Perhaps it is time we revisited a few words we use every day.
There is a watchman in one of my stories whom everybody calls Security.
I find that rather amusing, because the poor fellow seems to spend most of his day doing everything except looking after security. There are parcels, instructions, visitors and the endless requests that somehow find their way to the man at the gate. We give him a title that describes his responsibility and then leave him very little attention for it.
That observation from The Watchman, the opening episode of An Invisible Shift, has stayed with me. Perhaps because we are all becoming a little like him. We have smartphones, smartwatches, smart televisions and increasingly smart homes. Everything seems to be acquiring intelligence, while we are struggling with something remarkably elementary: paying attention.
And that brings me to a phrase we have used for generations: Whenever time permits.
“Call me whenever time permits.” “Let's catch up when you have time.” “Read this whenever time permits.” It is a thoughtful courtesy. But I have been wondering whether time is really the thing we are running out of. We may have half an hour to ourselves, sitting quite comfortably, with nothing urgent to do. Then a notification arrives, a photograph appears, someone has forwarded a video, and a few minutes later we are reading something we never intended to read.
Perhaps the expression for our times is Whenever Attention Permits.
We live in what is now called the Attention Economy. Businesses, entertainment platforms and applications compete for our attention, measure it and do their best to keep it. I have no quarrel with technology. The very possibility that a story written in Ahmedabad might find a reader across the world is extraordinary. But attention was precious before anyone thought of putting a price on it.
Think of a child coming home eager to describe something that happened at school, an elderly parent telling a familiar story, or a friend who calls because something is weighing on the mind. In each case, what is really being asked of us? Often not advice, not money, not expertise. Just attention. We know when someone hears us. We also know when someone is truly listening.
Perhaps our vocabulary has not kept pace with our lives. We say, “Let's catch up soon.” Catch up with what? The photographs we missed? The conversations we didn't finish? Or do we mean that we would like a little while when we are both really there?
I tried saying, “Let us find attention together!” He he! It sounds as though attention were a misplaced pair of spectacles, and we were assembling a search party near the television remote. Imagine someone asking, “Good morning, do you have sufficient attention for breakfast?” We might soon become unbearable company. Yet the oddness reveals something. “Thank you for your time” is not quite the same as “Thank you for being present.” “I'll read this when I get time” is not quite “I'll read it when I can give it the attention it deserves.” And I rather like: Whenever your mind has room.
Our minds do have rooms. Some are occupied by work, some by worries, some by memories, and some by conversations that ended days ago but never really finished. Occasionally, a room opens for a person, a question, a beautiful sentence, a story.
Time is what we make available. Attention is what we give. Presence is what another person receives.
Think also of the millions of children born in 2026. What extraordinary possibilities await them: knowledge across continents, ideas across languages, forms of connection we could hardly have imagined. But when technology becomes even better at understanding what holds their attention, I wonder what it might cost them to keep some of that attention for themselves. Will they have the pleasure of being bored? The freedom to follow an unfinished thought? The patience to listen to someone who isn't immediately entertaining? I sincerely hope so. We owe them not only access to everything, but the freedom to decide what deserves their presence.
Perhaps that is also why I built niravmanubhai.com. I wanted a home for my writing, a quiet place where someone could arrive, read at their own pace, and make a film in the mind from the words on a page. Somewhere along the way another idea grew important: what if a story could be a gift? Not something sent out of obligation, not something with a price attached, but a story chosen because it brought another person to mind.
My daughter might enjoy this. My father would have something to say. This sounds just like my old friend.
You have given a story your attention, and through it you have thought of another human being. That little recognition became part of the foundation of Gift a Story. The recipient need not open it immediately, or answer at all. They may read on Sunday, or months from now. Whenever attention permits.
We are certainly quick at moving information. Some of us could win medals for the fastest fingers on WhatsApp: opening, reacting and forwarding at Olympic speed. Whole family conversations can apparently be maintained with three symbols: 🙏 👍 ❤️. Gold medal, relationship maintained, next message please!
But are we equally good at moving affection?
How often have we read something, smiled and thought, I must send this to her, only for the next notification to carry that thought away? Perhaps we need to act on the spontaneous, affectionate impulse while it is still with us. Not every gesture needs a birthday, a festival or an anniversary. Sometimes, someone simply crosses our mind. Isn't that an occasion in itself?
There is a difference between forwarding information and sharing the thought that made it meaningful. Five words can change the entire gesture: I thought of you when I read this.
And before you go, the very fact that your eyes have travelled this far is something I deeply appreciate. Somewhere in the crowded rooms of your mind, these words found space. You gave them your attention, and I do not take that lightly. Thank you, sincerely, and please accept my heartfelt gratitude.
I have just one small wish. If anything here brought someone to mind, and you feel they might enjoy it, perhaps send it with a few words of your own. Not because I asked you to forward an article, but because you thought of them. Let the thought become a gesture before the next notification arrives.
Perhaps that is how attention travels best—not at the speed of our fingers, but at the speed of a thought becoming something meaningful between two people.
Whenever attention permits.
With heartfelt gratitude,
Nirav Manubhai
Ciao!