the same path, same dream, same routine.
How dull that table would look!

A friend of mine finds joy in growing plants and spending evenings talking to them.
Another feels alive only when she’s traveling and meeting new people.
One works tirelessly toward building her business empire; another is happiest when she’s home with her kids, cooking their favourite meal.

None of them are wrong.
They’re just choosing their own flavour.

The trouble begins when we start comparing our plates.
When we look at someone else’s “toppings” and feel ours are less.
When we forget that the dish was meant to be savoured our way — not judged by someone else’s taste.

Maybe life isn’t about finding the perfect recipe.
It’s about discovering what condiment makes your dish come alive — and owning that choice without apology.

After all, one dish can feed many,
but one flavour never satisfies all.

Live your life like your favourite meal — with the condiments that make your heart happy.
Let others enjoy theirs their way.

Some stories never get spoken aloud, yet they live forever in a mother’s heart. This one is for the babies who couldn’t stay — and the mothers who carry them in silence and strength.

It doesn’t matter how small the life was. Once a mother knows there’s a baby growing inside her, she begins to dream. She talks to her baby in her thoughts. She plans, she hopes and prays. When things don’t go right -health fails, or when the baby’s growth slows,her world quietly falls apart.

Some mothers lose their babies because the little one couldn’t survive.
Some because their own body was too weak to carry on.
Some are told it’s safer to let go — for their own life.
None of them ever forget that moment.

There are no congratulations, no tiny clothes waiting at home, no visitors with smiles — only silence and ache. Yet deep inside, that love never ends.

To every mother who went through this pain — you are not alone.
You are a mother, even if your baby couldn’t stay.
Your love, tears and strength they all matter.

The world may forget the day but a
mother never does and with time, she

learns to smile again — softly, bravely.
Love like that never truly ends,
it just finds a quieter place to live inside her heart.

We had some errands to run around our old area, and by the time we wrapped up our shopping, exhaustion and hunger took over. Though lunch was ready at home, we decided to give in to our craving and stop by our favorite Chinese restaurant — Imperial Dragon.

It was the weekend, yet the restaurant was relatively empty. Parking, however, was still a mini adventure! As we entered, we couldn’t help but notice the décor — bright red buntings, tiny Chinese dolls, and plush chair cushions, all bathed in varying shades of red that gave the place a festive glow. The interiors were a thoughtful blend of tradition and modernity — red, black, and gold intertwined to symbolize good fortune, warmth, and understated sophistication.

Inside, the air carried the faint scent of soya and ginger, mingling with the irresistible aroma of sizzling garlic from the kitchen.

We settled into a cozy corner and skimmed through the menu, more out of habit than curiosity — we already knew what we wanted. As we waited for our food, two elderly ladies — perhaps in their late sixties — walked in.

In the center of the dining area stood a long, “Last Supper”–style table, with multiple tables joined together. The ladies took their seats there, and within minutes, the quiet restaurant transformed. Giggles, cheerful voices, and animated conversations filled the air.

One by one, more women joined — silver hair, freckles, glasses, walking sticks, and the kind of grace only time can gift. Their joy on seeing one another was infectious. Soon, the restaurant sounded like a bustling marketplace — laughter echoing, hands reaching out for hugs, gentle teasing, and bursts of applause.

I couldn’t stop watching them from the corner of my eye. There they were — elegantly dressed in soft-hued salwar kameezes, lost in their little world, radiating warmth, comfort, and friendship. Fun truly has no age limit.

And then came the best part.

The restaurant manager — an elderly Chinese gentleman, probably in his seventies — happened to walk past their table. One of the ladies tapped his arm and exclaimed, “Weren’t you in the other outlet about fifteen years ago?”

He smiled, pleasantly surprised. “Yes, yes!” he replied.

The lady beamed like she had just won a prize. “See, I told you!” she announced proudly to her friends.

What followed was a burst of chatter as all the ladies started talking to him at once. The poor man was blushing pink from all the attention. As he walked away, he grinned and said, “Enjoy your lunch, ladies” — and we could tell he meant it.

Soon, their conversation drifted to how long they had lived in Dubai — most had been here for 45 to 50 years.

Somewhere between their laughter and stories, I realized I had overeaten. Maybe it was the food, but I think it was the joy of watching those beautiful souls — still full of life, friendship, and childlike cheer.

I smiled to myself, thinking — that’s exactly how I want to grow old.

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As a silent observer I would like to say –

Moments like these remind me that joy doesn’t belong to the young — it belongs to the spirited. Age might line our faces, slow our steps, and change our rhythm, but laughter, friendship, and warmth keep the heart forever young.
Watching those ladies made me believe that the real art of living lies in celebrating ordinary afternoons — in laughter that spills freely, in stories that refuse to fade, and in hearts that never forget how to find joy in simple things.

We are all different.
We are brought up differently — by different parents, in different homes, surrounded by different experiences.
And because of that, we are all wired differently.

Each of us carries our own little quirks — habits that may seem small but shape how we connect, how we react, how we show up in the world.

One such quirk of mine is that I don’t handle surprises very well.
I get overwhelmed, embarrassed, and often turn shy when someone surprises me.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture — I do — but in that moment, emotions take over and I don’t know how to react.

Ironically, I love giving surprises.
I love watching that sparkle in someone’s eyes, that burst of joy, the smile that can’t be faked.
There’s something magical about witnessing genuine happiness unfold in front of you.

Then there’s another part of me — I get anxious meeting new people.
So before meeting someone for the first time, I quietly do a bit of homework.
I try to learn a little about their work, their interests, or something they care about.
Not much, just enough to strike the right chord.
And if I sense there’s a topic that might make them uncomfortable, I make sure to stay away from it.
Because for me, a conversation should make someone feel lighter, not burdened.

Over the years, I’ve realized something else about myself —
I have very little curiosity.
I don’t ask too many questions, nor do I nudge people to reply if I sense they aren’t comfortable.
I can change the topic at the drop of a hat, even if the conversation wasn’t directed at me, just to save someone from feeling exposed.
Reading faces and gestures comes naturally to me — a slight shift in tone, a pause, or an uneasy smile, and I know it’s time to steer things elsewhere.
It’s almost like my heart reads the room before my mind does.

I genuinely love people. I love conversations that have depth, that make you feel seen.
I’ve realized that the way a conversation begins often decides how the bond unfolds.
When the chord strikes right, it’s effortless — it flows naturally.
And sometimes, a simple first meeting turns into a lifelong friendship.

Relationships mean the world to me.
They are what keep me grounded and whole.

There’s another side to me — one that doesn’t surface often, but when it does, it is unwavering.I stand firmly for my integrity, my family, and my closest friends.Anyone who tries to cross that line quickly realizes that I don’t tolerate disrespect.In those moments, I don’t think about who is in front of me — what matters is that respect is never compromised.There is a quiet, unmistakable shift in me when someone challenges my self-respect or oversteps boundaries.It’s not anger for its own sake, but a clear reminder that dignity and love are non-negotiable.

There are also times when I’ve been caught off guard, moments when I couldn’t pull it off as gracefully as I would have liked.
I may have smiled through it all, but once home, I need to clear my system.
Talking about it helps me breathe again.

It’s something that began in childhood.
My father was the first person I would talk to about everything — every small joy, every awkward moment, every silly fear.
He never judged. He just listened.
And that made all the difference.

After he passed away, that habit stayed with me.
Now, it’s my mother or my partner who hears me out.
Sometimes they understand, sometimes they don’t — but the need to talk, to express, to release, always remains.

Because that’s me — someone who feels deeply, who stands tall for what matters, and who believes that every person we meet adds a small story to our life.

We all have our ways of connecting.
Some do it with ease, some take their time.
Some express with words, others through silence.
And maybe that’s what makes each of us beautifully unique — our wiring, our little ways of feeling and expressing love.

So, if you ever find yourself reacting differently than others — don’t be too harsh on yourself.
Maybe that’s just your wiring.
And maybe, that’s exactly what makes you you.

In many homes, there’s one who shines — the confident, charming, ever-energetic partner who lights up every room. The one everyone admires, praises, and turns to when something good happens. “Oh, this must be their doing,” they say.

And then there’s the other one — the quiet constant.
The one who plans, nurtures, manages, and holds it all together, not for applause, but because it needs to be done. They’re the backbone no one sees — the calm beneath the chaos, the invisible thread that keeps everything from falling apart.

But after a while, invisibility begins to hurt.
Not being seen, not being thanked, not being remembered… it chips away at your sense of worth. You start to wonder if your presence matters beyond the roles you play — if anyone notices the countless things you do, or the weight you quietly carry so someone else can shine.Not out of a desire for attention, but because being unseen for too long can feel lonely.

It’s not always anyone’s fault — some people are born to be seen, others to make things happen quietly. But when the balance tilts too much, one becomes the story, while the other becomes a footnote.

And that’s where relationships need tenderness. Because love isn’t about who shines brighter — it’s about how both lights glow together.

✨ Every success has a silent pillar behind it. The world may applaud the one in the spotlight, but it’s the unseen strength that truly holds the home.
In the end, love and respect grow not from visibility, but from acknowledgment — a quiet “I see you,” that means more than a thousand cheers.

To the ones who hold everything together in silence — you may not seek the spotlight, but your light fills the room in ways words never could.

Close your eyes and step back in time.
It’s the 80s or 90s.
You’re that little child again — waking up to the whistle of the cooker, the smell of filter coffee, and your mother’s gentle voice calling out your name.
You can almost hear the radio playing in the background and the soft pages of the newspaper turning.

Morning Then

There’s only one washroom in the house, yet somehow everyone is ready on time.
No shouting, no rushing — just a rhythm that flowed with love.
Father reads the newspaper, mother flips an omelette, and you get ready for school while listening to their chatter.

Everyone knew what was happening in the world — not from a phone, but from the morning paper and word of mouth.
Conversations started at home and continued in buses and trains.
Even strangers spoke with ease.

And when school ended, you waited — that moment when you’d see a familiar face at the gate, ready to walk you home.

Morning Now

Fast forward to today.
You’re the parent now.
Every bedroom has its own bathroom, yet everyone’s running late.
Someone’s on a call, someone’s scrolling, someone’s skipping breakfast.
Even when everyone’s awake, the house feels silent.

You rush through your morning, unaware that your child is quietly watching you — waiting for you to look up, smile, say a few words.
Just like you once waited for your parents to hold your hand and walk beside you.

Evening Then

Evenings had a charm of their own.
The sound of the key turning in the door was the most awaited moment of the day — Papa is home!
You ran to the door, eyes on his shirt pocket.
There it was — a thin Dairy Milk wrapped in lavender foil, half peeking out.

Some days it was peanuts or roasted chana from a train vendor.
If your mother worked, she too came home with a small paper packet — accessories  (earrings ,hair clips) from the vendors who come to sell in the ladies compartment of the Mumbai trains.

That tiny packet carried more joy than any gift today.
It wasn’t about the chocolate or gift — it was about the waiting, the love, and that moment of being seen.

Evening Now

Now, you’re the one walking in after work — with AirPods in your ears or a phone pressed to your face.
Your child waits, hoping for a smile, maybe a story.
You hand over a small gift or leave it on the table — because you’re “still on a call.”
You don’t even pause to see that sparkle in their eyes, that joy you once lived for.

It’s not that today’s parents don’t love or surprise their kids — they do.
But somewhere, we’ve forgotten that the real gift isn’t the toy or chocolate — it’s time.

The same child who once waited for you at the door now learns to wait quietly — for you to get free, for you to look up.
Why aren’t we able to give them the same luxury of time that our parents gave us so effortlessly?

Homework and Home

Back then, parents remembered everything — PTMs, fancy dress days, annual functions, exams.
No reminders, no WhatsApp groups — just love and involvement.
They helped with homework, made costumes, taught us songs, and explained sums patiently.

Now, we have reminders, calendars, and class reps sending ten messages — yet something’s missing.
We outsource everything: food, tuition, hobbies, even affection.
Earlier, our aunts, grandparents, and parents passed down talents — from stitching to singing, from gardening to storytelling.
Today, it’s a paid class, an online course, or an app.

We had less money but more togetherness.
Now we have more convenience, but less connection.

Weekends Then

Sundays were a festival of their own.
A tiffin carrier filled with meethi poori or poori and sukhi aloo sabji , sukhi bhel, and lemon rice or tamarind rice.How can we forget the flask that carried tea (some of those flasks had two lids one smaller than the other both worked as cups).
An old mat,newspaper,a few bottles of water, and a bunch of excited faces ready to go to the beach, park, or zoo.

We took two buses, one auto, and walked long stretches — but no one complained.
We shared snacks, laughed loudly, and came home tired but happy.

Weekends Now

Today, before even planning an outing, we ask, “Will there be parking?”
By the time we check reviews, traffic, and crowd, the plan is cancelled.
Our kids wait — not for a new place, but for our company.
But we’re too busy “managing time,” while they’re silently longing for it.

Even a diamond today can’t bring the kind of joy that a five-rupee Dairy Milk once did.

Food and Family

We knew exactly what our mothers made best — that one curry or chutney only she could get right.
We knew our grandmother’s special dish, which aunt’s pickles were famous, and what our father loved to cook on weekends.
There was effort, warmth, and emotion in every meal.

Today, food still comes — but often from a cook, a swiggy, or Talabat.
We’ve stopped stirring love into our pots; we just outsource the flavour of home.

No wonder food fills our stomachs but not our hearts anymore.

Home Then

We never called before visiting friends or relatives.
We just showed up — rang the bell, were welcomed with chai, snacks, and endless talk.
No one asked “Why didn’t you call?” — love didn’t need appointments.

Home Now

Now we check before calling, schedule before meeting, and often postpone altogether.
Our children rarely see relatives except on birthdays or screens.
We’ve built larger houses but smaller worlds.

Health Then vs Now

Our parents didn’t go to gyms.
They walked, carried, climbed, cleaned — and stayed healthy.
They didn’t know about “steps per day,” yet they slept well and laughed more.

Now, blood pressure and diabetes knock early at our doors.
We track everything on smartwatches but can’t track peace of mind.
Maybe health was simpler when happiness came free.

What Really Changed

We were once the kids waiting by the door.
Now, we are the parents our children wait for.
Back then, love was given in time.
Now, it’s wrapped in gifts.

Our parents gave us moments that built memories.
We give our kids things that get replaced.

Maybe it’s not the times that changed — it’s us.
We moved faster, worked harder, earned more — but felt less.
In chasing success, we lost slow sunsets, shared snacks, and silent hugs.

Closing Thought

We are the same children who once waited for that lavender-foil Dairy Milk.
Now we are the parents whose children wait for us to get off our phones.

If only we paused — to look up, to smile, to listen — we could give them the same warmth we once received.
Because the real gift is not what’s in your hand — it’s you.

Happiness hasn’t changed.
It still lives in the same place — inside those moments we choose to share.

✨ Author’s Note — Abstracts by Anita

For the children who once waited at the door, and the parents whose children now do — this one’s for you.
We can’t bring back the 80s or 90s, but we can bring back what made them special — time, presence, and love that didn’t need reminders.

Do share your fond memories of childhood with your parents 💛

For the friends who became home, and the years that shaped our hearts

As we find ourselves in our mid-forties, life feels quieter — not empty, but filled with a gentle awareness that comes from seeing too much, feeling too deeply, and learning what truly matters.
We’ve travelled far from those carefree days, yet sometimes, in the stillness of an evening, a memory drifts in — and for a fleeting moment, we are children again.

Our parents, once the centre of our world, have aged before our eyes.
The same hands that guided us now tremble slightly; the voices that called us home sound softer.
Some of us see them every day, noticing their slow shuffle; some hear them only through memories; and some live with the silence their absence leaves behind.

It’s a tender ache — one that makes us pause.
And in that pause, our hearts travel back to where it all began — to the people who made our growing-up years unforgettable.

We were more than just childhood friends.
We were the companions who walked beside each other through scraped knees, shared lunches, last-bench laughter, and borrowed pencils.
We were an extended family — the family we didn’t choose, but were gifted with.
We grew up in each other’s homes — borrowing books, eating our favourite meals (every home was ours, every mother was ours), and sometimes even getting scolded by each other’s parents.
There was no difference between “your house” and “mine.”
Every door was open, every mother was our mother, every father had a word of advice for us.
Our homes were one big circle of comfort; our parents, interchangeable; our hearts — fearless and open.

Today, life looks different.
We are spread across cities and countries, leading our own lives, caught in our own storms.
We have phones full of contacts, yet fewer voices we truly lean on.
Technology has brought us closer — WhatsApp, the modern telegram, keeps us just a ping away,
and social media lets us peek into each other’s lives from afar.
But the warmth of those unspoken moments — the touch on the shoulder, the laughter echoing down the street, the comfort of someone who just understood — that’s something no app can ever replace.

Sometimes I feel an urge so strong — to gather them all again.
To plan a trip, once a year maybe.
To sit together, barefoot on the sands of memory, talking about everything and nothing,
sharing stories, tears, and laughter that time couldn’t steal.
To tell them that their pain isn’t theirs alone — it’s mine too.
When they lost a parent, a part of my childhood left too.
Their heartbreaks ache within me, because what was once theirs was always ours.

And maybe, when we meet, we’ll hold hands like before — not because we need to,
but because that’s what love feels like after all these years — quiet, wordless, and deeply understood.

Friendship like ours doesn’t fade.
It simply changes form — waiting, watching, remembering.
And when life feels too heavy, all it takes is one familiar voice, one shared memory, to remind us that time has not taken everything.

The truth is — we never really moved on.
We just grew up, carrying each other in different ways.
And someday, when we sit together again, it will feel as though the years folded back softly —
and nothing, absolutely nothing, ever changed.

Some bonds don’t belong to time — they belong to the heart,
and that’s where they will live forever, whispering our laughter into every quiet corner of our lives,
long after we have left.

🌸 The 80s – When Life Was Simple and Hearts Were Fuller

In the 80s, life was uncomplicated — slow, steady, and beautifully predictable.
When the light went off, we didn’t sigh — we played word-building.
No Wi-Fi, no gadgets — just imagination and laughter echoing through dark rooms.
We proudly called it constructive play long before that became a fancy phrase.

Our school tiffins were filled with poha or upma, warm and fragrant inside steel boxes that held more love than food.
Mothers always packed a little extra — “for your friends.”
Because friendship wasn’t about selfies or posts; it was about sharing your tiffin.

Combined studies were the best kind of group projects — at someone’s home or on the common terrace under dim tube lights.
We’d bet on which questions would appear in the exam.
Some guesses hit, some didn’t, but the snacks never disappointed.

Birthdays were community events.
We’d all chip in coins to buy one greeting card that proudly said “From All of Us.”
The gifts were small but chosen with heart — often that one thing the birthday kid had secretly been wishing for.

We had fights, of course.
But reconciliation was easy.
We didn’t know the word ego — we only knew letting go.

Evenings were noisy in the best way — calling out each other’s names till someone shouted back.
We made our own games, our own rules, our own fun.
Those were the innocent days — when the world was smaller, but hearts were so much bigger.

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📺 The 90s – When Change Slowly Slipped In

Then came the 90s.
Cable TV arrived, and suddenly, life had more colours — and a few more comparisons.
Some families became more comfortable, some stayed the same.
Where once every home looked and felt alike, small differences began to show.

The group that once played together started forming smaller circles.
Conversations changed; priorities shifted.
Yet, deep down, the bond was still there — just buried under teenage pride and growing awareness.

There were more channels, more shows, and fewer common topics.
The innocence began to fade quietly — like the sound of the Doordarshan signature tune disappearing into static.

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💻 The 2000s – The Millennial Drift

Then came the millennium — the great scatter.
We finished studies, took up jobs, and moved to different cities.
Some got married early, some later — each walking their own path, building their own lives.

Drifting wasn’t intentional; it just happened.
Careers took over, responsibilities grew, and time flew faster than we could catch it.

WhatsApp groups replaced street calls.
“Happy Birthday” messages arrived with confetti emojis.
Once-a-year meetups became our new version of togetherness.
And yet, every reunion carried that same old warmth — one hug, one laugh, and we were kids again.

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🕰️ The Present – When Nostalgia Heals

And now… here we are.
The body has started sending reminders of time passing.
Some of us have grown bigger, some older, some stronger — all a little more fragile inside.
Mornings begin with pills instead of plans.
We juggle grown-up kids, demanding jobs, and the quiet ache of memories.

But every now and then, a photo, a name, or the smell of upma brings it all rushing back —
those golden years of friendship.

I wish those days would return — when we could just step out, shout a name, and friends would appear within minutes.
When one person’s problem became everyone’s problem.
When we’d say “Hum sab milke dekh lenge” — and actually mean it.

When nothing was “mine,” but everything was ours.

Those were the friendships that built us — simple, loyal, and pure.
I wish to live that once again — those carefree days without burden on the shoulders or stress in the head.
Back then, we had no pills to take — just hope, laughter, and boundless energy.

Sometimes, I still wish I could call out those names again —
tear my lungs out like before — and hear those familiar voices call back.

This one’s specially dedicated to all my friends.
I won’t take names — because once you read this, you’ll know it’s you.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be compelled to write back.

Miss you all. Always. 🥺

Somewhere between growing up and growing apart, we lost the sound of those carefree laughs echoing down familiar lanes.
But on quiet evenings, when life slows down for a moment, I still hear them — faint, warm, and close enough to touch.
Maybe that’s what true friendship is… it never really leaves; it just hides in the corners of time, waiting to be felt again.

Vacation Planning: Desi Mom vs. Gen Z Kid

Planning a vacation with a teenage kid should come with a warning label.
Because trust me — the real adventure starts before the trip even begins!

There’s me — the Desi mom — excited, planning itineraries, making lists, and already picturing those “happy family” photos.
And then there’s my Gen Z kid — half-buried inside the phone, expressionless, as if the word vacation personally offends.

When I say, “Let’s go on a trip!”
The look I get is like I’ve just announced a punishment.

Every time I say, “Let’s plan a family trip,” I get that look — somewhere between confusion and mild horror — like I just asked to uninstall Instagram.

“Hills?” — “Too much walking.”
“Beach?” — “Too sunny.”
“Resort?” — “Wi-Fi speed?”

At this point, I’m convinced the only question running in the head is —
“Do we really need to go on a vacation?” 😑

We’re having a full family discussion about travel plans, and the kid is right there — not listening, not arguing, not even pretending. Just peacefully scrolling.
A good kid, just allergic to enthusiasm.

Loves lazy days and hates being dragged into “fun.”
But still, I plan the vacation — because deep down, I know once we get there, there will be a smile… maybe at the view, or maybe when the hotel Wi-Fi finally connects.

Till then, the Desi mom in me continues the battle — armed with travel brochures, blind optimism, and a silent prayer that someday the child will say,
“Mom, let’s go somewhere!”

I’ll keep planning.
The kid will keep scrolling.
That’s our kind of family bonding. 😉

(Waiting. Still waiting. Loading…)

When it’s time to pack all the golus back, the feeling is very different.
When we unpack them before Navratri, the whole house is filled with excitement. There is so much energy — cleaning, arranging the steps, deciding which dolls go where, and remembering where each one came from. It feels like bringing stories and memories back to life.

For those who may not know, Golu (also called Kolu) is a South Indian tradition during the Navratri festival. Beautiful dolls and figurines are displayed on steps at home. Each step has a meaning — from gods and goddesses to scenes from daily life. It celebrates our culture, storytelling, and the joy of creation.

But when the festival ends, the feeling changes.
The same shelves that looked bright and colourful now start to look empty. Each doll is carefully packed and wrapped in paper and bubble wrap — one by one. It’s a slow and emotional process, as if we are putting away small pieces of happiness until next year. The sound of laughter and music slowly fades, and the house feels calm again.

Every festival brings this moment — when joy slowly turns into silence. There is a small sadness, but also peace.Festivals are like life, they remind us that every ending is only a pause before the next new beginning.