I used to pronounce blue as ‘blyuoo’ and a friend once corrected me in the 8th grade. I still recall that interaction every time I say the word blue.

Someone I greatly admired used to put a few dots in between sentences while typing instead of commas or full stops. I’m not sure when I picked up the habit, but I still do it today.

A friend taught me how to play snooker. There are a thousand ways my game differs from his but my cue stick still follows through after hitting the ball exactly the same way he taught me.

I don’t know what gives life meaning but I’ve started to realise what gives it beauty – the people around us.

These are the souvenirs I’ve subconsciously collected along the way of life. They are a part of me and make me as much as the blood that runs through my veins.

My childhood home had a steep railway over-bridge nearby. It was a critical bridge for a very busy market area that had relentless traffic most hours of the day. Back then, there were far more pedal rikshaws to transport heavy goods. I must have walked across that bridge with my beloved grandfather a thousand times when I was little. Many a times he would stop and push the struggling rikshaws whose driver would be huffing for breath while pulling it through the steep slope. My Grandfather died in my teens and I must have crossed the same bridge a thousand more times since then. And every time I’ve seen a struggling vehicle on those tricky slopes I rush to help them uninvited – mostly out of habit rather than intention. That’s the influence he’s had over me.

Every time I do something good and kind, I remember him. I like to believe he lives inside me through that kindness.

People are pathological liars. They feel insecure about their selves or believe they are ugly or think that their kindness goes unnoticed.

They’ll say their existence accounts for nothing and then go on to uplift other lives permanently. They’ll literally live on in other people’s habits, values and generations and never know about it.

Billionaires often talk about legacies. Tragedy is that a common man carries generations of legacy in his very being and never realises.