As I write this, exile by Taylor Swift and Bon Iver plays in the background — slow, haunting, and just a little too fitting. The city outside my window is still asleep, but my mind is wide awake, pulled back to that 5 AM ride through the meandering streets of Baruipur. I can almost feel the cool morning air again, hear the hum of the scooter, see the sun rising over fields so green it made my city heart ache. That morning comes back to me now like a breath I didn’t know I was holding — and maybe that’s why I’m writing this. To remember what it felt like to notice. To feel. To just be.

There’s something about living in a city that puts your soul on mute.

It’s not intentional. You don’t wake up and decide to forget the colour of the sky or the rustle of trees. But between back-to-back meetings, endless scrolling, late-night deadlines, and the buzz of notifications, life becomes one long blur. You’re surviving — maybe even thriving on paper — but somewhere along the way, you stop noticing the world around you.

A Moment That Changed Everything

It was a spontaneous 5 AM ride — the kind that only happens with someone who knew you before the noise set in. My childhood friend and I had reunited after years, and without much planning, we set off on her scooty through the meandering streets of Baruipur, a quiet suburb on the edge of Kolkata.

There was something beautifully uncurated about that morning. The streets still yawned with sleep. The air was cool and generous, untouched by the weight of the day. We rode past sleepy homes, makeshift tea stalls, ponds holding the early light, and stretches of green that looked almost unreal to my city-worn eyes.

The people, too, seemed different — slower, softer. An old man swept his doorstep with no rush in his movements. A tea stall owner, barely awake, handed us two clay cups with a silent smile, refusing to take money. That quiet hospitality felt like a warm hand on my shoulder.

And the green. The green! It wasn’t just colour — it was release. It was freedom. Trees arched over narrow lanes like guardians. Fields rolled gently, untouched by concrete ambition. In that moment, I wasn’t thinking about emails or goals or plans. I was simply… there.

That ride didn’t last forever. But that morning stayed. It reminded me that peace isn’t loud. That clarity sometimes comes without warning. And that the world is still full of moments waiting to be noticed — if only we look.

Rediscovering Wonder

Since that morning, I’ve been trying to relearn the art of noticing. Of seeking beauty in the spaces between chaos. The golden spill of sunlight on my balcony. The sound of rain tapping against my window. The rustle of leaves during a walk. The way people laugh when they don’t know you’re listening.

City life conditions us to be efficient, but not present. We begin to value productivity more than peace. But what if the real success lies in how often we can slow down and actually see what surrounds us?

Nature as a Reminder

Even in the most concrete corners of our cities, nature doesn’t give up on us. It persists — quietly, persistently — in cracks, crevices, and forgotten spaces. A stubborn weed blooming through pavement. Moss climbing up the side of an old building. Birds weaving their morning songs into the dull roar of traffic. Trees that have stood still for decades while the city changed around them.

These are not grand gestures. These are whispers.             
But they are enough.

Sometimes we wait for awe — for the kind of overwhelming beauty that takes our breath away — and in doing so, we miss the small invitations that nature sends us every day. The changing colour of the sky. The shadows of leaves dancing on a wall. The way sunlight filters through your curtain like gold dust.

We don’t need to leave the city to find beauty. We need to return to our senses — to seeing, smelling, touching, hearing, and feeling the world again. Because nature is not separate from us. It is us. And it will keep calling us home — in quiet, consistent ways — until we remember how to listen.

The Art of Noticing

The more I think about it, the more I realise that noticing is a kind of love language — for the world, and for yourself.

To notice something is to say: I am here. I see you. You matter.

But noticing takes intention. It takes choosing to look up instead of down. To sit without distraction. To be curious, not just efficient. It means giving yourself permission to pause — to be in a moment without trying to capture it, share it, or rush past it.

So I’ve been building a few quiet rituals, like planting seeds in a garden I hope will grow.
– I try to watch the sky in the evenings — not just to see if it might rain, but to actually notice the way it shifts, glows, and fades.
– I drink my morning tea by the window, not scrolling, just breathing.
– I write down one thing each day that made me feel — not perform, not achieve — just feel.

Some days, it’s the smell of someone cooking breakfast down the hall. Other days, it’s the sound of laughter drifting through my window from the neighbours’ children. Tiny things. Easy to miss. But they remind me that life is still beautiful — not in spite of its simplicity, but because of it.

Slow Down. Look Around. You’re Already Home.

We spend so much time chasing the idea of happiness, of peace, of “getting there” — wherever “there” is. But what if it’s not somewhere far ahead of us? What if it’s already here, hiding in the folds of an ordinary day?

That morning ride through Baruipur didn’t fix my life. But it helped me remember what I’ve always known deep down — that joy is not a destination. It’s a way of seeing.

So here’s to the little things.
To stolen sunrises and shared silences.
To green fields that ask for nothing and give everything.
To people who remind you that kindness doesn’t need to be loud to be real.
To the softness that still exists in a hard world.

May we never be too busy to see what’s blooming beside us. May we never lose the wonder.

Because sometimes, the life you’re looking for is already happening — quietly, gently — just waiting for you to notice.

And just like that, exile fades into silence — only to be replaced by the first few tender notes of Until I Found You by Stephen Sanchez. It feels almost poetic, like the universe is giving this piece its own quiet ending.

I sit back, rereading these words — memories and moments stitched together by stillness — and something in me softens. Maybe this is what healing looks like: not grand revelations, but soft songs, early morning rides, and tiny reminders that beauty still lives all around us.

And maybe, just maybe, in learning to appreciate the little things, we start finding the bigger ones, too.