The day I learned to breathe again

Sanjeev Suri

Updated At : 04:14 AM Feb 27, 2026 IST

A squally wind shook the windows before dawn. Somewhere between a dream and a worry, I woke up. The room was cold. My phone lay beside me, glowing faintly — resting off my breast like a small, obedient heart. For once, I did not reach for it. I wrapped myself in a shawl and stepped outside. A phantom light from distant lamps rimmed roofs and branches. Mossy trees leaned quietly over the footpath.

I walked without purpose. For months, my days had been filled and empty at the same time —meetings, messages, deadlines. My mind played dissonant music: half-remembered promises, unreturned calls. I functioned efficiently like a well-maintained machine, but I was no longer certain I was fully alive.

Near the park gate, I noticed a woman standing alone. She was middle-aged, dressed simply, holding a small cloth bag. In one hand, she carried a notebook; in the other, a pen. She was writing something while watching the sky. Out of curiosity, I slowed down. “Good morning,” I said. She looked up and smiled: “It is, if you notice it.”

We stood together as clouds thinned and colour spread quietly across the horizon. She closed her notebook. “I come here every day,” she said, “to write one sentence.”

“About what?” I asked.

“About what made me feel alive yesterday.”

I laughed softly. “Only one sentence?”

“Yes,” she replied. "Anything more becomes an excuse.”

She told me that three years earlier, she had survived cancer. Hospitals, medicines, fear, waiting — life had been reduced to numbers and reports. When she returned home, she realised something frightening. “I was alive,” she said, “but I didn’t know why.” So she began this ritual. Each morning, one sentence. Each day, one honest reason to exist.

She opened the notebook and showed me a page. Yesterday’s line read: Watched my grandson learn to tie his shoelaces. Nothing dramatic. Everything precious.

We walked together for a while. The air reverberated with birds’ cries. A tea stall opened. The city stretched itself awake. Even the mossy trees seemed more attentive. Before leaving, she said, “We take care of our bodies, our homes, our careers. Rarely do we take care of our meaning.” I watched her walk away.

When I returned home, the television was blaring. Messages were waiting. The world wanted my attention back. I did not give it immediately. Instead, I picked up a notebook. That day, I wrote the first sentence: Stood under a winter sky and remembered I was more than my schedule.

Since then, I write every morning. Some days, the sentence is small. Some days, it is brave. Some days, it is uncomfortable. But it reminds me that I am not merely surviving. I am choosing. And that, perhaps, is what it truly means to be a moral being — not perfection, not success, not applause — but the courage to live deliberately. Even when no one is watching.

The writer teaches English at MCM DAV College, Kangra

The day I learned to breathe again

Sanjeev Suri

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