Vanishing Hours and the Elusive Joy

Years shrink into months, months into days, and days into fleeting hours

• One morning, you glance into the mirror and a stranger stares back—hair streaked with gray, dark circles carving shadows beneath tired eyes, skin tracing the slow, silent poetry of age

By Nisar Banbhan

There comes a moment in every life when time stops marching and begins to whisper—softly, strangely, and at times, cruelly.

You rise one morning and sense—deep in your bones—that something has changed. The clock ticks as it always has, but the days no longer stretch like they used to. The sun climbs and falls before your first full breath. A blink—and another week has vanished. Somewhere between accumulating responsibilities and the arrival of silver in your hair, life begins to dissolve into a blur.

This is what they call “middle age”—a phase marked not just by birthdays or backaches, but by two deeply unsettling truths.

First: Time, once a vast, flowing river, now feels like a handful of sand slipping swiftly through open fingers. There was a time when we had time for everything. Now, we barely have time to manage our time.

Years shrink into months, months into days, and days into fleeting hours. One morning, you glance into the mirror and a stranger stares back—hair streaked with gray, dark circles carving shadows beneath tired eyes, skin tracing the slow, silent poetry of age. And in that sudden jolt of recognition, you ask yourself the question that trembles in the heart of every grown soul:

Where did my youth go? When did I grow old?

My sons are twenty-five and twenty-seven now—tall, broad, strong. I, once their towering protector, now rise on tiptoes to kiss their foreheads and barely reach their noses. I watch them—daily, in quiet awe—and wonder, when did they grow so tall? And when did I begin to shrink—not in height, but in time?

I still remember holding them for the first time—small enough to rest between my palms—when their little fingers curled around mine like promises whispered by the future. That moment feels like yesterday. Yet somehow, that “yesterday” now spans decades.

This strange acceleration of time is not mine alone—it is a quiet, universal grief shared by nearly everyone who crosses the invisible line into middle age. We all remember a time when days were long, years vast, and hours carried the weight of eternity.

There was a time when we worked the whole day, tired ourselves out, and still—surprisingly—night refused to fall. And when it did, it lingered. The hours after dusk stretched like velvet shadows across the walls. We would wake up multiple times during the night, drink water, stare into the dark, see ghosts dancing in the corners of our rooms—and yet morning would remain distant.

And when morning came, it too was endless.

We would wake early, pray, walk, bathe, devour paratha-laden breakfasts, tease the neighborhood kids—and still, it wasn’t time to leave for school. School itself was a universe. A single forty-minute period felt like a full chapter of life. We would study, prank, fly paper planes, pour water into someone’s pocket, tie shirts to desks, get scolded, take beatings, do push-ups, and sometimes—run away altogether.

And still, the day stretched on.

After school, time moved with a golden laziness. We napped, played cricket in dusty grounds, broke windows, peeked through neighbors’ windows, ran errands, stole a few coins from the change, devoured kulfis with friends, wandered the markets, stole books from libraries—and yes, even read them.

At night, we’d watch PTV dramas and get scolded by our fathers—and yet, time lingered like an old friend who never knew when to leave.

We often lied about our age to feel older. But no matter how we tried, we remained children—wide-eyed and gloriously lost in the magic of slowness.

But now? Years have become months. Months are mere days. Days, little more than hours.

Why?

We have no answer.

And then comes the second tragedy of middle age—more painful than the first: The fading of joy.

The more we grow, the more we achieve, the more we own—paradoxically, the further happiness drifts from our reach.

There was a time when buying a new handkerchief made us feel like kings. We’d place our new shoes or clothes beside our pillow and wake up in the night just to admire them. A ten-rupee note was a treasure. Watching a monkey dance to the beat of a drum brought delight that could last for weeks.

Securing a seat in a crowded bus made us feel like champions—like Muhammad Ali toppling George Foreman. We could live an entire month on a hundred rupees, and it felt like we had everything. A single glance from someone we adored made our hearts somersault.

“She smiled at me,” we’d whisper, and the memory would stay for days, warming us like secret sunshine.

“She didn’t look away today—God, I must be blessed.”

But then comes a time when we own everything. Our bank accounts overflow. We can buy buses, factories, designer shoes, imported suits, and homes in cities we can’t pronounce. The once-magical glance now lives with us, sits at the dining table, complains about bills—and we call it spouse.

The fridge is full. The wardrobe overflows. And yet—our hearts feel empty.

Eid feels like Ashura. Joy slips through the cracks of every celebration. We look for happiness in the corners of crowded rooms, rummage for it in the back pockets of laughter. But it doesn’t come. And we don’t know why.

We ask ourselves in the stillness of night:

Why am I sad? Why can’t I sleep? What is missing?

And the world offers no answers.

These are the twin agonies of middle age: the collapse of time, and the slow vanishing of joy.

I, too, am not immune. I cannot remember the last time I truly celebrated. It feels as though centuries have passed since joy came uninvited, since time walked beside me, not ahead of me.

Sometimes, I imagine myself living by the Nile, long before the pyramids rose—when time was still wild and unmeasured. I could sit by the river for days and the sun would refuse to set.

But now—I have neither time, nor joy.

Once, the sound of raindrops falling on a jamun tree could drench my soul. Now, even in monsoon storms, I remain dry—like a page of wax paper untouched by ink.

Why?

A recent study from an American university finally offered me an answer—one as beautiful as it is sorrowful.

It concluded that human beings possess true time and real joy only in childhood.

Why?

Because of wonder, and limited desires.

To a child, every moment is new. Every object, every experience, every face is worthy of attention. And attention slows time.

A child stops to watch a monkey dance; an adult walks past, unseeing. The child’s pause stretches the moment.

The adult’s indifference erases it.

A child desires only a few things—a toy, a sweet, a pair of shoes. And when those small wishes are fulfilled, joy spills over like sunlight on an open window.

But as we grow, our desires grow with us—longer than our lifespans, taller than our dreams. We want more. And more. And more.

And in that pursuit, joy becomes a rare visitor.

The study offers a gentle remedy:

To reclaim time and joy, rediscover wonder. Cultivate curiosity. Break your desires into small, reachable pieces. Fulfill one, each day. Taste the delight in little things. Let yourself be surprised.

Do this, and your days will stretch again. Do this, and joy will return—not with fireworks, but like a quiet knock at the door.

That insight moved me deeply.

Why must we wait for grand celebrations? Why not dance in the tiny triumphs? Why not become children again—laughing at nothing, finding miracles in everything?

Why not smile—if only for a moment?

Read: Masks, Mindsets & Missed Opportunities

______________

Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society.