What still works, still matters

(2 mins read)

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I’ve always had a habit of using things till their very end. 

A pen stays with me until the ink completely runs out. Shoes are worn until the soles give up. Clothes are used until they fade beyond color recognition or no longer fit. I use my devices (especially my phone) until they absolutely stop working, often trying to fix them before giving up. Old notebooks are filled till the last page, plastic bags are reused again and again, and sweet boxes are repurposed to store spices or small items. It’s not about being stingy; it’s more about the satisfaction that comes from fully using something that once served a purpose.

This way of living reminds me of the Arabic word Isrāf, which means wastefulness; using more than necessary, or discarding things that still have value. Islam gently teaches us to avoid this. 

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) once passed by his companion Sa’d (may Allah be pleased with him), who was making ablution (wudu) using a lot of water.
The Prophet asked, “What is this extravagance, O Sa’d?”
Sa’d replied, “Can there be any extravagance in ablution?”
The Prophet said, “Yes, even if you are on the bank of a flowing river.”
(Source: Ibn Majah)

That teaching is within my core memories. Even in abundance, we are taught to be mindful, to not let our habits slip into carelessness. It’s a way of honoring what we already have and showing gratitude by not taking it for granted.

Over the years, I’ve noticed how slowing down consumption brings peace. It quiets the urge to constantly replace, and makes space for contentment. A shirt worn many times carries stories. A reused notebook feels complete. A repaired device teaches patience. And somewhere in this small practice lies a deeper truth: that living intentionally is far more fulfilling than constantly chasing the new. I’ve shared this with friends, and now with you. Maybe it’ll stay with you too. Not as advice, but as a quiet reminder, the next time you think of replacing something that still works. 

Use what you have. And use it a little longer.
Not because you have to.
But because you can.

Let’s try to live with less noise.
Let’s try to give everything we have its due.
Let’s not waste.

One summer afternoon, I discovered something ...

(3 mins read)

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I believe we all carry a core memory within us, tucked away quietly, in a small corner of the mind. It doesn't always have to be something big or life-changing. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet moment, an afternoon, a smell, or a glimpse of a room that stays with us. As the years pass, these memories blur around the edges. We begin to wonder, did it really happen that way, or have we imagined parts of it?

One of my fondest memories goes back to a summer afternoon in my maternal grandparents’ village. Back then, their home was a beautiful mud house, not very fancy, but full of warmth and character. That house doesn’t exist anymore; it has been rebuilt with bricks and concrete. But in my mind, it still stands the way it was. I was around seven or eight years old, and it was the kind of hot, lazy afternoon. As it happens on a lazy summer afternoon, everyone had a stomach-filled lunch and went off to sleep. But I was restless and curious. I decided that the two-hour nap would ruin my productivity! :P So while my parents and siblings took the nap, I began to wander, quietly exploring the corners of that peaceful house.

I went to the first floor: yes, the mud house had a first floor, which still feels quite fascinating to me. There were two rooms on the terrace. One was used to store rice, wheat, onions, and potatoes. The other had a charpai and a small pile of books on a table near the window. That room was empty, but I had a feeling someone would come up soon, so I knew I didn’t have much time. I flipped through the books, searching for something, found no pictures, so I gently placed them back. But then I found a small black notebook. Inside, it was something bluish and mysterious, a carbon paper. I don’t remember whether the notebook belonged to my uncle or my nana, but I did know what it was, and that made me feel oddly proud. So I placed it between two sheets and started drawing something, just to see the magic of two copies being made at once. What did I draw? I don't remember. Did I tear out the page and saved it? I don’t remember. How I left that room? I don't remember. But I do remember the feeling.

That hot breeze outside. The quietness of the house. The joy of finding something new. It’s a small memory, really. But it has stayed with me all these years. I’ve spoken about it to my wife with childlike excitement, and now I find myself sharing it with my children. They may not understand what carbon paper is, or why that afternoon meant so much. But maybe someday, they too will carry a quiet little memory from their own childhood. A simple, forgotten moment that refuses to fade.