By Suvir Saran
New Delhi [India], January 1 : I wake to whispers of a world wrapped in winter. The first day of January unfolds like the first page of an unwritten novel, its crisp corners creased with possibility. The morning sun stretches her slender arms, scattering shards of gold across the cool cobalt sky. My windowpane wears a veil of mist, and outside, the trees stand tall like ancient sentinels, their branches bare yet brimming with quiet resolve.
A wave of unexpected optimism washes over me as the first rays of sunlight hit my face. It's a sensation I've come to recognize as the quiet hum of a new beginning, a sense of possibility that tingles with excitement. I'm not a creature of habit, not one for routines or rituals. The idea of a steaming cup of tea and a structured morning fills me with a quiet dread. I crave the unexpected, the unknown, the thrill of the unplanned. I want to greet this new year with open arms, ready to embrace whatever it may bring - the good, the bad, and the inevitable in-between.
January 1st is a mosaic of dreams and decisions, of reflections and resolutions. The year stretches before me like an endless road, inviting my weary feet to tread paths both predictable and poetic.
But what shall I do today?
The crisp morning air beckons me to explore. I imagine myself strolling to the park down the lane, where the benches wear dew like diamonds and the air smells of wet earth and wistfulness. I envision myself sitting at my favorite cafe, a place I've never ventured to alone, nursing a cup of coffee - not out of habit, but as a gesture of embracing the unknown. I could spend the day eavesdropping on conversations, weaving fantastical stories from fragments of overheard words.
But most likely, I'll find myself drawn to my writing desk. Writing has always been my sanctuary, my mirror, my map. I'll ink my intentions, spill my stories, and etch my emotions onto paper. A letter to myself, a note to the universe, a sonnet scribbled to the seasons that lie ahead. The blank page will accept my ramblings without judgment, and for that, I'll be eternally grateful.
Or perhaps, I'll simply sit still. Watch the world as it wakes, yawns, stretches, stumbles, and starts anew. January 1st is not a sprint, after all - it's a seed, patiently waiting to sprout, to bloom, to bear fruit. In this stillness, I'll find an anchor for my restless mind, a tether to the present moment.
As the day unfolds, I will allow myself to truly see. To notice the homeless man locking eyes with me as my car whizzes past, the fleeting connection that passes between us. To acknowledge the beggar pausing at the red light, their outstretched hand a silent plea for help. Sometimes I will give, pressing a note or a coin into their hand. Other times, I will have nothing to offer but a smile, a nod of recognition, a silent wish for a kinder tomorrow.
I will make a conscious effort to connect with the Uber driver navigating me through the city's chaos. I will greet them by name, thank them for their service, and inquire about their journey. Where are they from? What brought them to this city? In the monotony of their day, I hope to leave a moment of genuine connection, a small reminder that they, too, are seen and valued.
At work, I will ensure that every interaction, no matter how brief, is meaningful. I will make a point to acknowledge the efforts of those often overlooked, the individuals whose tireless work keeps the restaurant running smoothly. I will seek them out, call them by name, express my gratitude for their contributions, and remind them that their efforts are appreciated.
And so, I will allow this day to unfold - not with a rigid plan, but with an open heart and a curious mind. Each moment will become a brushstroke on the canvas of January 1st: messy, imperfect, and vibrantly alive.
Perhaps this is the true essence of a new beginning - not a grand proclamation or a list of lofty resolutions, but a quiet surrender to the present moment. A recognition that life is a continuous journey, a series of interconnected moments, each one a precious gift. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, I step into January, not with a resounding bang, but with the gentle grace of a butterfly taking flight.
Let the year begin, not with a forced march, but with the quiet poetry of presence. (ANI/Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.