Active and Passive

Ms. Puri once stood by the blackboard,

chalk in hand, drawing arrows between subjects and verbs.

“Active voice,” she said, “is when the doer owns the doing.”

I loved that.

How language could feel alive —

how every sentence had a heartbeat.

Those were my Wren & Martin days —

neat margins, red-ink corrections,

and the quiet joy of getting every tense right.

I didn’t know then

that one day voice would mean something else.

That it would no longer be about verbs and structure —

but about courage.

Now I see it everywhere —

the active and passive not in grammar,

but in people.

The ones who speak, who act, who take charge.

And the ones who drift — quiet, agreeable,

living as if life were someone else’s story.

We’ve begun to mistake silence for wisdom,

indifference for maturity,

and detachment for peace.

Being passionate is seen as naïve.

Being guarded — sophisticated.

But oh, what a lie that is.

To live actively

is to take ownership of your own mess and magic.

To say I care even when it’s not cool.

To show up — not just when it’s easy,

but when it’s inconvenient and raw.

It’s to feel deeply.

To fail loudly.

To forgive.

To try again.

Living actively means staying awake —

to your heartbeats, to others’,

to the truth that no one else can live your life for you.

It means standing by your words,

being accountable for your silences,

burning with conviction

even when the world applauds the cold.

Because apathy is slow poison.

It dulls the soul,

and paints life in shades of grey.

And calm isn’t always peace —

sometimes, it’s just the absence of courage.

So speak.

Even if your voice trembles.

Love.

Even if it gets messy.

Be active.

Even when the world teaches you to fade.

For the grammar of life

was always meant to be written

in verbs that move.