Egypt did not feel like a country.
It felt like a memory the world could not forget.
As Parampal Singh stepped onto the hot, golden land, the air carried dust, heat, and something heavier—eternity. The sun hung low and bright, as it must have thousands of years ago, watching civilizations rise and fall without blinking.
The pyramids appeared slowly on the horizon, massive and unmoving. No photograph had prepared him for their presence. They were not just structures; they were statements. Proof that humans once believed their lives mattered beyond death.
Parampal stood in silence, eyes tracing the sharp lines against the sky. He felt insignificant, yet strangely connected. Someone, long ago, had stood here too—wondering, hoping, fearing, just as he did now.
Inside a stone chamber, the air grew cool and still. Walls carried symbols carved by hands long turned to dust. These people had names, dreams, families. Time had taken their voices, but not their intent.
By the Nile, life flowed differently. Children laughed near the water, boats drifted slowly, palms swayed in the wind. Egypt balanced the ancient and the living without apology. Death and life coexisted here, openly.
As evening arrived, the desert glowed deep orange. Shadows stretched long, and the sky burned with color. Parampal realized Egypt did not chase the future—it honored the past while letting the present breathe.
Before leaving, he wrote carefully:
Some places fear time.
Some surrender to it.
Egypt teaches you to stand against it.
He closed his notebook as the stars appeared, bright and endless. The journey continued, but Egypt would remain with him—not as a place visited, but as a reminder:
Time may move forward, but meaning can remain forever.