The Last Calendar

The Last Calendar

By : Sanjay Shharma

While gently sorting through the last few belongings of my late Babuji, a small, familiar object slipped out from between a stack of old files. It was a calendar—faintly yellowed, its edges curled with age—the very first one he had ever gotten printed for his company. In that single, fading sheet of paper, I didn’t just find a date tracker; I found a time capsule.

Holding that humble object, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. My thoughts drifted back to a time we've all but forgotten.

Perhaps you, too, remember a calendar that wasn’t meant to be torn. The one with a single, large image of a god or a sacred place, watching over your home from January to December. It could have been the benevolent smile of Guru Nanak Dev Ji, the valour of Hanuman Ji, or the serene calm of Shri Ram. 

These calendars weren’t just about dates, were they? They were a silent, unwavering presence—a constant in a world of change.

The true magic, asal jaadu, began with the anxious, almost sacred ritual of getting a new calendar during Diwali for the upcoming year. The air would hum with anticipation. We would visit every shop, every office, hoping to find the perfect one. And if by chance we were lucky enough to get one with gold printing—the gods’ crowns shimmering, sacred motifs embossed—it was like hitting a jackpot! That calendar was proudly displayed in the baithak, the drawing-room, a symbol of prosperity and a blessed year ahead.

These calendars were everywhere. In our family home, a playful Lord Krishna brought joy to the corridor. In the puja room, a serene Lakshmi graced the wall, her gaze calming our hurried mornings. In the main family room, a majestic Shiva watched over us. In the kitchen, gentle Annapurna ensured our sustenance. At school, Saraswati Devi smiled from above the blackboard. In my father’s factory, Vishwakarma’s image held silent watch over machines and men alike. Even in nursing homes, calendars with adorable babies brought hope to expectant mothers. 

And in offices, a different kind of calendar ruled—one sheet per month, crisp and corporate, each page torn as the year marched on. But at home, the single sacred image was our quiet constant.

The calendar on the wall, the landline in the living room, the shared conversations over the dining table—they weren’t just objects or rituals. They were the very praan—the life force—of our homes.

The essence of that time was a devotion that wasn’t taught—it simply existed. It wasn’t something you remembered to do. It was something you breathed. The god on the wall wasn’t just an image; it was a moral compass in plain sight. Our conduct, thoughts, and actions aligned because piety wasn’t a choice—it was the atmosphere. We would straighten our clothes before a photograph of our parents, and we would straighten our character before the gods on our walls.

This constant visual presence nurtured our faith from childhood. It imprinted sanskaars—spiritual conditioning—deep into our subconscious. The god on the wall was a silent teacher, inspiring reverence, discipline, and a quiet sense of right and wrong.

In their wide margins, our very stories were scribbled. My wife, in her neat script, would mark the pulse of our home: 2 kg doodh aa gaya, sabzi li, doctor se milna hai 6 baje. Birthdays , Gas Cylinder. These were sacred records of the mundane, intimate testaments to a life lived attentively. No app. No update. No password. Just a pencil. Just haazri—presence.

But somewhere along the way, we started to forget.

We now live in modern houses with blank walls, lacking the vibrant connect and spiritual warmth that those calendars quietly offered. Our phones tell us the date, our watches track every second—but none offer the texture, memory, or apnapan of those paper friends.

The conscious appreciation of time’s passage has dissolved into a frantic sense of rush. And suddenly, we find ourselves saying, “ye saal toh bhaag raha hai!” (this year is just flying by!). In this blur, the calendar has begun to fade from our walls—and with it, something far more precious.

Today, even as many homes boast elaborate mandirs, they often lie enclosed, like private chambers, requiring effort and intention. The gods, once casually present in our line of sight, now wait behind doors and rituals. Devotion, once ambient and effortless, has become an activity—something scheduled, something slotted.

This quiet shift—from casual proximity to deliberate engagement—has subtly, perhaps unknowingly, dulled the devotional instinct in the younger generations. We now live in an era where we must teach values explicitly—values that were once absorbed implicitly, simply by growing up in homes where the divine sat humbly, aram se, beside the mundane.

What have we passed on to the next generation? A world of boundless information, but dwindling wisdom. A society of unmatched convenience, but one where the sacred rituals that once knit families together—communal meals, shared phone calls, unplanned conversations—are slowly vanishing.

The calendar is only one thread in a larger, thinning fabric. But it was a vital thread.

कालाय तस्मै नमः — To Time, we bow. But in bowing, we must also remember to see it, hold it, live with it—with all our senses. And for that, we need more than just efficiency—we need haazri.

That calendar still hangs on my wall today. Its pages are thinner now, its edges curled with years. But the deities still watch. My wife’s pencil still leaves a faint trail—though sometimes, I think she does it more for memory than for management.

I haven’t torn the last page yet. Perhaps, I never will.

Because in that quiet, folded paper lives a world we once shared—where faith didn’t need a reminder, time didn’t need a ping, and the divine sat with us, always.

And maybe that’s what we need to bring back—not just the calendars, but our haazri—our quiet attendance to life itself.

Do you by chance remember… your last calender ?

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About the Author

Sanjay Shharma is a seeker, storyteller, and observer of life who weaves timeless truths into everyday reflections. Drawing from the well of Indian wisdom and personal insight, his writings awaken remembrance — not of something new, but of what was always within. Through simplicity, stillness, and soulfulness, he invites us not to become more, but to remember who we already are.