Writing on Water: The Fragile Line Called Life

 Writing on Water: The Fragile Line Called Life

Between birth and death lies a line. That line is called life.

It might be straight for some—steady, predictable, undisturbed. For others, it curves and bends through unexpected twists. Sometimes it plateaus, stretching flat and still, as if waiting for something to happen. But no matter its shape, it remains a line. The distance between the two points may be long or short, shaped by circumstance, by the care we take, by luck or fate. But the truth remains unchanged: the gap between arrival and departure is all we ever truly have.

And yet, most of our lives are like writing on water.

For a moment, the strokes create ripples—beautiful, alive, visible. But soon, the surface calms, and the writing disappears. The water forgets. And so does the world. We come and go, like the billions who lived before us, leaving behind nothing but a fleeting disturbance on the surface of time.

Knowing this—truly knowing it—you would think we might live softly.

But we don't.

We are fuzzy with worry. We burn with anger. We simmer in jealousy, drown in annoyance, and nurse hostility like a fragile flame. We carry hate as if it were a shield. The list of what disturbs our peace is endless, even though we are not a line that stretches forever.

Think about it. Our names were given by someone who will also one day be forgotten. Our bodies, when we go, will be washed and dressed and disposed of by someone else. We will take nothing with us. Not the wealth we defended. Not the borders we drew. Not the religion we were born into, the caste we never chose, the nationality that was thrust upon us like a borrowed coat. None of it was ours to begin with. And yet, people kill for these things. They die for them. What a brutal, senseless act—to destroy a line for something written on water.

Once we truly realise that we are just temporary inscriptions on an infinite surface, something shifts. The qualities that disturb our line—the anger, the envy, the hostility—begin to dissolve. Not because we become weak, but because we finally understand what is worth carrying and what is not.

Let us not forget: years after we depart, even our own families will move on. The world has witnessed great thinkers, philosophers, scientists, poets whose names echo through centuries. And yet, we only remember the few who remain relevant to our time. The rest? They too came and they too left.

 

Most of us live quietly—for our families, for ourselves. We earn. We save. We might leave behind some wealth, a house, a few photographs. But these majorities—these billions of ordinary lives—have no reason to be remembered or cherished by the world. They simply came. And they simply left.

But that is not a tragedy. That is the truth.

And knowing this truth, if we can still choose to live with harmony, to offer love where there could be hate, to extend peace where there could be conflict—then that will be a better life. Not a longer line. Not a more famous one. Just a better one.

For the rest of the years we have in our hands, let us write gently on the water. Let the ripples be kind.

M.L. Narendra Kumar