The greatest gift someone gives to me is “Presence”

What is the greatest gift someone could give you

Not just being there physically, but being truly present—listening without impatience, understanding without judgment, and staying without the need to fix or change me. A presence that allows silence, that respects my inner world, and that walks beside me even when words fall short

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Time given with sincerity is another form of this gift. Time that is not hurried, not distracted, not transactional. Time that says, “You matter enough for me to pause my life.”

Trust is part of it too—the freedom to be myself without wearing a mask, to share doubts without fear, to think aloud and even be wrong. When someone trusts me with their truth and honors mine, it feels like a rare and sacred exchange.

Above all, the greatest gift is recognition—to be seen as I am, not as I should be. When someone recognizes my journey, my struggles, my quiet efforts, and still chooses to stay, that gift lasts longer than any object ever could.

Such gifts don’t fade with time.
They grow deeper.

The university and Library

What colleges have you attended?

I entered university for my graduation after completing my 11th standard. It felt like moving from a tightly disciplined space into a world that breathed freedom. There was no constant pressure about attendance, no management interference in daily movement. That freedom was unfamiliar at first, but slowly it became comforting.

Reserve section

What truly anchored me during those years was the library. It was large, quiet, and deeply inviting. I spent hours there—sometimes two, sometimes five—mostly in the reserve section. Time behaved differently inside that space. I wasn’t reading only what my course demanded; I followed curiosity wherever it led. Philosophy, science, history—books far beyond the syllabus quietly shaped my inner world.
Looking back, those library hours feel like a golden period of my life. Learning was not an obligation then; it was a private joy. I used that freedom as fully as I could, and whatever depth I carry today was first nurtured in those silent aisles among unread spines and borrowed wisdom.

Play time means permission to pause seriousness

Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?

I do play in my daily life, though my play does not look like games or fields. My play happens in moments—when I let curiosity wander without purpose, when I smile at a small absurdity, when I listen to an old song and allow memory to arrive without resistance. Play, for me, is not escape from life; it is a lighter way of entering it.

Playtime means permission. Permission to pause seriousness, to touch the world without trying to improve it, judge it, or solve it. When I play, time loosens its grip. Minutes stop demanding productivity and simply allow presence. Sometimes play is a quiet walk, sometimes rearranging thoughts, sometimes watching patterns—leaves, numbers, clouds—without asking what they are useful for.

As an adult, play is no longer loud; it is subtle. It is the inner freedom to remain human despite routines and responsibilities. In play, I meet myself without roles. That meeting refreshes me more than rest, because it reminds me that life is not only to be managed, but also to be tasted.

My biggest challenge is to remain awake without becoming heavy.

What are your biggest challenges?

I walk with a mind that never truly rests. Questions arise before answers settle. Curiosity pulls me forward, but memory sometimes fades what the heart has already understood. I read, reflect, and search deeply, yet the abstract often slips away with time. The challenge is not learning — it is holding insight long enough for it to become lived wisdom.

Another challenge is balance. I stand between silence and expression, between contemplation and action. Too much thinking can delay living; too much living can blur understanding. Finding the rhythm where thought serves life — not replaces it — is an ongoing effort.
And perhaps the deepest challenge is patience with myself. Growth does not always announce itself. Sometimes the mind feels lost even when the path is forming beneath the feet. Trusting this slow unfolding, without forcing certainty, is my quiet struggle — and also my strength.

When a Song Becomes a Time Machine

What makes you feel nostalgic?

Whenever an old song starts playing, something inside me quietly shifts. I may be sitting alone, doing nothing special, but the first few notes are enough to take me back. Not in a dramatic way—just gently, like a door left half open. Suddenly I am not in the present moment anymore. I am somewhere else, in a different time, in a different version of my life.

The song brings back the film it belonged to. I remember the screen, the dialogues, the scenes that once felt so important. More than the story, I remember the feeling of watching it together. Sitting side by side, sharing silence, sometimes exchanging a smile without saying anything. At that time, I never thought these moments would become memories. They were just life, unfolding naturally.

Relationships that flow, not bind

What relationships have a positive impact on you?

The relationship have a positive impact on me is –

There is no constant demand, no emotional taxation.
Silence is allowed. Distance is allowed.
When connection resumes, it feels natural—like a river meeting itself again.

Team Vision & Identity

If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?

My team is built around the spirit of football as unity, discipline, and silent strength. Every player on the field wears the same identity, moving like one body with one purpose.

The team plays in navy blue jerseys, symbolizing depth, calm confidence, and resilience under pressure. Navy blue reflects focus — a color that does not shout, yet commands respect. The white knickers represent fairness, clarity, and sportsmanship, reminding us that the game is played with honor. Blue socks complete the harmony of the uniform, while black shoes ground the players firmly to the field, representing determination and strength.

All outfield players wear this same dress, reinforcing equality — no individual above the team.

The goalkeeper, however, stands apart — not in status, but in responsibility. He wears a green jersey, the color of alertness, protection, and renewal. Green connects him visually to the field itself, reminding us that the goalkeeper is the last living wall between danger and safety. His black shoes and blue socks maintain unity with the team, even as his role remains unique.
Together, this color scheme reflects a simple philosophy:

Unity without uniformity
Strength without aggression
Discipline without fear
This is not just a team that plays football —
this is a team that embodies balance, trust, and purpose on the field.

How Have My Political Views Changed Over Time?

How have your political views changed over time?

My political views have not changed in the way a politician’s views often do. A politician may reshape beliefs with time, convenience, or personal interest. I am not so. My position has remained rooted in a single, steady principle: justice for human beings.

When I vote, I do not vote for party arithmetic or shifting alliances. I vote with the hope that my voice will strengthen democracy, fairness, and dignity. Yet what I often witness is this: I vote for a leader, and that leader later changes parties or ideologies. In that moment, my vote loses its original meaning—not because my values changed, but because the political structure allowed my mandate to be transferred without my consent.

For a politician, changing views may be a strategy or survival tactic. For me, it is not an option. My loyalty is not to symbols, slogans, or power blocks—it is to justice, human rights, and democratic integrity. These values do not age, and they do not migrate.
Over time, what has changed is not my belief, but my awareness. I have learned that democracy is not merely about casting a vote; it is about protecting the spirit behind that vote. When ideology shifts for convenience, democracy weakens. When justice remains central, democracy survives.

So if my political view has evolved, it has done so only in depth—not in direction. I began with faith in leaders; I now place my faith in principles. And among all political choices available to me, justice remains the only one I can vote for without regret.

Perfect space for reading and writing

You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

If I were to build a perfect space for reading and writing, it would be quiet, breathing, and alive.

A large window would open to the world—not to distract, but to remind. Soft daylight would fall across a wooden desk worn smooth by years of thought. No clutter, only essentials: a notebook, a pen that glides, a few books opened and waiting, not shouting for attention. The walls would hold shelves of well-loved books, some ancient, some modern—each carrying a different rhythm of thought.
There would be plants, because thinking needs oxygen, and life should witness every sentence being born. A comfortable chair, firm enough to keep the spine awake, gentle enough to let the mind wander. Silence would not be empty; it would be fertile, broken only by the turning of pages, the scratch of ink, or the distant sound of wind or rain.

At night, a warm lamp—not too bright—would create a small island of light, as if saying: this is where the world pauses and meaning begins. No screens demanding urgency. Time would slow down here. Words would arrive when ready, not forced.

It would not feel like a room built for productivity, but like a sanctuary for thought—a place where reading becomes dialogue, and writing becomes discovery.
In such a space, one doesn’t just read books or write sentences.
One listens—to ideas, to memory, to the quiet unfolding of understanding.

My First Ride, My First Freedom

What is your all time favorite automobile?

When I moved from a bicycle to an automobile, my first companion was a humble Luna—simple, light, and honest. Today, a modern car stands beside it, polished and powerful, yet my deepest affection still rests with that first ride. Luna was not just a machine; it was a bridge between effort and ease, between dreaming and arriving. Every start demanded attention, every slope taught balance, and every journey carried the quiet joy of independence. Unlike today’s vehicles that insulate us from the road, Luna kept me connected—to the wind, the sound of the engine, and my own growing confidence. It still stands near my car, not out of necessity, but as a reminder: progress does not erase beginnings. Some machines move us forward; the first one moves us inward, and stays there forever.