Everyone has something to share or at least everyone feels that they have something to share. For as long as I can remember, communication experts, from Dale Carnegie onwards, have stressed the importance of listening. We are told that a good listener is a better friend, a better colleague and, presumably, a better human being. All very true. But I have come to realise that listening is more than simply being a good person. It can actually be quite useful. I have started to listen more and talk less.

People who have some substance to what they say can provide me with some really good thoughts and ideas. Listening to them makes a lot of sense. There are elderly people who have seen much of the world, and there are remarkably well-read teenagers who have seen very little of it but have read about almost everything. There are people deeply inclined towards religion and others who favour atheism. There are people who swear by traditional ways of doing things and others who want to reinvent everything. If I keep quiet and listen, I get to hear all these different points of view. I don’t necessarily have to agree with any of them.

Then there are people who are rather more self-absorbed. They may not have anything particularly substantial to offer, but talking about themselves, their ideas and their suggestions gives them a tremendous moral boost. Who am I to deprive them of that small pleasure? So I let them talk. Listening makes them feel that they have had a good conversation, and everyone goes home reasonably happy.

The less I talk, the better it is for me too. I can keep my thoughts to myself and, on occasion the evil me can even gloat quietly. Recently, I heard someone explain at considerable length how he had ordered the latest insanely expensive jacket and when it was expected to arrive. Another told me how he had decided to spray his entire garden with insecticide after spotting a couple of aphids on one plant even though this was the garden from which he and his family ate their vegetables. Someone else enthusiastically praised a minister and his party for the wonderful work they were doing, totally ignoring the less wonderful subject of rampant corruption. Yet another person proudly described his latest phone purchase and how he had been among the first to buy it. I kept my thoughts to myself.

There is a familiar line in Hollywood films, usually said by a police officer while handcuffing a suspect: ‘Anything you say may be used against you.’ They have been saying it for ages. I am beginning to realise that there is some truth in it. It is very easy for people to misunderstand your words, change their meaning or repeat them in a way you never intended. And it is not very pleasant to hear your own words being used against you. So, once again, I feel it is better to talk less and listen more. The less I say, the less there is for others to misunderstand.

There are exceptions, of course. If someone specificaly asks for my opinion, I try to give it in as few words as possible and, hopefully, with a reasonably clear idea behind them. I like to listen. Not everyone likes to listen, however, and over the years I have developed the art of saying less. It saves explanations, arguments and, occasionally goodwill.

The same applies to my own ideas and plans. I listen to what everyone has to say. I have heard all sorts of advice about homestays, orchards, making money, gardening, and even local politics. I listen, nod occasionally and then quietly go and do what I think is right. In through one ear and out through the other, without disrespect and without the need to argue with anyone. There is little point in explaining your entire thought process to someone who merely wanted to give you theirs.

Another reason why I enjoy living in the hills. There is enough time here to listen – to traditional songs, to birds, to the wind moving through the trees, and sometimes to absolutely nothing at all.

An extension of listening is the way we consume information. There is mass media, where I mostly listen or read and have no opportunity to interrupt the person on the other side. Then there is social media, where conversations are supposed to be two-way. However, these conversations seem more about assertion and validation. Everyone is correcting everyone else. Everyone has a fact, an opinion or a correction ready before the other person has finished typing.

Thankfully, I can still listen to the radio or a podcast. If I don’t like what I hear, I simply switch it off. There is no need to explain to the presenter why he is wrong. Books are similar. I think reading is another form of listening. A good reader listens without interrupting. If you can listen without constantly feeling the need to put your own ideas into the conversation, you can probably read well too and learn a great deal along the way.

So, when do I talk? Well, I try not to stop listening. Even when I am talking, I try to listen to the other person. I am not one of those people who, once given a microphone, carries on regardless of whether anyone is still listening. I write blogs instead. Anyone who wants to read them can do so in peace, and there is no microphone to wrestle away from me.

When someone actually seeks my help, I talk. But even then I try to keep in mind what matters to the other person rather than simply unloading everything I happen to know. Recently, during an ongoing garden consultation, I was explaining soil improvement. I had got into the usual details – perlite, vermiculite, cocopeat, coconut fibre and all the other things that can make a perfectly innocent planter sound like a chemistry laboratory. Halfway through, I realised that the person sitting opposite me was listening purely out of politeness. There was absolutely no interest in the finer role of perlite or vermiculite in improving a small planter. So I stopped. I simply explained that potting soil should be chosen according to the plants being grown and that, for most people, the easiest solution is to buy a good ready-to-use potting mix suitable for those plants. Much better. The plants would survive, and so would the goodwill.

Listening also teaches me to listen between the lines. Words are only one part of a conversation. There are expressions, pauses, gestures, body language, changes in tone and all those little hesitations that tell you something which the actual words may not. Sometimes a person says one thing while everything else about them is saying something quite different. The real benefit of listening is that it gives one access to other people’s experiences, ideas and ways of looking at the world. Some of it is useful, some amusing, some completely ridiculous and occasionally, something makes one stop and rethink own view.

And if nothing useful comes of the conversation, there is always the offer of tea. In the hills here, that is usually a perfectly respectable reason to have listened in the first place.

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I prefer to spend my time in the village here, but at times due to some work, I am forced to travel to cities. Recently I took a short trip to Delhi for some official work.

At the Kathgodam railway station, I saw a man sitting on the steps of the platform, eating from an old mithai cardboard box. There was nothing remarkable about him. His clothes were tattered. The box had already served its original purpose but someone had saved it for another use. He sat there quietly, eating whatever food it contained, while people moved around him with the usual impatience of a railway station – porters carrying luggage, families returning from vacation in the hills clicking photographs, occasional announcements coming over the loudspeaker, and some repair work going on at the platform behind him.

I was waiting for my seat on an air-conditioned train to Delhi. I knew that once I settled into my seat, someone would bring me food. I also had a small packet of home-made dark chocolates in my bag. Gourmet chocolates made by a young Parsi boy who has recently opened a small shop on way between Natadol and Kathgodam.

However, at the platform, the contrast was almost embarrassingly obvious. Here was a man whose meal was there in an old sweet box, and he had it while sitting on the steps of the railway platform. And here I was, worrying about my train, my seat, whether the coach will be clean or not, and thinking what edibles will I be served in the train.

I don’t know anything about that man’s life. I don’t know how he came to be there, whether he had a family, whether he had ever had a permanent home, or what his day had been like before I saw him. I don’t even know if he would consider himself unhappy. Yet I felt sad.

And, almost inevitably, I began thinking about the enormous lottery that is birth. What makes one baby arrive in a wealthy family and another in a poor one? Why is one born in a country where there is clean water, good healthcare, schooling and enough food, while another is born in a place where simply getting through childhood can be an achievement? Why am I sitting in an air-conditioned railway coach, carrying chocolates I don’t particularly need, while another person is eating from a discarded cardboard box?

On the other hand, why is it that I have to think about the condition of a mountain road before making a simple journey, while someone born in a Nordic country can take for granted a reliable road, public transport and infrastructure? Why do I have to plan around presence of education for kids and health facilities for my parents, water availability and also the dependence on monsoon, while in some of the world’s happiest countries these basic necessities are simply part of everyday life? Why does a winter in the hills mean worrying about heating to keep my family warm, while someone born in a Scandinavian home can take warmth, insulation and uninterrupted utilities almost completely for granted?

These are not things I achieved or failed to achieve. They are simply circumstances I happened to be born into.

We like to believe that life is fair because it makes the world easier to understand. The idea of karma offers one possible explanation. The Bhagavad Gita and other Indian philosophical traditions speak of actions, consequences and rebirth. Perhaps, according to this view, the circumstances into which we are born are not entirely random. There are things at work beyond what we can see in this single lifetime. But I find that explanation difficult to accept completely. It is one thing to believe in karma as a philosophical idea. It is quite another to look at a hungry person and imagine that his suffering is somehow a deserved consequence of something he did in a previous life. I don’t know enough to make that judgement. And perhaps nobody does.

Different religions have given us different ways of making sense of this. Karma (Hinduism and Jainism) says there may be a history stretching beyond the life we remember and guides us to make this life meaningful for others. Buddhism asks us to look at suffering and our response to it. Christianity asks us to care for the person lying by the roadside. Islam reminds us that what we possess carries responsibilities. Sikhism reminds us to share what we have. Whatever we believe about why we are here (or don’t believe in any of these), what matters most is how we treat the people we find along the way.

Another related matter is of success. We often speak of success as though it were a straight line between hard work and achievement. Work certainly matters. Discipline matters. Education matters. Luck matters too and in my opinion to a great extent.

Warren Buffett has often spoken about this idea of the extraordinary luck of being born into the right country, at the right time, and in the right family. Simply being born in the United States, and into the family he was, gave him access to opportunities, education and circumstances that made it possible for him to begin his life in investing. His talent and hard work were certainly his own, but even the starting point from which he began was something he had no role in choosing.

There is another, more immediate explanation for my own circumstances. My parents worked hard. So did my grandparents. They made choices, took risks, saved, sacrificed and, like everyone else, benefited from circumstances that were partly within their control and partly beyond it. Whatever I have today is not entirely the result of my own effort. I simply arrived somewhere in the middle of a story that had already been unfolding for generations. I was born into this family. That fact alone gave me an enormous head start. Had I been born somewhere else, to different parents, in a different country, my abilities might have been exactly the same, but my life could have been unimaginably different.

We don’t choose our parents. We don’t choose our country. We don’t choose our genes. We don’t choose whether we are born during a famine or a period of prosperity, into a peaceful country or a war zone, into a loving family or a broken one. And yet, once we grow up, we often look at the differences between people and describe them simply as the consequences of their choices.

That is one of the great illusions of being comfortable: we gradually forget how much of our comfort was never chosen by us.

The man at Kathgodam may have made mistakes. He may have made good choices too. He may have been unlucky. He may have been born into poverty. Maybe he worked harder than I ever have. Maybe he didn’t. I will never know. What I do know is that I happened to be born where I was born. And so did he. That thought has stayed with me more than the sight of him itself.

I sometimes wonder whether gratitude is the right response to such a realisation. Not guilt, because feeling guilty about being fortunate doesn’t make another person’s life better. And not complacency, because pretending that our good fortune is entirely self-made is equally misleading. I feel that gratitude, accompanied by a little humility, is more appropriate.

To recognise that I had the chocolates in my bag, a seat in the air-conditioned train, that the food that would soon arrive at my seat, and many other ordinary comforts in my life are not simply trophies I have earned. They are also accidents of birth, history, circumstance and the work of people who came before me.

The train doors closed, the train began to move, and Kathgodam slowly disappeared behind the window. The man remained on the platform. I still had the chocolates in my bag. For some reason, I didn’t touch them that evening. And even now, days after that incident, I still find myself thinking about the man at the station. Enough of my rambling for now. I feel grateful for the life I have been given, but also saddened by how differently life can unfold for people who began with so little. Perhaps that is all I can do with this awareness – to be grateful for what I have, and to help others whenever I can. Hopefully, better my Karma for an even better life in my next birth, or get out of this loop of birth and death.

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Whenever people learn that I live in a remote mountain village, one question almost always follows: “What if you are close to death and there are no medical facilities nearby?” It is a fair question, and one that has made me reflect deeply on life, death, and what it means to live well.

There was a time when the thought of death frightened me. Not all the time, but often enough. The thought would appear unexpectedly while lying awake at night after being woken up by some unexpected loud noise of a dumper passing by or an owl landing on the roof. The thought would come after hearing of someone’s passing, or even while reading about illness and old age. The mind would ask questions that had no easy answers. What happens when this life ends? Will everything simply disappear? Will I ever see the people I love again?

I began asking these questions during the covid pandemic, when I lost several close friends. Since then, the same thoughts return whenever I hear of another death. Each loss is a reminder that none of us can escape this end of journey.

For years I searched for answers. Ironically, it wasn’t answers that brought me peace. It was the acceptance that some questions cannot be answered with certainty. Instead of trying to conquer death (or rather questions about death) with logic, I am slowly learning to live alongside the mystery of it.

Living in the mountains has changed the way I think about life. Here, I have the time to read what people from different ages and cultures have written about death. I explore religious texts, philosophy, literature, and science. I speak with learned scholars, wandering monks, and the villagers whose wisdom comes not from books but from life itself. Everyone has something to share. Running a homestay has brought different people through my doors, each carrying their own experiences, beliefs, and stories. Every conversation around the topics of death feels like someone handing me another small piece of a vast jigsaw puzzle.

Nature also teaches. Watching the cycle of plants and trees, year after year, I began to realise that it accepts every season with remarkable grace. Only human beings seem to spend their lives wishing that things would remain exactly as they are. The Buddha called this impermanence. Everything that comes into being eventually passes away. Happiness fades. Sorrow fades. Youth fades. Health changes. Relationships change. Even the mountains outside my window are slowly being shaped by wind and rain. When I first encountered this teaching, it sounded rather bleak. Today, I find it strangely comforting. Nothing lasts forever. Even the brightest of stars turn to black holes.

Looking back, I realise that I was never truly afraid of death itself. What unsettles me is the thought of leaving behind responsibilities unfinished and placing an unexpected burden on the people I love. It is not death that troubles me most, but the possibility of causing hardship to my family through my absence.

Paradoxically, accepting mortality has made me more practical rather than more fearful. I have begun sharing important information with my family, organising my affairs, and preparing a will – not because I expect death to arrive soon, but because I would rather leave clarity than confusion for those I care about. I frequentlyrecommend my friends also to do the same.

I am also trying to look after my health with greater purpose. I have almost quit alcohol (once in a month or so, I do have a drink or two). One major challenge before me is to lose weight and reduce the risk of lifestyle-related diseases later in life. I do not want an avoidable illness or an untimely death to become a burden on the people I love. For the same reason, I drive far more carefully now. Reflecting on death has made me value life more, and also to take greater responsibility for the life I have been given.

These days, when I walk through the orchard, I notice small things I once ignored. An overripe plum feeding birds before returning to the earth. A fallen apple slowly becoming part of the soil that will nourish next year’s blossoms. An old tree that no longer bears fruit, yet shelters woodpeckers, insects and moss. Nothing in nature is wasted. Everything becomes something else. We are no different. Everyone is bound to die and with that the cycle with continue. One day I too will become part of this landscape that has given me so much joy. Perhaps my body will return to the same earth that has nourished these apple trees. The seasons will continue. Spring will arrive without asking whether I am here to witness it. Birds will still sing at dawn. Clouds will still drift across the Himalayan peaks.

The Bhagavad Gita gave me a way of looking at life. Krishna tells Arjuna that just as a person discards worn-out clothes and puts on new ones, the Self leaves behind an old body and takes on another. Whether one believes this literally or sees it as a beautiful metaphor, it reminds us that perhaps we are more than this ageing body.

On the same lines of thought, the ancient scripture Katho-Upanishad also provides insight. A young boy named Nachiketa stands before Yama, the Lord of Death. Yama offers him wealth, long life, power and every earthly pleasure imaginable. Nachiketa refuses them all. He asks only one question: What becomes of us after death? I have always admired that question, not because it seeks certainty, but because it seeks truth. Yama eventually teaches him that the Self is not born, nor does it die. Bodies come and go, but the essence of who we are is beyond birth and death. Whether one interprets this spiritually or philosophically, it changes the conversation. Death is no longer an ending to be feared but a mystery to be approached with humility.

The greatest gift that accepting the inevitability of death has given me is that I think about living more. Every moment spend with my family and friends is precious. The morning cup of tea tastes better. Conversations have substance and I try to spend time with people who matter and discussing things that have some meaning for me. A flowering plum tree seems worthy of stopping for. The first snowfall feels like a gift rather than just another winter. Even silence has become a friend. When we remember that our days are finite, ordinary moments become extraordinary. If we were promised endless tomorrows, we would postpone everything that truly matters. Understanding death teaches us how to live.

There is something deeply reassuring about that thought. Life was never mine to possess; it was only mine to experience. What a privilege it has been. I am grateful for every day I am given. As I journey through life, I try to live by dharma, pursue artha and kama with moderation, and keep my eyes gently fixed on moksha – the freedom that hopefully lies beyond them all.

There is much more I could write on this subject. But perhaps some questions are meant to be lived rather than answered, and some thoughts are better shared beneath an old tree than on a page.

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There was a time when I took political discussions personally. I believed that if someone disagreed with me, they were rejecting something important. I wanted to explain my point, defend it, and sometimes even convince the other person that I was right. Looking back, I realise I was carrying far more weight than those conversations deserved.

These days, I find myself listening more than arguing. I try to ask questions instead of preparing replies. I have discovered that understanding another person’s view is often more rewarding than trying to change it. Not every discussion needs a winner. Some conversations are simply an opportunity to know another human being a little better and understand their point of view. A friend for example sees the gross injustice in how examinations are held, another one sees the protest as an unwanted platform for disruptions. Someone sides with Israel and someone else with Palestine. Some favour a free-market, others are convinced that the economies need guidance. Did Iran want to end their regime or did US interfere mindlessly? Whenever I hear the news, which I now a days try to keep away from, I always wonder where the world is headed to.

Each one’s ideas are primarily shaped by where they are born and the people they live with. In most cases, people don’t get to choose their religion, country, society, exposure to politics and ideologies, and even education. I feel that everyone’s ideas are actually a reflection of these all factors, though some do change with time and exposure to other ideas.

As I have grown older, I have come to see politics differently. Governments change. Leaders rise and fall. Promises are made and forgotten. What seems like the biggest issue today often fades into the background with time. Life moves on, whether our favourite party or movement wins or loses.

What has stayed with me are the people. The friends who shared meals with me, stood by me during difficult days, laughed at old stories, and made ordinary moments memorable. It seems strange to risk all of that because we happened to mark different boxes on a ballot paper. I have also learned that a difference of opinion is not a flaw. Two thoughtful people can love their country and still disagree on how it should be governed. That is not something strange. In many ways, it is healthy. Different ideas challenge us. They make us question our own beliefs and remind us that none of us sees the whole picture.

I do care about my country. I still have opinions, and I still vote according to my conscience and my limited exposure to information, which is presently clouded by lots of falsehoods, and presented in a way by various algorithms that align with what one feels comfortable with. But I no longer carry those opinions into every friendship. I would rather lose an argument than lose someone I care about.

The older I become, the more I value simple things. A walk through the orchard. A cup of tea with a friend. A good book on a quiet afternoon. The sound of birds after the rain. None of these moments asks which political party I support. They remind me that life is much larger than the arguments that fill our television screens and social media feeds. We as a species will vanish one day from this planet (and how I see it – what a big relief it will be for mother nature) and then the simple things will once again rule the world. Carl Sagan’s photograph of the Pale Blue Dot shows how insignificant we are and yet how big a ego we nurture.

That is one of the important lessons life teaches with age. Ideas will change. Protests will happen. Governments will change. Even our own beliefs may change. But kindness, respect, humanity, and relationships are worth holding on to. They have a way of outlasting every political change.

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Social burnout is an interesting phenomenon that I have only recently begun to recognise. Whenever I spend time with friends or neighbours, discussing various topics from everyday life to deeper ideas, there eventually comes a point where I feel an overwhelming need to retreat into my own company. The people are wonderful, the conversations are engaging, meaningful, and often enlightening. Yet, despite all that, I still need solitude.

For me, socialising, however enjoyable, comes with a hidden cost. As the hours spent with people increase, the time available for reading, important correspondence, paperwork, maintaining the house, tending the orchard, or simply sitting with my thoughts begins to shrink. These are not chores to be squeezed into the gaps. They are an essential part of my life that feels balanced and fulfilling when these are done. Unending socializing drains my energy.

I have come to realise that one of the greatest gifts people can offer is not only their time but also their understanding of another person’s need for space. Time makes relationships stronger, but space allows individuals to remain themselves within those relationships.

It is a subtle balance, and one that very few seem to understand. Those who do are often people who have experienced social burnout themselves. They know that choosing solitude is not a rejection of others. It is simply the process of restoring one’s energy before stepping back into the world.

Few days back, I returned from a lunch at a friend’s place. There were some others also present there. We had car-pooled. On the way, they decided to stop by at one of their houses for an evening tea. I politely declined. I needed time for myself. Thankfully, they dropped me at my place, before proceeding with their evening tea.

From time to time, I retreat into my own cocoon, even when surrounded by close friends. In the beginning, this was difficult for many to understand. Some mistook it for aloofness or disinterest. With passing time, however, those who know me have come to accept that this is simply how I am. Thankfully, they no longer judge me for it. I also try to give space to everyone else around me. Just because they are here doesn’t mean that I have to be with them all the time.

These days, I may not meet my neighbours every day, yet I find great comfort in knowing they are just nearby. There is a reassuring warmth in their presence without the expectation of constant interaction. It allows me to enjoy a sense of community while preserving the solitude that keeps me happy. For me, that balance is perhaps the best of both worlds.

Social burnout is real, and I have learnt that it is best avoided rather than recovered from. For me, a healthy balance between meaningful socialising and uninterrupted solitude is what works best.

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Lately, I have been again trying to reduce the number of things I own. I try to become more and more minimalist every once in a while. It comes from a realisation that the more we hold on to stuff, the more it asks from us. Space, attention, care. Letting go, in its own way, creates space inside the mind. I minimize my stuff every once in a while and then I again feel the urge to further reduce, and then after a few months this urge pushes me even more.

Last month, I gave away many of my old work clothes. The stiff-collar shirts and neatly pressed trousers belonged to a different phase of life. I kept one pair, just in case life asks for it again, and more so because I wanted to pacify my family.

This month, I gave away a lot of my photography equipment. Old lenses, umbrellas, camera bodies. They had served me well, but I no longer used them. Keeping them felt like carrying extra weight. Fewer things means fewer distractions, and more room for what truly matters.

However, at the same time, life does not always move in one direction. Recently, my camera fell and got damaged. I had to choose between adjusting to an even older camera with limitations or buying a new one. I ended up buying a new camera. I was not entirely happy about the purchase. It felt like something I was forced into. If the old one had not broken, I would have continued using it. But perhaps this is also part of life. We let go in some places, and we accept in others.

My dream is simple. To be able to carry everything I need in just a couple of bags and still feel complete. I am far from that right now. Books still hold me. Number of my books is growing and I am running out of place to keep them. My music, which I keep in physical form, is hard to part with. And then there are a few things that carry memories, like an old candle stand from my grandmother or a slide-rule from my grandfather. These are not easy to let go of.

One of the biggest challenges is deciding where to give things away. Throwing them in the garbage does not feel right, especially when they are still usable. Selling is not easy here, as not many people share the same interests. Usually even when someone interested in buying comes, the price quoted is too low. Shipping takes time and effort. So I am learning to be patient. Maybe not everything needs to go immediately. Maybe each object will find its next place in its own time.

The ideal way to deal with old belongings is often to donate them. At first, it can feel difficult because of the money once spent on them. But the moment those things reach someone who truly needs and appreciates them, a sense of happiness follows, something difficult to describe unless one has experienced it personally. Selling old possessions for a few pennies after paying dearly for them can feel disappointing. Giving them away especially to the right person, on the other hand, feels far more meaningful. It brings a sense of joy and leaves behind the feeling that the right thing has been done. So now, I prefer to donate things rather then sell them at absurdly low prices.

In the end, this journey from birth to death is also about holding things more lightly. I now understand their impermanence and also understand the futility of hoarding stuff. A friend of mine from Haldwani often reminds me that these things are meant to serve our lives, not take control of them. It is a simple thought, but quite profound in how it makes me look at material goods. To use what I have with care, and to let it go when it no longer serves its purpose, with a hope that someone else will find a use for it then.

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In the teachings of the Buddha, there is a an idea of impermanence. Not as an abstract idea, but as a living reality that touches every moment of our existence. Sit long enough with life and you begin to notice a simple pattern. Everything changes. Everything moves. Nothing stays. Everything has an end.

We often resist this truth. We build our lives as though things will last. We cling to relationships, possessions, identities and even our own thoughts. We say, this is mine, this is me, this will remain. Yet life keeps showing us otherwise. A beloved object breaks. A season changes. A person we depend on walks a different path. Even joy, when held too tightly, slips through the fingers. It is simply the nature of things.

I am reminded of a dialogue from the film Anand. A man facing the certainty of his approaching death speaks to his doctor, who may have decades left to live. And yet, both are moving towards the same end. One may have six months, another seventy years, but the direction is no different. It is only a matter of time passing. The Bhagavad Gita offers a similar reflection, describing life as the shedding of worn out clothes, making way for the new.

We have to understand that holding on cannot prevent change. It can only create suffering. The tighter we grasp, the more we feel the pain when things inevitably shift. Letting go is therefore not an act of loss. It is an act of alignment with an eternal reality. This does not mean indifference. I still appreciates the warmth of the sun, the taste of good food, material goods like a good camera or a music system, and the time spent with family and friends. But there is an awareness beneath it all that I have started realizing. Like the cliche that says – this too will pass, but I see this cliche in a different light. And because of that awareness, I now find that each moment becomes more precious.

A mug of beer (or a cup of tea for that matter) is savoured more deeply when you know it will soon be empty. A conversation becomes more meaningful when you understand it cannot be repeated in exactly the same way again. Even sorrow, when seen through the lens of impermanence, carries a different weight. It is no longer an endless burden, but just a passing cloud. In this way, impermanence is not merely a source of sadness. It is also the doorway to peace.

Every thing is temporary. Everything that is there has an end. This is what Buddhist philosophy teaches in its simplest form. Even the grandest creations of human civilisation do not escape this truth. The great statues of historical significance in the Middle East were destroyed. It was a profound loss for the world. Yet those who walk the path of awareness understand that even such loss is part of the nature of existence. Nothing, however magnificent, is beyond change. Even life itself.

I am learning now to to observe without clinging, to experience without grasping, to let life flow as it does, without demanding that it stay as I wish it would.

Even simple moments in everyday life echo this truth. Some weeks ago, my camera slipped from my hands and fell. It was a perfectly fine, functioning object until that very moment. Now it lies damaged, its usefulness altered in an instant. What seemed stable revealed its fragility without warning. I felt sad since it was a financial loss and it meant having to buy a new one which meant another unexpected expense, but then this is what impermanence is all about.

And then there are the trees, silent teachers of patience and impermanence. A few days ago, a sudden downpour arrived. One of my mulberry trees already heavy with fruit and dense foliage could not bear the added weight. It fell. The trunk split at its base, and there was no bringing it back. We usually prune the branches before the rains, but this time the unexpected rains acted as a medium and once again reminded me of impermanence. In its place, I have planted a new sapling. Life continues by renewing itself.

Everything is temporary. Today I feel energetic and strong. After a few decades, that may not be the case. This too will change, as all things do. And so the only prayer that arises is a simple one – To remain mobile and not be dependent on anyone, to remain aware with my brain working properly, to remain present while life flows through this body. And when the time comes, to ease away gently, as a ripened cucumber is easily severed from its stem. Human life is like a dewdrop on the blade of grass, which quickly evaporates with the morning sun. 

In understanding impermanence, there is no despair. There is clarity about how things move in life. And in that clarity, there is an enduring peace.

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One of the most precious things in life is time. Everyone is here on this planet for only a short period. Time is limited, and that is what makes it so valuable. For me, anyone who can spare time for me gives me something deeply meaningful. It is never a small thing. It is one of the clearest signs of respect and presence.

When someone reads what I write, it tells me that they want to know what I think and what I have to say. In that moment, they are giving me a part of their time. That means a lot to me. When people visit me without any real purpose, just for the sake of meeting me, it is their time they are offering me. I may not enjoy everyone’s company equally, but I remain grateful to each person who chooses to spend a part of their finite time with me.

I feel it most clearly when my friends visit me or invite me over. It is the time they spare for me that I value. Their presence is precious because their time is precious. And when someone gives us their time, they are giving us something they will never get back. That is why time is not just a convenience or a schedule. It is a gift. It is a form of love, of respect, and of quiet generosity.

A few days from now, two of my friends will come over. I look forward to those days, not just for the laughter they always bring, but for the simple act of being together. They will offer me the gift of their time, and I will offer them mine, an exchange of something we can never get back, yet willingly give.

Once I began to see time as something truly valuable, I also realised that my own time is limited too. There were times when I could have used it for more meaningful conversations, but instead I spent it on superficial parties and get togethers. I gave hours to things that did not matter as much as many others did. Even the books I read now are chosen more carefully. I rely on solid recommendations from people whose tastes I understand or from those who seem genuinely knowledgeable about what they are recommending. If a book does not work for me even halfway through, I leave it. I have learnt that dwelling too long on time already wasted can become another way of wasting time in the future.

Nature has made this lesson clearer to me, not in abstraction but in the rhythm of daily life. Living close to the land and observing the orchard through its changing seasons, I have come to see that time is never wasted, only transformed in its expression. There are long stretches when the trees seem still, almost withdrawn, especially during the frost-laden days when everything feels suspended. Yet that stillness is not absence but preparation. Beneath the visible, life continues its quiet work. It reminds me that not all time is meant for action. Some of it is meant for waiting, for gathering, for becoming. Even when circumstances do not align with what I feel I should be doing, there is still a way to use that time meaningfully.

The birds and butterflies carry this lesson further. Their movements are always purposeful. In their own way, they remain engaged with what must be done. It makes me question how often I move through my own time with that same clarity, despite supposedly being a more intelligent species.

Time is running out. I want to use it for my family, friends, and for making a difference to this world that I live in.

The sense of time’s finiteness makes me treasure it all the more. And perhaps that is why I now say that the people who value my time also value me. To respect someone’s time is to recognise their life as finite and meaningful. It is to say, without words, that they matter. In that sense, time is more than a passing thing. It is one of the purest ways we show one another our worth.

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I have long suspected that my relationship with minimalism is less that of a devoted practitioner and more that of a well meaning acquaintance who drops by unannounced, stays for tea, and then the stay extends all the way to dinner. I do not fall into temptation daily, which would at least have the merit of consistency. No, my lapses are far more dignified. They arrive roughly once a month. For weeks I move about with admirable restraint, owning little, wanting less, and feeling rather pleased with myself. I sort of stuff and get rid of it. I tell my family and friends about the advantages of being minimalist. And then, without much warning, something gleams, or creaks, or otherwise presents itself as indispensable, and I find myself making yet another addition to my supposedly minimalist existence.

I am trying, you understand, to be a minimalist. I have been quite successful too, most of the time. I rise in the morning with the firm resolve of a man who intends to own fewer things than he did the night before. Usually it remains so. But sometimes by evening, I am the proud custodian of an object or two that was not in the original scheme of operations.

The trouble begins with what I like to call the Investment Argument. It is a most persuasive fellow, this argument. He starts his dark magic on me in shops and markets and whispers that a thing is not a mere purchase but a legacy. Take, for instance, metal vessels. A fine bronze plate gleams at me with the quiet dignity of something that expects to outlive empires. “You are not buying this,” says the Investment Argument to my brain, adjusting its spectacles, “you are preserving civilisation.” And before I know it, the plate is wrapped and paid for, and I am already imagining it being handed down to the next generation, who may or may not share my enthusiasm for ancestral crockery.

Yesterday it was a pair of hurricane lanterns. Kerosene, I am told, is no longer that easily available. But that is beside the point. These lanterns had character. They seemed the sort of fellows who would perform admirably in a storm or at the very least look splendid while not doing so. “Keepsakes,” murmured the Investment Argument. “Investments.” And I, being only human, succumbed.

There are times, too, when I acquire wood. Good, solid wood. I tell myself I have secured it at an excellent price and that it will have ample time to cure, which sounds quite practical. What I do not tell myself is that I had no immediate need for it. The minimalist within me observes all this with a raised eyebrow and later, when the excitement has worn off, administers a mild but unmistakable dose of buyer’s remorse. This, however, fades in a few days, and the stage is set for a sequel some months hence.

Curiously, I have had better luck with electronics. Here I am something of a model minimalist. So restrained am I that people occasionally regard me as a man who would cross the street to avoid a gadget. I possess a proper alarm clock, which performs its duties without any of the philosophical complications of its smarter cousins. I did, after more than a year of deliberation, acquire a pair of headphones, but that was less an impulse and more a treaty negotiation. My recent acquisitions here would suggest a man who regards gadgets with suspicion and admits only the most well behaved among them. A phone last year, only because its predecessor took a regrettable fall and the screen broke. A few bulbs. A couple of USB cables. Two extension boards so that I might read by a lamp and charge the phone at the same time. I even resisted the siren call of the modern “smart” contraption, which promises to do everything except, one suspects, make a decent cup of tea.

Printers, alas, are my undoing. I distrust them deeply, for they possess a mysterious talent for developing personalities after a few years, none of them agreeable. Two years ago I had to buy another one. It sits there now, watching me, waiting for its moment. And knowing printers, I know that it will soon start to misbehave and then I will be forced to buy a new one.

And then there are the ambushes. A good quality metal pan appears in my line of sight and my purse opens of its own accord, like a flower responding to sunlight. Books are another hazard. I own a perfectly serviceable Kindle, yet from time to time I find myself buying physical copies. These are the books I wish to flip through, to revisit, to keep close at hand, and go back and forth. It is, I tell myself, a matter of practicality, though I suspect the Investment Argument has been at work again, wearing a different hat.

Clothes also present no difficulty. I have no particular enthusiasm for them. If they cover me and keep the elements at bay, I consider them to have done a splendid job. Brands hold no charm. Indeed, I prefer garments that do not feel the need to announce their ancestry to the world. When I buy a sweatshirt, no logo is the best design element for me. Quality is welcome, vulgarity (brand) is not.

A more insidious trap, however, lies in the modern custom of gift cards and shared wish lists. A gift card is a curious creature. It sits in my possession and emits a sort of silent pressure. “Use me,” it seems to say. “I am waiting.” And I feel an odd obligation to oblige. The result is often the acquisition of something that was never on the list of life’s necessities, purchased not out of desire but out of a wish to silence the card’s persistent whisper. A wish-list, much like a gift card, also refuses to be ignored and keeps nudging me towards purchases I had very nearly forgotten I didn’t need. Though keeping books in a wish-list helps me plan what to read next, even these, from time to time, find their way into my purchases.

So here I stand, a minimalist in spirit if not always in inventory. I have made good progress over the last few years, especially in certain quarters and not so much in others. It is, I suppose, a long game. One stumbles, one recovers, one occasionally buys a pair of hurricane lanterns.

The important thing, I feel, is to keep trying. And perhaps to avoid eye contact with bronze plates and cast-iron pots.

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There is a peculiar habit that modern people share. They wake up, reach for a device, and immediately ask the world a question: What happened? Not what matters! Not what will shape the next decade! Simply what happened. That’s where the ‘news’ steps in. A scandal here. A conflict there. A stock market tremor. A political quarrel. Heated outbursts. An alarm. Another alarm. Tomorrow a new set of alarms replaces the old ones. The cycle repeats. In my opinion, following the news is one of the least effective ways to understand reality.

Over the past few years I have developed a strong aversion to the latest news and the so called breaking stories that flash across television networks and social media. The entire machinery appears designed to stimulate emotions and pump up the viewership (TRPs). Modern news organisations seem to survive on attention. Everything is blown out of proportion because outrage and fear travels faster than facts. A military action somewhere in the world becomes a dramatic spectacle. A careless remark by a politician becomes a national crisis. Worst kinds of crimes against humans that lead to loss of lives are easily forgotten, and the opinions of some people start to matter more. The goal of news is not balance but engagement.

Gone are the days of the well-balanced and poised news readers of Doordarshan of some decades back, who mostly provided a well edited and proper summary of the events.

Consuming daily news is futile. The news actually has had very little relevance to my life. None of my financial decisions were ever shaped by breaking headlines because I am not into trading fast moving stocks or derivatives. My daily work to live and support my family continues almost entirely unaffected by who wins an election in a distant country. The things that matter to me are far simpler and far closer to home. Ensuring that I can grow fruits and vegetables. Ensuring that my family is safe and well fed. Ensuring that people around me remain healthy and content. This may appear like a narrow view of the world to anyone who is ‘up to date’, but it is perhaps the most practical one.

Politics offers another example. Governments change and parties rotate through power, yet many everyday realities remain stubbornly unchanged. The broken village road here has always remains broken regardless of the ruling party. I have had to arrange for basics like water supply and power on my own, even when the vegetables or basic commodities become expensive – I have no option but to either pay or learn to live without them. Latest news doesn’t change my life in anyway. The actual happenings do influence like the commodities becoming expensive, but the latest news doesn’t. The news may loudly discuss economic trends, but the real impact is felt at the marketplace and in the daily life after many many days.

News also creates an illusion of urgency. The human mind evolved to react quickly to danger and when something is labelled breaking, the brain behaves as if immediate action is required. Yet almost nothing in the news requires action. Wars will proceed without our involvement or our feeling. Markets will move without our intervention. Political scandals will resolve themselves without our participation.

Another curious feature of the news is the confident prediction of complex events. Analysts forecast economic shifts, political outcomes, or geopolitical consequences with remarkable certainty. But societies and economies behave like complex ecosystems. Small and unpredictable events often shape history far more than carefully crafted forecasts. Years later most predictions fade into irrelevance while the daily ritual of confident commentary continues on all news channels.

I do read the news from time to time, but usually after the complete story has unfolded and the facts are out to get a proper account of what’s going on. I prefer to read to opposite points to view even though I might be aligned to one. This gives me an insight which incidently pleases me, but is also actually entirely useless.

Consider the endless discussions around global conflicts. A war broke out in the middle east (or middle west depending on where you see it from), there may or may not be a crisis when it comes to fuels like petrol, diesel, or the cooking gas. The war may or may not end in a few days. US may be supporting Israel against Iran or maybe supporting Russia and in turn helping Iran. It’s all a very complicated world and there are more opinions and speculations than one can imagine. How does it affect me? It doesn’t. If I have cooking gas, I will cook. If not, I will crib and cry, and then find some alternatives. For most ordinary people the effect is far simpler. If petrol becomes expensive, we pay more, or try to reduce travel. Some even hoard as a short-term stop-gap arrangement. If cooking gas becomes scarce, we find alternatives. Human beings have always adapted this way, especially in places like India where daily life itself is an ongoing negotiation with scarcity and uncertainty.

This reveals an important distinction. Events do shape the world, but the news about those events rarely improves our understanding of them. News is mostly noise. It is a clouded, dramatic version of reality designed to capture attention and influence large audiences. It runs on keeping our adrenaline levels high, and also with a constant dose of dopamine to make one feel well-informed and on top of the things. The news deals in interruptions while reality unfolds through continuity.

To ignore the news today requires a small act of discipline because the society insists that one must stay constantly updated and connected. Yet I feel that the wisdom often lies in selective ignorance. Ignore what is random. Ignore what you cannot influence. Ignore what will be forgotten next week. Invest attention where it compounds slowly over time through learning, observation, and meaningful work.

News doesn’t change anything. The happenings around the world may, to some extent. There is a difference between the two. News is noise. It is just a clouded version of what’s happening around and tries to make masses aware and to influence them. The actual happenings do change things but knowing them through news is not of any use. The world will continue to turn without our daily consumption of headlines. And strangely, by stepping away from the noise, one often begins to understand it far more clearly. In the end most news stories share the same destiny. They disappear.

After such a long rant, the summary is simple. I have largely stopped following the news. Not that I live in complete ignorance like a hermit in a cave. I remain aware of events around the world, but I no longer feel the need to consume the endless stream of breaking headlines. I choose not to feed that system. Life feels better this way. Some may say that this is a form of blindness. Perhaps it is. But if stepping away from the noise brings clarity, then it is a blindness I am comfortable with.

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What will people think?
How will they see me?
What impression will I leave behind?

These are questions that trouble many people I have met. They have troubled me as well, at times.

When I first left my job, the first thought that came to me was not about money or work. It was about what others would think. What would my colleagues say? What would my batchmates say? Would they think I had wasted the first years of my career? Or that I was about to waste the years ahead?

From my own point of view, the answer was simple. I had done what I enjoyed for many years. Then I found something that felt even more true to me. I had found my calling. Something that made me happier. So I moved towards that life. This present slow life that I am living now.

The beginning was not easy. I felt uncertain. At times quite uncomfortable. I had stepped away from a routine that had shaped decades of my life. I was out of my comfort zone of doing what I had done for decades, but with time it started feeling right and I got back the happiness that I was looking for. It was quite a struggle and still is, but I am happy.

Leaving most social media was another step in the same direction. Much of it is built on the same question that troubles us. How do others see me? Do they approve of me? Each like and comment becomes a small piece of borrowed approval. It is a strange marketplace of validation. Thankfully, I am out of that loop.

Of course, people still judge. They judge what I say. They judge what I do. They judge my beliefs, my thoughts, the way I dress, even what they imagine my financial condition might be. I have learned to smile at it. Sometimes I even chuckle quietly. Because I recognise something familiar in it. It reminds me of a habit I once had myself which I am slowly learning to leave behind.

I remember attending a get-together one evening. That very morning I had read a short reflection which said that in such gatherings everyone is trying to present their best version of themselves. Everyone is worried about how they appear to others. And because of this, no one is truly interested in anyone else. That evening I watched carefully. And it felt true. People spoke. They laughed. They told stories about themselves. Yet beneath it all was an effort to appear successful, wise, happy, interesting. The conversations were superficial. It was an interesting evening, not because of what was said, but because I could see clearly what was happening.

We live with endless variations of the same question.

What will people think if I do not spend enough time with my family?
What will they think if I spend all my time with them?
What will they think if I read a certain book on a train? (Though I must admit, when I travel by train I still sometimes cover the book I am reading, only to avoid the long conversations that curiosity often brings.)
What will people think if I arrive late for a gathering?
What will they think if I leave early?
What will they think if I attend a pooja?
What if I arrive late or choose not to attend at all?

The mind can create a thousand such questions. They have no end. At some point one has to smile at them and let them go.

This life is mine to live. The choices are mine to make. What matters in the end is simple. My peace. My family and friends. The thoughts I carry within. The life I strive to build around them.

Everything else is just noise.

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An interesting question someone asked me a few days ago was this: Do you get FOMO? It took me a moment to understand this modern city expression. FOMO, she explained, means the fear of missing out.

When I thought about it, I realised that by the standards of the modern world I miss out on quite a lot. I miss out on the latest trends. I miss out on the hottest discussions circulating on social media. I miss out on visits to malls, parties with friends, and the endless excitement of owning the newest gadgets and devices.

So yes, in a literal sense, I do miss out on these things. But there is an important difference. I do not fear missing out on them. I do not feel anxious or sad that I miss those things.

It is a conscious decision. In fact, the more I observe the world around me, the more I feel that much of this excitement has a certain superficiality about it. It is noise rather than substance. It seems meaningless to me.

For me, the real fear would be something else entirely. The real fear would be missing out on life itself. Missing out on quiet, meaningful time with family and close friends. Missing out on the conversations that wander gently from one thought to another while sitting in the sun on a winter afternoon. Missing out on those simple shared moments that later become the most precious memories. This is my FOMO if it may be called so.

I remember reading about a study in a book where people who were in the final years of their lives were asked a simple question. Looking back, what did they feel they could have done better? What did they wish they had more of? The answers, across different lives and backgrounds, were strikingly similar. Most people did not speak about money they wished they had earned, or possessions they wished they had acquired. They did not regret missing the rush of a fast life or the endless chase of material things. Instead, the answer that kept appearing again and again was much simpler and far more human. They wished they had spent more time with the people they loved.

There are so many things in life worth giving attention to. So many wonderful books waiting patiently on shelves. I already know that I will not be able to read all the books I would like to in this lifetime. That, to me, feels like a much greater loss than missing the latest phone or the newest trend.

A walk through the orchard with family, talking about the fruit trees, watching the buds swell in spring or the leaves fall in autumn, spotting a bird calling from a distant branch. These are moments that never feel wasted. They feel like time properly lived. Such small experiences carry richness.

Compared to that, sitting in a crowded multiplex watching a film often feels strangely hollow. The story may be grand, the sound loud, the visuals spectacular. Yet stepping out of the hall one often carries very little of it back into real life. The hustle and bustle of cities too seems to me a curious kind of performance. Everyone appears busy, rushing somewhere, chasing something. Yet when one stops to ask what exactly is being chased, the answer often remains unclear. I am happy living here rather than being a part of that fast city life.

Many people who visit here tell me they long for a quieter life. They speak fondly of silence, of open skies, of mornings without traffic noise. On the other hand, I rarely feel the urge to go to cities. Perhaps once in a while I might enjoy wandering through an old crowded market, observing people, tasting some street food, absorbing the colour and chaos for a few hours.

The slow rhythm of nature has a way of reminding us what truly matters. And perhaps that is the real antidote to the FOMO that city folk mention. When one begins to pay attention to the quiet abundance around us, the fear of missing out slowly dissolves. Because one realises that life is already happening here, in the present moment, in the rustle of leaves, in a shared conversation, in a walk through the orchard, in company of family and friends.

The real tragedy would not be missing the world’s noise. The real tragedy would be missing this.

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One of the common questions that people who visit me ask is how I don’t feel lonely living here alone most of the time. I tell them that I enjoy my own company. I enjoy the company of nature and the books that I have. I enjoy the company of silence. It’s not loneliness but it’s solitude.

Loneliness and solitude are often confused, but they are very different experiences. Loneliness is not really about being alone. A person can feel lonely even when surrounded by people. It is the feeling of being disconnected, unseen, or not truly understood. When someone is lonely, there is a sense of lack inside. One feels that something important is mising, whether it is warmth, attention, or meaning. This is why people sometimes feel lonely in crowds, at parties, or even within families. The body may be present, but the heart feels distant. People tend to think that living alone is also an extension of loneliness, but it is not.

Solitude, for me, is different. Solitude is something I choose consciously. It is the time I spend alone without trying to escape myself. In solitude, I am not running from silence. I sit with my own thoughts, my breath, and my feelings. I can introspect or even meditate. I try to look at my thoughts and feelings in a way that makes me understand them better. In this personal space, I see my fears, my hopes, and also the small, simple joys that I usually ignore when life gets noisy. Solitude is about reading a good book and living in the moment. It’s about seeing the nature around me and being awed. Solitude is enjoying my own company.

Loneliness on the other hand creates restlessness. The mind keeps looking outside for comfort, through constant activity, talking, scrolling, or seeking social validation and approval. Solitude creates stillness. It allows the mind to relax and the heart to slow down. Loneliness makes time feel heavy and long. Solitude makes time feel open and gentle. One tightens the chest, the other relaxes it. This difference becomes even more obvious when I look around myself. A lot of my neighbours here live alone or at times spend long times being alone. Some of them feel loneliness and others enjoy the solitude. It becomes obvious when I occasionally meet them or see their messages.

It is also true that when someone first starts to connect with solitude, it may feel uncomfortable. Old memories, worries, and unfinished emotions can surface. This does not mean solitude is harmful. It means the mind is becoming quiet enough to hear what was always there. In Zen practice, nothing is pushed away and nothing is held tightly. Thoughts are noticed and allowed to pass. Over time, this simple presence becomes healing. This is where the mindfulness and clear thinking steps in. Over the last few years, I am trying to reach this state. Still a long way to go!

Solitude does not replace human connection. We are social beings after all, and we need others. But when we learn to be at ease with ourselves, we no longer depend on others to fill every empty space inside us. Then, when we are with people, we can meet them with calmness instead of neediness, and with openness instead of fear. In this way, solitude does not lead us away from the world. It brings us back to it with a quieter mind and a fuller heart.

I read a slogan behind a truck the other day – It’s better to be lonely than be in a bad company.
And as a further extention to that thought – It’s always better to be in solitude than be lonely.

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Here in the hills I often remind myself that choosing a rural life does not automatically make one kinder to the planet. Many people imagine that moving to a village will instantly make them climate friendly. It does not work that way. There are real pitfalls that many are simply not aware of. I also arrived here with a city mindset, but with time I am learning, adapting, and slowly reshaping the way I live here.

Transport is one of the places where rural living can quietly inflate a carbon footprint. Here, I try to slow down. I avoid using my car whenever I can. The maximum I travel is usually a short trip between Bhimtal and Natadol. While visiting my friends and neighbours locally, I prefer to walk. Even while buying groceries, I make a single trip and buy everything at one go. Sometimes, I walk up to a nearby shop and buy those last minute items. Life feels better when traveling/movement stays small and purposeful. The comfort of a car can slowly turn into a habit that leads to unnecessary waste. So I have to intentionally try to live with awareness.

When I must travel longer distances which happens once or twice a year, such as going to Delhi, I prefer the train. And I enjoy that journey !

Food has been another meaningful change. I try to eat what the land around me offers. Locally grown vegetables and fruits feel alive in a way supermarket produce rarely does, and have lower food-miles attached to them. No exotic fruits or vegetables for me and definitely no exotic meats, none of the imported canned or packaged food either. Even when I eat meat, I try to choose thoughtfully. I am trying to shift to smaller free-range birds and locally caught fish, creatures that usually have a lower environmental burden than larger animals like mutton or pork. Food becomes a relationship with soil, water, forests and farmers, not just a transaction. A vegetarian diet has a lower carbon footprint, but I am still not there yet. Agriculture already has a heavy impact on the planet, so it seems foolish to grow vast amounts of food only to feed animals that are later to be eaten by humans. The larger the animal, the larger the footprint.

Heating is another major contributor to emissions, here in the hills. Whether it is wood fired or electric heaters, everything leaves a mark on the climate. So, ignoring a bit of family resistance, I have reduced heating inside the home to almost half compared to last few years. Wearing an extra layer, covering the head with a warm beanie, and keeping feet snug in thick socks is far more earth friendly than heating an entire house just to walk around in summer clothing. Thankfully, some of the family already agrees.

Small choices matter too though not as much as the above. Reducing consumer goods, avoiding unnecessary purchases, and cutting down on plastic help in their own quiet way. Minimalism in daily life keeps clutter and waste in check, and it also makes one more mindful. So, small choices help in setting the mindset. Still, to be clear, the biggest impact comes from how we travel, what we eat, and how we use electricity. And that in a nutshell leads to my new year resolution. I want to further reduce my carbon footprint by around a third over the next year.

Rural life teaches humility. It is easy to romanticise nature and dream of a peaceful village existence. True respect lies in living lightly upon the land. I do not claim perfection. I only try to do better each day. I listen to my surroundings. To the hills. To the wind. To the quiet wisdom of trees. And slowly, with patience, I hope to shape a life that gives back a little more than it takes.

Signing off on 31 December 2025, with a smile and a firm resolution to tread more gently on this beautiful planet.

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Letting material possessions go is a hard thing to do. Even harder is controlling the urge to buy something new. Christmas time is here. What was once a quiet family festival has slowly turned into a large corporate affair. Everywhere we look there are adverts, discounts, and loud reminders that it is time to shop again. This is no longer limited to Christmas. Every festival in every religion seems to come wrapped in a layer of sale banners and seasonal offers. And when there are no festivals, companies create their own grand sales to keep the buying mood alive.

Over the years I have tried hard to reduce my material possessions. Fewer clothes. Fewer electronic gadgets. Fewer things lying around for the sake of owning them. I am still deciding whether I should keep my old music system or pass it on to someone who will truly value it. It is heavy and not exactly minimal, yet when it plays, it fills my space with a kind of joy that small bluetooth speakers cannot. For my homestay guests, a small speaker is fine. For myself, I either want good music or only the soft murmur of a good old radio. So perhaps it will stay. But I have promised myself that I will not buy anything new just to listen to music in a slightly different way.

Consumer electronics are one of the biggest drains on both money and mental peace. My phone often runs out of charge while I am working in the orchard. The first thought is always to buy a power bank. But then I ask myself why it really drains so fast. The answer is simple. It is the time wasted scrolling, instead of doing something productive in the orchard itself. Even now after years of trying to be mindful, I still need to remind myself not to fall into that trap. If my phone cannot last the day, it means I have spent more time on it than I should have. Buying another gadget is not the solution. Using the phone wisely is.

The same pattern appears when decorating homes and gardens. There is always one more beautiful thing to add. Another fancy set of tableware. Another cushion. Another decoration for the garden. A three-tiered fountain here and an elevated wooden pathway there. There is no natural end to these desires. Nature teaches a different lesson. A forest does not collect ornaments. It grows, it sheds, it renews, and it remains beautiful without buying anything. So, I let my orchard grow and flourish. Hopefully nature will make it more beautiful with the passing years.

Recently I visited a friend who had beautiful garden ornaments. A large marble statue in one corner. Graceful arches covered with roses. For a moment I felt the desire to recreate something similar in my garden. Then a quieter thought followed. More purchases. More things to maintain. More distraction from what truly matters. If I must spend money, it is better to repair what already exists like my pathways, or care for the land and buy some wildflower seeds, and perhaps plant another couple of trees too.

I often face a dilemma with my camera equipment. The camera and lenses, that I already have, produce lovely photographs but the equipment is heavy and takes space. The idea of selling everything and getting a simpler camera feels tempting. It sounds like simplicity, yet it is still consumerism wearing a different mask. Sometimes minimalism is not about replacing what we have. It is about using what already exists with care.

Every festival has the same hidden motto. Make people buy more. Diwali Offers, Navratri Sales, Eid Offers, Christmas Sales, and lately I have seen Independence Day and Republic Day sales too !

Every day is a gentle tug of war. On one side are advertisements, celebration sales, and constant pressure to own more. On the other side are minimalism, financial wisdom, peace of mind, and a simpler life. With every festive season the noise grows louder. Yet I try to hold my ground. I choose to live within my limite means. I choose to ignore marketing slogans. Simplicity is not deprivation. It is freedom. It is space to breathe. It is respect for the earth and for our own quiet happiness.

If we can celebrate festivals with love, presence, and gratitude instead of shopping bags, perhaps we return to their true meaning. Not a season of buying. A season of being.

P.S. If you want to gift me something, kindly resist the urge. I do not need more items in my life. If you must be kind, financial help or a peaceful holiday are always welcome. Objects are not.

Merry Christmas !

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My mornings begin with the blue-whistling thrush singing into the thinning dusk. Its notes are clear and melodious, like some early morning raga, and they slip gently into my sleep. I open my eyes slowly, wrapped in that familiar mountain laziness. Once, I could spend a little more time drifting in and out of dreams. Now, if I do not rise with the thrush, I will be greeted instead by the growl of excavators in the neighbouring plots. Their noise cuts into the hills like a saw. But the bird usually wins. Its song is an inspiring thing and it pulls me up before the machines can disturb me.

Still in bed, I check my phone. Not for the endless chatter of social media, which I dodge like a low branch on a mountain path, but for messages about bookings or the occasional small opportunities that help keep this place alive and my family well-fed. Sometimes I attempt the daily chess puzzle, just to wake my mind before the day begins to tug at me from all directions.

The first issue is usually the power. A strange quirk in our power supply system means that if the batteries drain at night or if the voltage from government supply jumps too high the whole supply collapses. Winter makes this worse because the solar panels do not gather enough light. I keep the main power line connected during winters but that comes with its own challenge: here we do not suffer from low voltage like much of India but from high voltage. It often touches 260 volts. When it rises too high the protective circuit steps in, refusing to supply power, and the batteries empty themselves trying to run the heaters. When I complained, I was told with great confidence that 260 volts is “normal”. It was almost funny. Almost.

Then I walk down to the water tank. The path is uneven and the orchard spreads around me in sleepy silence. This is to reset the power-supply system and to check the status of water. First I start the power-supply again. Then I move to the water tank. I lift the lid of the tank, peer inside, and judge how much of the day can be shaped around whatever water the mountain has seen fit to give. In summer this task stretches into an hour, kind of like a slow planning between me and a resource that refuses to be hurried.

After that comes my daily BSNL ritual. The internet, like a shy animal, disappears more often than it appears. The complaints are quietly closed without action, so I simply open new ones and carry on. It is an odd kind of patience that mountain life teaches: you learn to work with slow signals and slower systems. Even now, as I write this in the evening, there is no internet. I am tapping these words out through a weak hotspot that flickers like a firefly.

After that come the bills. There is always one waiting, like an uninvited guest who insists on turning up every morning. Yesterday it was the internet bill, impressive for a service that barely works. Today it was electricity. Tomorrow it may be school fees or groceries or gas. Some days the flow of expenses feels endless and I wonder how many tiny leaks one middle class financial life can endure.

By the time my morning rounds are done, I have already met a full range of distractions, annoyances, and small stresses. People imagine that I live a carefree life, untouched by the usual worries. If only they knew the effort it takes to keep this place running as simply as it appears. Yet, the odd thing is that I remain happy through it all. Not because the problems disappear but because I have learnt, in my own slow way, to let them pass through me like wind moving through tree branches.

The quirky 260-volt “normal” remark makes me smile now. My daily walk to check the power supply has become part of my exercise; a small gift disguised as a nuisance. Even logging a complaint to BSNL has become a kind of morning mantra. One clicks, one breathes, one lets go.

After breakfast, everything starts to shift. Once I step into the orchard after breakfast, the small irritations of the morning fall away like dried leaves. Nature is my reset. I look at the trees, many of them rising bravely out of difficult soil. I notice how they grow, inch by inch, even when conditions are far from perfect. There is a lesson there that I do not miss.

The birds hop in the branches, the breeze moves down from the higher ridges, carrying a chill that wakes me better than any coffee. The sun touches the frost and turns it into mist. The whole place breathes, slowly and patiently. And in that breathing I find my own peace again. I feel my mind loosen and settle. My world becomes simple again.

Life here is not effortless. But it is straightforward. And in its quiet way, I choose happiness every morning, no matter what the voltage says.

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Life in the hills has a way of slowing the mind and opening quiet spaces within. While living the slow life here, I get a chance to introspect and remember the various reactions and feelings that I have had over the last many years. The two most difficult feelings to get rid of have been anger and jealousy. Once they were taken care of, many things sort themselves out without much effort. A little greed may still linger from time to time, but it becomes far easier to handle when the other two no longer shake the mind.

People are generally good. Problems arise when people get into the traps of anger, greed and above all jealousy. From ancient Hindu texts and Buddhism to the teachings of Neem Karoli Baba from Kainchi Dham, everyone has been saying this. Saints and wise teachers across centuries have spoken of these shadows that cloud the mind. And yet people still get trapped in them to such an extent that they feel sad and even cause harm to others. Just yesterday I was watching the film Interstellar and I realised a profound dialogue that earlier had not fully reached my heart. There is nothing evil in nature. It may be scary and even harmful but not evil in the true sense. Evil happens when we humans allow ourselves to be affected by the traps of jealousy and anger.

For me, the first feeling to rise above was anger. It took me a long time to understand what it truly was. For years I believed that my angry outbursts were a healthy release, a way to empty frustration before it grew too heavy. People even advised me to let it out instead of holding it inside. But over time I realised that what I thought was an outlet was actually pouring more fat into a fire. The flames only grew brighter and hotter.

Slowly I taught myself a different way. Now I try to reason and see why things happened in the first place. When I pause and look at the situation calmly, I often discover that there was no real need for anger at all. Many times it is actually my mistake or my behaviour that was prone to misinterpretation by others regardless of my intentions. Whatever the cause may be, there is always a reason behind every reaction. Once I see that reason, the anger simply does not rise. It fades before it finds strength.

Though I have noticed there are some people who seem blessed with a rare talent. They can misinterpret anything. You offer them a cup of tea and somehow they hear a declaration of war. You compliment their new shirt and they take it as a philosophical insult. Such gifted individuals appear in life more often than one would wish. Then there are those who make me feel like a scientist studying my own anger levels. Every time I meet them, I can almost hear a voice in my head saying observe the rise in temperature and note the changes in behaviour. After a few such encounters I realised the simplest wisdom of all. Since I am not an ascetic, I find that from such people it is best to maintain a peaceful and respectful distance. For everyone’s wellbeing, especially mine.

Jealousy was harder to recognise because it hides in silence. It slips in quietly, wrapped in comparison and self doubt. It tells us that others have better lives, better opportunities or greater talent. It makes us forget the blessings that sit right in front of us. Jealousy narrows the heart until even good news from others feels heavy.

From feeling jealous of people who grew up with a strong financial cushion to grumbling about nepotism in different work environments including hospitality. From being treated as an outsider in my own country to worrying about saving enough for my family. I have felt jealousy rise within me many times. It comes quietly, sometimes as a complaint, sometimes as a sigh, sometimes as a sharp thought that why was I denied the things that many people seem to enjoy which are as simple as being born in the right geography.

Yet acknowledging it has been the first step towards loosening its hold. When I look at these feelings with honesty instead of shame, they soften. They stop hiding in dark corners. They become a part of my journey rather than a weight I carry. In that simple awareness, there is a sense of release and a reminder that the mind can always return to balance. Living close to nature helped me understand this better. In my orchard each plant grows at its own pace. Some ripen early, some ripen late, but everything has its season. No tree compares itself to the next. When I began seeing life in this way, I realised that jealousy only grows when we lose sight of our own path. Once I returned my focus to my work, my rhythm and my joys, the feeling slowly loosened its grip. I am thankful that I exist and in whatever way. I maybe called an outsider here but still I am surviving and doing that with purpose and happiness.

Greed remains in small traces, appearing as the desire for a little more comfort or recognition. Yet when anger and jealousy are handled, greed does not turn into such a big burden. It becomes something we can observe, understand and gently set aside. Gratitude and feeling thankful takes its place and the mind settles again. Minimalism, and realization of the difference between needs and wants has also helped.

These all feelings do not disappear overnight. It takes effort and honesty to face them, just as it took me years to recognise their patterns in my own life. But every step taken towards calmness brings a sense of freedom. When anger stops burning and jealousy stops whispering, the heart becomes lighter. It becomes easier to breathe, to forgive and to live with a sense of simple peace.

In the quiet of these mountains, I continue to learn. I still have to improve myself a lot. Every day teaches that the mind becomes clearer when we understand our own reactions. And as clarity grows, so does happiness. It all comes from within.

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That’s not my dog! That’s how I think people see me.

I have long believed that the world is divided into two kinds of people. There are those who rush towards parties with the energy of a terrier chasing a rabbit. And then there are the rest of us, who prefer to remain in a quiet corner with a cup of tea, hoping no one thinks of dragging us into a crowd. I fall quite happily into the second group.

It is not that I dislike people. I enjoy a proper one to one chat, the kind where thoughts and discussions move at their own pace and periods of silences are not uncomfortable. But put me in a room packed with cheerful chatter and my inner self begins to wave a small white flag. I find myself drifting towards the nearest window or corner table, searching for refuge. But, don’t be misguided into judging me.

I enjoy my own space and the time I spend in my own company. It gives me room to think and be mindful. I can catch up on my reading and try to improve myself, or at least make a brave attempt. Since I spend so much time here in the hills and often with guests at my homestay, there are moments when I have to create my own time and space. This means saying a polite no to parties and social gatherings. I prefer to meet people from my village over a cup of tea or coffee instead of spending the whole evening with drinks and dinner.

People label me an introvert, shut-in, high headed, snobbish, hermit, strange or even antisocial. Even though most of these are not the adjectives any sane person would feel happy about yet I find these remarks rather helpful. They prove that my message has gone through. I value my time and space and I am glad others have noticed it.

I do meet people but only when conversation can be real. I would much rather speak to one or two thoughtful humans than say hello to a dozen acquaintances and spend the night discussing the weather or hearing the usual complaints about the lack of city comforts. At the last party I attended almost a year ago the main topic was the joy of pressing a button on a phone and summoning a taxi or ordering groceries that appear before you can blink. Here in the village we do not have such things. Even couriers do not deliver. Speedpost brings letters and small packets but not parcels. What use was such a conversation to me? And I would never want this place to become crowded enough for those services to exist. That would be a sign of difficult times ahead for a region as fragile as ours.

I sometimes feel that people who have spent many years in cities find it hard to live without constant company. It is as if silence makes them uneasy or restless. One wonders if it is a sort of withdrawal syndrome, a tug that pushes them to socialise at every possible moment.

I follow my own small systems to avoid gatherings. The first is a polite no, sometimes supported by the timeless excuse of a cold and cough. After Covid people accept this excuse with great enthusiasm. Another method is to suggest a daytime meeting. Most city folks avoid drinking during the day, so the conversations stay clearer and kinder. The weather is also easier to handle and one can be outdoors in comfort, which is what I love about my village and the nature all around. And then there are the rare days when I spread the word that I am out of station and sit peacefully in my orchard with a book for company.

This balanced way of living keeps me focused. It gives me room to breathe. And in a world that forever hurries and lives in a fast lane, that feels like a small but splendid triumph.

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Facing simple hardships one at a time is, I have come to believe, the most ordinary and yet the most profound way to build resilience. The more we cocoon ourselves in creature comforts, the softer our edges become. The body weakens first, and then the mind follows. It is a subtle erosion, almost polite in its pace, until one day, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Living here in the mountains has made this truth as clear as the winter sky. There is no end to comfort if one goes seeking it. And the more I allowed myself to indulge, the more fragile I became. It began innocently enough with a small room heater. At first, I used it on winter evenings when the air grew sharp. Then, without noticing, I reached a point where I could not work anywhere away from its warm circle. Every evening demanded fire or heat. It was pleasure, yes, but also a slow drifting into a padded cocoon.

One day, it struck me how much I had been pampering my body and how that softness had begun to seep into my thoughts and routines. That moment of clarity nudged me back towards simplicity. Two winters ago, I spent my first season without using heaters extensively for myself. I kept them only for family, friends, and guests. Now and then, I still switch on the infrared heater, but mostly to soothe my back rather than shield myself from the cold. I still tuck a hot-water bottle against my feet at night, but that feels more like an old-fashioned comfort than a dependency.

Even bathing has become a small practice of resilience. Some days, I use cold water. On others, I end the bath with a short, bracing splash. A friend jokingly calls it self-flagellation, though I am miles away from anything ascetic. This is not what Hindu monks do in the snow-laden Himalayas, nor what Wim Hof teaches, nor what our soldiers endure on the highest borders. This is simply me, taking small, deliberate steps to strengthen myself.

A small challenge that still lingers is typing in winter. My fingers turn ice-cold, slightly stiff and slower on the keyboard. It does not trouble me much, but if someone walks in, especially while I am sitting outdoors and typing, and expects a handshake, it can feel a little embarrassing. Since the Covid years, though, I have shifted almost entirely to a simple Namaste with folded hands instead of shaking hands. It feels warmer somehow, despite the cold.

The results revealed themselves in the most unexpected moment. Last summer in Delhi, the infamous hot loo winds were sweeping through the city. Heatwaves were sending people indoors. Yet I found myself walking under the harsh noon sun with nothing but a hat for shade and a steady rhythm in my stride, with no signs of exhaustion. No air-conditioned car, no icy drinks, no special cooling gadgets. Just my usual worn-out clothes, a calm mind, and a body that no longer panicked at discomfort. The heat was there, of course, but it did not trouble me. Even the rains have become more welcome; instead of hurrying for shelter, I now often stay outdoors and let the drizzle do what it does. I guess that my shaved head also saves me from a little bit of trouble that I used to face as teenager with a comb in my back-pocket.

Weather is only one teacher. Life offers thousands of small lessons, each disguised as a tiny inconvenience. For years, I carried a small foldable chair in my car because sitting on rocks felt uncomfortable. Later, I carried a towel to place between me and the cold stone. Now, I simply sit on rock, grass, or earth, without any second thoughts. Even the ground feels firmer and welcome when one stops fussing over it.

Recently, I considered buying a power bank for my phone. Then it occurred to me: walking a few steps to a charging point and waiting while the battery fills is hardly a hardship. Must I solve every small inconvenience with yet another device?

Even food has become a teacher. When someone cooks for me and the meal is not quite what I expected, I remind myself that nourishment is a blessing. Expectations are optional, gratitude is not. A small change in the way I think that turned my irritation to happiness.

The orchard, too, has its own curriculum of small hardships. In summer, the walks around in the orchard to check the water channels and how my plants are coping up feels tedious, especially when the sun is bright and the orchard floor dry underfoot. Earlier, I would postpone it or ask someone to go instead. Now, I see it as part of my own conditioning. Walking up and down with garden tools in a shoulder bag, feeling the heart pump and the breath deepen, is its own quiet training.

There are days when some weeds need removing (especially dodder when it starts to strangulate young plants) or some suckers/watersprouts need to be cut. The task is not always pleasant, and the work is slow, but it teaches patience. The earth does not hurry, and neither should I. Picking fallen branches after a storm, hauling vermicompost from the one spot to another, clearing weeds by hand instead of relying on chemicals, each task pulls me gently out of my comfort zone and reminds me how capable the body still is.

Even watering the saplings in biting cold, when fingers ache and breath fogs the air, has become a kind of meditation. The young trees depend on these small acts, and in some strange way, I depend on them too. Caring for something that cannot speak back strengthens a part of me that comfort tends to dull.

Walking has become another deliberate choice. Neighbours who visit me often drive short distances, even those that can be walked easily. Watching them made me pause. If I can comfortably walk the distance, why drive at all? Now, whenever I go to meet people nearby, I prefer to walk. The pace may be slow, the roads uneven, and the air thin at times. Yet something inside me feels steadier with every step. During late evenings, I still take the car for fear of wild animals, though in daylight hours, my feet feel enough.

Piecing all this together, I realise that resilience does not grow in heroic leaps. It arrives in quiet increments – cold water, a skipped comfort, a long walk, a rough stone seat, a bundle of branches lifted by hand. The mountains teach this gently: that we do not need to conquer nature, only to accompany it with a little more courage each day. I am now trying to find ways to inculcate this way of living into my kids and make them more resilient both physically and emotionally.

In embracing small hardships, I find that life becomes broader, not narrower. My mind steadies. My body remembers its strength. And somewhere between the winter pruning activities, the cold winds, and the uneven mountain paths, I rediscover a simpler, sturdier version of myself.

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There are days when the world feels as if it is spinning a little too fast. The chatter of updates, the flash of videos, the steady stream of reels that everyone seems to be watching and forwarding. I am bombarded by messages in the morning, from lots of well-meaning people. However, I often find myself stepping back from it all. Not entirely out of disinterest, but also out of a quiet need to breathe.

I have noticed that when I stay away from social media, a soft calm settles around me. It is almost like stepping out of a crowded noisy room into an open field with quiet. My own thoughts return. I enjoy this silence and break. It gives me space to look at the small things in my day, like the colour of the sky or the smell of the morning breeze. These moments do not demand my attention. They simply wait to be felt.

While living close to nature and growing away from time traps like social media reels, videos, forwards and tweets, there is an insight I have developed and found to be quite effective. I have stopped downloading pictures and videos shared by others wherever possible. I no longer open forwarded links, especially from people who are in the habit of sending them almost every second day or even more frequently. They mean well and want to share what they feel is worthwhile. Yet from my perspective it is not useful, and it often turns into a steady drain of time and leaves me exhausted. If I need information on anything, I will look for it when I actually need it. I would rather watch the videos I feel drawn to and read the thoughts I want to read, instead of what someone else enjoyed enough to forward it my way.

At times, to keep the apps a little misguided, I post thoughts from entirely different perspectives. A trick I learnt from a good friend of mine. It keeps them from surrounding me with similar views and topics. The same goes for likes and views. It creates a sort of confusion in their algorithms that keeps the suggestions at bay.

Do I see forwards at all? Yes, at times I do. When someone who rarely sends anything decides to share something. Usually such a forward has something worthwhile. Also, when the forward is accompanied by a short note written in their own words. Or when we have spoken on the phone and a link is shared in the context of that very conversation. These feel meaningful and personal, and I make an effort to check them.

Even on popular occasions like birthdays or festivals, I prefer to write a line or two conveying my thoughts rather than send pictures. A simple ‘Happy New Year’ sent directly by a person means more to me than a fancy image they might have forwarded to many others. Even if the text message has also gone to everyone on their list, it still feels more personal to receive a few words than a picture crafted for a crowd and downloaded from internet.

In my effort to move towards a slow and mindful way of living, I have uninstalled many social media apps. Some remain only because they help me with my homestay work and my livelihood. Friends now phone me more often. Messaging is minimal. And this feels nothing short of blissful.

Instead of moving with the stream, I move at my own pace. A chapter in a book, a quiet mindful walk, a small task done with care. These bring me closer to myself. In the simple choice to avoid the noise of endless content, I find a calm that feels like home. I am still not there. The social media and the forwards still distract me but with time I can feel the improvement in myself.

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When the first light touches the tall trees of my orchard, the world seems to be waking up from slumber. The dew, like a thin blanket, covers the grass and the terraced slopes. In that stillness, I am reminded that mindfulness is not something to be achieved; it is something to be remembered.

While spending time here, I have come to see the orchard not merely as a place of work or abundance but as a living teacher. The trees, insects, birds, and soil all form a community where every being performs its role without haste or resistance. The rhythm of nature becomes a gentle guide, teaching lessons in the rustle of leaves and the hum of bees for those who want to listen and learn. I have been learning living with mindfulness. Being present and living in the present.

There are some basic techniques that I have come up with. One is when I walk around in the orchard, especially the slow stroll kind of walk when I check out how my trees are doing, I carefully and purposefully feel each breath. I appreciate the way the air goes in and how I exhale it out. Even the walk feels mindful. The rough steps and then the almost flat slate stones laid as a pathway, and then some more steps, then a small metallic bridge and a platform of some smooth stones. Each texture under my feet gives a different feeling. My eyes focus on the pathway so that I don’t trip, and then at times when I stand at a place, I look around enjoying the details around me. Instead of rushing down the path, I prefer to stroll and absorb as much as I can.

Sometimes, I spot a few ripe berries, ready to be plucked. I collect them and munch on them. Each bite filled with taste and sweetness, the texture, the juice. I feel happy and thankful that I am given an opportunity to enjoy it. I relish every bite and feel the moment when I enjoy it.

When I prune a branch, I know I am pruning. When I collect fallen fruits, I know I am collecting. The act itself becomes meditation. Instead of letting my thoughts wander around, I enjoy the task at hand. The orchard does not demand me to be calm; it invites me to notice, to see, to feel, to listen. Mindfulness then is not a technique but a friendship with the present moment.

I have found that even the most ordinary tasks hold deep lessons. While watering the saplings, I observe how the water seeks the lowest point, never arguing with gravity. In that, I see humility. When the leaves fall in the autumn and then the frost settles on the leaves, I see impermanence. And when spring arrives, soft and sudden filling the orchard with blossoms and new leaves, I see the truth of renewal.

Sometimes, I simply sit beneath an old apricot tree, next to an apple. The breeze moves through its branches like a song. A wind chime sings. There is no need to analyse or label anything. I let the senses rest in their natural state, the eyes open to the play of light, the ears open to the chirping of the birds nearby, the mind open to whatever arises. And then on my thoughts, I can ponder and contemplate.

Mindfulness, I realise, is not about escaping thought but about returning home again and again to the world within and without. When one can listen to the sound of a leaf falling without judgement or desire, peace no longer feels like something distant. It is here, always, waiting in the soil of awareness. When life feels unsettled and when I have some problems (who doesn’t have them?), I choose to pause and look within for clarity and solutions. After that, I turn to mindfulness, practising it consciously to find calm again. It usually helps.

Every day in the orchard is a practice. Some days are silent; some are busy. But whether I am turning compost, watching a butterfly, photographing the snow-peaks, or tasting the first fruit of the season, I try to walk as if the earth itself were sacred ground because to me it is.

When I bow, it isn’t only to the trees but to the simple gift of being able to see them, care for them, and learn from them. Gratitude itself becomes mindfulness, natural and effortless. When I retire to my bed at the end of the day, I mentally thank everything and everyone who made my day peaceful and fulfilling. And then I pick up a book, read a few words, and slowly slide into a restful sleep.

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I sometimes feel that I am a misfit among the people around me. I try to maintain cordial relations with most, but there are places where our thoughts and perceptions differ. The pace of the modern world, its values, its endless noise, the social norms expected by most, all seem to move in a direction opposite to my own quiet rhythm and comfort zone.

Perhaps that is why I find my comfort among nature and books, instead of crowds and mindless chatter. The idea of being constantly online feels more like noise than company. I will prefer the hum of bees to the buzz of notifications, any day. Depending on how people see me, I have been labeled as a free spirit and nonconformist, to words that I would rather not write.

For starters, I like to learn as much as I can about nature – farming methods, horticulture, permaculture, organic farming, soil, and whatever else I can lay my hands on. Now a days, I am reading a book on forest gardens. I already know most of it but it still quite interesting. Similarly, flipping through coffee table books showing beautiful gardens delights me. I recently found an old book on urban gardening with lots of photographs. When I am doing nothing, I love to flip through it and imagine how and what I can do in my orchard. Yet people around me are blissfully unaware of this quiet fascination of mine. Those who do take an interest in flowers are content with growing annuals in planters, and that’s more than enough for most. But when I wish to talk about soil structure, or the intricacies of fungal networks in the orchard, I find myself at a loss. There’s no one nearby, who is so deeply interested or hungry for knowledge.

When it comes to learning, I collect information through books and long-form articles. Videos, on the other hand, distract me. My friends often share video links, especially from social media, and I simply smile. No doubt they are interesting, but a good book or a thoughtful blog teaches me far more. Perhaps I am what people call a bookworm, I’d much rather read a book than watch its film adaptation. Schindler’s Ark book moved me more than the film, even though Schindler’s list is one of the most artistically recreated version.

And since I love books and blogs so much, I occasionally write here as well. When I want to share my thoughts, there are only a handful of people who genuinely enjoy reading them. Some do so out of old friendship, wanting to know what I have been up to. Interestingly, even though I live in a remote village in India, most of my regular readers are from Europe. Sometimes I wonder if I was born in the wrong country, or perhaps in the wrong time.

Another space where I feel out of step is when people from the city talk about land and property prices. For them, land is an investment, a figure to watch and speculate upon. For me, land is where my trees grow, where nature speaks to me in whispers and seasons, where I can enjoy my homegrown fruits. When asked about the local land rates, I usually confess that I have no idea since I am no property broker. As for my finances, I still find myself juggling between running the homestay, tending to the fruit orchard, and occasionally taking up professional assignments of varying scale. Land, to me, is not an asset to be traded but a sacred living space that breathes and nurtures.

Then there’s the idea of fun. Most people I know love to drink. Alcohol forms the centre of most gatherings, and the more of it there is, the better the evening is considered. I on the other hand, am almost a teetotaller now. Almost, because I still enjoy a mug of chilled beer or a glass of wine once in a while, perhaps once a month but never so much that I lose my words. Thankfully, I now know a few others who share this sense of moderation and even a few who completely avoid alcohol, and that has been a pleasant development over the years. As for parties, I prefer to stay away. I find more joy in meeting a person individually, talking about something meaningful, than in the noise of a crowded gathering where talk drifts from weather to politics and back again.

Social media, too, feels distant to me. It has its own strange ecosystem that feeds on constant visibility and comparison. I once tried to keep up, but it felt like watching life through glass. The more time I spent online, the more I drifted away from the living world – the smell of wet soil after rain, the call of a thrush at dusk, the softness of loamy soil in my palm, or the moist grass under my feet. These moments exist without the need for applause or social validation. They are complete in themselves, and in their company, I too feel complete. I have slowly and slowly almost abandoned social media. Whatever little exists, it is there to market my services.

Sometimes people find my choices odd. They ask why I live so quietly, why I avoid the crowd, why I keep my world small when the world itself is so large. I do not have a clear answer. Perhaps it is because I believe depth matters more than width. I would rather know one place deeply, than skim over thousands without understanding any. I would rather have a couple of very good friends rather than a large group of acquaintances. Even for my vacations, relaxing and enjoying good food while staying put in one place is more important than having a list of popular destinations to visit.

The orchard has taught me that stillness is not emptiness. Beneath the surface, roots are always seeking out, worms are always working, seeds are always dreaming. Life does not need to shout to be alive. In that stillness, I find meaning that the modern world often overlooks. I feel that by trying to know more and more, by introspecting and contemplating on various thoughts, by trying to understand things that are usually taken for granted, I am improving myself by being still and quiet.

Am I a misfit? Yes, maybe. But there are many more like me, souls who like to live gently, who listen more than they speak, who seek harmony instead of excitement. I am happy in their company. In the company of my neighbours, friends, and the visitors who find their way here, even if their thoughts and ways differ, I find happiness. Also the birds in the orchard, the wild animals that wander through, and the trees that sway around me are companions of a kind. My tastes and preferences may not match others’, but we still manage to find common ground and share good moments together.

So yes, I may be a misfit in the present social structure but I am a contented one.

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Living a slow life and shifting to a village meant curbing my expenses. Since opportunities for earnings are very limited here, and I do not have any royalty income or passive income sources, running a homestay and somehow making my ends meet is what I do now. The orchard gives me some income, but not enough to financially sustain me. Still, I live. I work. I eat well. I breathe clean air. And most days, that feels like enough.

The first step was the realisation that I had to make do with less. My family supported me with that and continue to do so. I began to understand the difference between my needs and my wants. Having food is a need. Buying a Bluetooth speaker is a want. Then came the next step, which was to examine my needs more closely. Having food is a need, but what to have matters. Coffee from a big chain or fine dining in opulent restaurants may fill the need for food, but they also fall under wants. I began eating more often at home, which meant healthy, nourishing meals cooked with love.

For many years, I believed I needed more. More comfort, more possessions, more security. The world has a way of convincing you that survival alone is not enough, that happiness must be built through accumulation. A dream job and a career path, endless material possessions, overseas holidays with photos for social media, club memberships, being the life of a party, keeping a large circle of acquaintances, following the latest in technology and owning the newest gadgets. The list goes on. These were the things I was conditioned to believe I needed. It came from school, from family, from friends, from workplace conversations.

But out here, the reality is different. I see how little one truly needs to live well. A warm meal. A dry roof. A place to work with your hands. Someone to talk to now and then. Most other things are superficial and fake to me now.

Instead of spending money on buying more and more things, I began to think in terms of experiences. Taking my family out for picnics remains a favourite pastime, when they are free and willing to go. We sit by the stream, enjoy simple food, and click photographs. Sometimes we walk through the orchard, plant saplings, or collect seeds for the next season. On quiet evenings, we read together, or tell jokes and stories. I have found that time spent in shared laughter or quiet conversation gives more joy than any purchase ever could. I also try to build their resilience and emotional intelligence, though that is still a work in progress. I involve them in the daily rhythm of the orchard, encourage them to care for the plants and animals, to understand patience, and to face small discomforts without complaint. We talk about gratitude, kindness, and self-reliance. These things cannot be bought, yet they add more value to life than anything money can offer.

Maybe for my children, apart from other things, I will leave a legacy of books, a steady character, knowledge, and a green space to relax and breathe freely.

There is peace in a minimalist living. When I prune a tree, I think about how every branch takes energy and how each branch grows. The tree knows this. It sheds what it cannot feed. We too carry too much – objects, opinions, fears of falling behind. I was conditioned to believe that I must grow endlessly, but trees do not grow to the sky. They stop. They rest. They go dormant and come back from dormancy. They bear fruit.

I began to look at my wardrobe and realised what I actually wore most often. I focused only on that. No fast fashion for me. When I attend a party, I prefer to wear my clean set of everyday clothes. I hope that when I am invited, it is to meet me and not my clothes. As a mark of respect, I make sure not to wear anything dirty. For me, being clean, well-shaved, and fully present in the moment without distraction is important. I do spend good money on comfortable shoes, since I walk a lot and often on rough ground. That makes sense to me. Yet I do not buy shoes that seem overpriced or too flashy. I do not use strong perfumes either, as they mask the natural scent of flowers, moist soil, and leaves. Good hygiene is enough for me. My winter clothes have been with me for so many years that my neighbours can often recognise me more easily by my jacket than by my face.

In the city, success had a different but clear shape. A bigger house. A newer car. A steady rise in income. A new job title. More contacts on LinkedIn. More social validation. Here, success feels different. It is watching a seed sprout or a graft union strengthen. It is serving fruits grown on this land. It is finding peace in the sound of rain on the metal roof. These things do not appear on balance sheets. They do not impress anyone. But they are real.

I still get distracted by online sales sometimes. When that happens, I try my best to resist the urge to splurge. At times, I end up buying books, more than I can read at the moment. I tell myself it is an investment for the future. Maybe one day I will catch up. I have grown to dislike complicated electronics. They drive me restless. Most of my recent purchases have been for the homestay or the orchard. With time I hope to reduce those too. I have to reduce my expenses to be able to afford the slow life I intend to carry on living, and this in turn comes with the satisfaction of reducing my carbon footprint as well.

I have come to see that the things I was told I needed were mostly distractions. They filled the emptiness that comes from disconnection. Out here, I have no mall, no constant stream of entertainment, no rush. I have a hillside, a small orchard, many good books, and time. That is the definition of wealth for me.

What I need is not more, but less. Fewer things. Fewer social validations. Fewer fears. Just enough to live with purpose and without any pretence. The rest can fall away like old leaves in winter.

In the end, it comes down to learning the difference between living well and living more. The world sells us the latter. But here, among trees and silence, I have begun to understand that a meaningful life does not demand much. Only attention, gratitude, and the courage to say, “this is enough.”

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My parents developed white hair many decades ago. Their age has long been visible to me, not just in appearance but in the depth of their experience. I chose to stay with them, even when it meant some financial compromises and many quiet sacrifices. It meant adjusting my food habits to theirs, though at times I still rebel. It meant accepting their religious ways even when my thoughts wandered differently. It meant patience with money matters and with the slower pace of their days.

Yet through these compromises I discovered something greater. Parents hold a vast reservoir of experience. They have faced storms that I cannot imagine. Their guidance comes not as commands but as gentle reminders shaped by long endurance. When they speak, I hear the weight of lessons learned through hardship. Their way of seeing the world gives me strength. Their resilience becomes a mirror that steadies me when I falter.

And while they age, I also watch my children grow. They grow too fast. The years of small hands, innocent questions, and sleepy hugs feel as if they will soon belong to another life. Time is flying. I often feel as if I am trying to hold on to dry sand in my hand. It slips away no matter how tightly I close my fingers.

Parents and children move in opposite directions. One drifts toward dusk. The other toward dawn. Both slip away from my grasp in their own way. I stand in the middle, pulled by memory and by hope, holding what cannot be held.

When families come to spend time at our homestay and I sit with them, I often sense the same feelings stirring in their hearts. Parents speak of how quickly their children are growing, of how precious years seem to slip by unnoticed until they are gone. The young too share their own quiet worries about parents who are ageing, and the fear of not having enough time together.

Just last week a small child asked me a question that stayed with me. She wanted to know how long I expected to be with my own children. Her mother was not doing very well health-wise, and the weight of that worry showed in her innocent eyes. It was a painful question for one so young, and I found myself pondering it for many days after. My wish is simple. I want to be there for my children for as long as they need me, until they become strong and self-sufficient. And even after that, I want to be present so that I can savour whatever time remains, not as a duty but as a joy. To ensure this, I have further understood that I have to focus on my health too, something that I had long neglected. Neglected, while earning my livelihood and spending some of my free time with friends.

Sometimes, when I am away from my family, what comforts me most is not even their physical presence. It is the quiet knowledge that they are there, living their lives, existing in the same world as me. That awareness alone is enough to steady the heart.

What fills me with joy is the simple truth that I am here, sharing life with my parents and my children. Each meal together, each story told, each laugh that echoes in the room is a reminder that time is not only slipping away, it is also giving itself to us in the present. There is beauty in knowing that love stretches across generations, that guidance flows down and innocence flows up, and I am standing in the middle, receiving both. Even with its fleeting nature, this dance of time is a gift, and I feel grateful to be part of it.

Simple things like having meals together, discussing ideas and what’s happening around with parents, buying groceries together, fun-filled fighting with kids for the prime space to lie down, or even at times just lounging around when everyone is home is quality time. These moments will not be there forever.

It is in this way of life that I learn the meaning of presence. Compromise then becomes more than sacrifice. It becomes a wisdom. It teaches that control is an illusion. We cannot freeze time. We cannot shape others to our image. We can only walk beside them. We can only give ourselves fully to the moment before it passes. This is not loss. This is life. To be alive is to hold sand, knowing it will slip away, yet still to hold it gently. To sit with parents as they age. To listen to children as they grow. To remember that the value of time lies not in its length but in our presence within it.

Perhaps this is the true gift. I see it everywhere, from Buddhist Mandalas to Hindus’ Ganesh Visarjan. Not permanence but the trace left behind. The warmth of a hand once held. The echo of laughter shared. The calm strength of parents who endured. The fleeting innocence of children who ran ahead. To live well is to live in the moment, and be thankful for the family and friends we have around us. To let love flow across generations. And to trust that even as time slips away, what remains is the imprint of how deeply we chose to be here.

Living a slow life, while contemplating on these lines, makes me feel thankful for what I have. Even though time cannot be stopped, it can be savoured. And when I choose to see joy in the fleeting, I find myself lighter. The smiles of loved ones stay with me. The kindness shared lingers. The bonds of family endure far longer than the minutes on a clock.

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Morning comes early. Light spills over the hills and the air smells of pine and damp earth. A bird calls from the orchard. I sit with a cup of coffee and a to-do list from yesterday night. I check the list. Not a long one. Only what must be done today. Water the new plants. Fix the gate. Answer the email. Call the bank. Write. Paint the repaired steps. These small things shape the hours. They give the day a purpose.

A to-do list is a small thing, but it keeps the day honest. It shows me the work. It does not care if I am tired. It does not forgive. Cross a task and the weight lifts. Leave a task unfinished and it stays patient, asking only for the next hand that will meet it.

Making such lists steadies the mind. Each line catches a thought before it drifts away. By writing it down, I am delegating my thoughts to the page. The list carries them so my mind can be free, open, and calm. In a world that asks us to do many things at once, a list promises a single place where my scattered pieces can come to rest. It gives the comfort of order in a life that otherwise scatters easily.

Tomorrow’s list that I made before starting on this article looks like this – Firewood for next winters. Sort the old cooking pots. Webpage editing. Agatha Christie. Lemon tree pruning. Humic acid spray. Call Himanshu ji. These random words will not make sense to anyone else, perhaps not even to me a month from now. For tomorrow it is enough for me. Just these handful of words will keep me on track. With every tick of the pen I anchor another small victory.

Even the most critical professions trust the power of a list. Surgeons and pilots follow checklists; lives depend on their precision. Their lists are exact. Mine is simple. It guides a single day. But the principle is the same: write it down, do it right.

Keep the list plain. Short words. No grand plans. Chop wood. Pay bill. Call friend. Sharpen knife. Order coffee. Each line is a promise. Each tick a triumph. The pen scratches and the mind clears. Outside, the world is wide and distracting. Inside, the list keeps the day steady. The list teaches discipline. It reminds me that life is built on small acts done well. Clean the carpet. Arrange the books. Answer the letter. From such plain work comes satisfaction. Each crossed line is proof of progress.

By capturing tasks I free my thoughts. I can read books without the nagging sense of something forgotten. I can walk in the orchard and not be pulled back by a dozen small urgencies. I can visit a neighbour and enjoy a chat. I do not list the things that belong to life itself: walking, the slow cup of tea, a talk with my mother. Why? because they are as regular as breakfast and happen on their own.

There is a method now. I write only what I will truly do. I will not note “polish the deck” when I know I will ask the painter to do it. At most I may write “tell painter about deck”. A list is a tool, not a dream. Better a few true tasks than a crowd of wishes. When there is much to be done I may make a list for the week, but even then I keep it lean.

Some lists nest within others. A to-do list for the day might include a visit to another town. That visit carries a shopping list and a list of small jobs to do while there. Little branches of order grow from a single page.

At night I look at the page. See what was done. See what waits. Some things will always wait. That is life. The list is not the day. The day is the sun on my face, the smell of fresh bread, the rustle of leaves, the laughter of family. The list keeps me steady while the world moves. Before retiring to my bed, I make a list for the next day, sometimes just a list of things to be done but with no particular timeline. Having a free mind before going to bed is also quite helpful.

A list should be a servant, never a taskmaster. It is easy for a good habit to harden into something rigid, to make us obsess over what is written instead of living. I limit my items for the day. Six to eight meaningful tasks are usually enough. I choose three priorities. If only those three are done the day is still a success. I give myself a few minutes each evening to make the list and then close the book. Some items belong to next week. Unfinished things are not failure, merely unfinished. I use a someday list for wishes and projects that belong to the heart, keeping them separate from what I will touch today. One notepad holds everything now. Scattered notes at various places only breed anxiety. I let the list remain practical, writing actions not judgements, and I notice if checking or rewriting it becomes restless or compulsive. The list is a tool, not a measure of my worth. It should bring calm, not burden.

A friend of mine uses a planner built in a spreadsheet, organised into priorities and colour coded. It serves both as a to-do list and a daily planner. I have seen how remarkably organised he is, all thanks to this simple habit.

A list is lean and sharp. It is the bare bones of a day. A diary holds feelings. A planner parcels out hours. The list needs only to be a small, honest ledger of things you will touch and finish. I write it. I do it. I cross it. I delegate my thoughts to the page and free my mind. And when I remember that I am supposed to do something more, I add it to the list, gentle and patient, letting it help me live, not cage me.

Sometimes I pause after making a list and just sit. The mind feels lighter, as if the thoughts I carried have stepped off my shoulders and settled on the paper. There is space again for noticing the silence: the wind in the trees, the distant barking of a dog, the slow calm coming over the world. The list does not contain the next day, but it allows the day to arrive, uncluttered and full. And in that simple release, I find a small kind of joy that lingers long after the pen is put down.

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The trees in an orchard do not hold on to their fruit forever. When the apple ripens it falls. The tree does not cry. It does not chase the fruit once it has dropped to the earth. It stands still and gathers its strength for the next season. This is the way of life.

Letting go of the past is one of the hardest tasks for any human being. Our minds wander back to old talks and sharp words, especially when there is free time and silence. Many people try to escape by keeping busy. I did the same. But life here in the hills gave me long hours of quiet. The mind, left free, would drift to old scenes and old hurts.

One day I began to see how this was harming me. The first step was to understand that the past is already gone. No thought can pull it back. What matters is the present and the work that shapes the days ahead.

There were moments when someone had spoken ill of me. I longed to confront them, to defend my name. As I reached for a higher state of mind, the picture changed. I forgave the person. There was no use brooding over words already spoken. Yet, as a human with self-respect, I let him know that his remarks had hurt me. It was not anger. It was a simple, clear feedback, and then I moved on.

One of the companies I once worked with let me go without giving any clear reason. To this day I still do not know why. Perhaps it was personal, perhaps my work did not meet their expectations. Whatever the cause, I chose to forgive them. I gave the top management, whether involved or not, the benefit of the doubt and allowed the matter to pass. I remain on friendly terms with most of them even now.

I am at peace with myself. Government policies, poor infrastructure, unnecessary jealousy and even moments of discrimination, shoddy work by contractors that I had to redo at considerable cost, fruit trees first damaged by harsh weather and later raided by monkeys, the shortage of water in the dry months – many things have tried their best to disturb me. Yet I now view these challenges with distance and keep them apart from my inner calm. Overthinking and living in the past bring far more harm than good.

There was a time when I spent a large sum on a music system that I rarely use nowadays. From simple things like cooking pots to expensive electronics, I made choices that felt right at the moment. They brought me joy then, and some still do now. Looking back, I could see them as mistakes. I could have saved the money. But I no longer dwell on that. I am grateful for the happiness they gave me, for the small pleasures they added to life. Just as with people, these things came into my life for a reason. If they no longer serve me as I once hoped, there is no harm done. I simply let the thought pass and move on.

Self-loathing is a slow poison. It clouds thought and drains the present of its light. We cannot change an old act, rewrite a conversation, undo a loss, or turn a decision inside out. We can only learn, and fine-tune the choices of tomorrow.

The orchard shows this truth in many ways. After a heavy storm, broken branches lie scattered on the ground. I gather them, not with sorrow but with the knowledge that pruning clears the way for new growth. When a tree stops bearing fruit, we cut it back and wait for fresh shoots. The cycle continues. The tree does not mourn its old branches.

I have spent mornings watching the frost melt from the grass. At first the ground seems locked and lifeless. Then the sun rises, the ice softens, and the soil drinks the water. Nothing lasts. Not even the hard things you fear will stay forever.

There is heavy construction nearby these days. Earth-moving machines growl through the mornings, power tools shriek late into the night, and dumpers rattle in at dawn with stones and sand. At first the noise unsettled me. Even in the rare moments of silence, I would recall the sounds of the day before and feel the same tension return. That too was living in the past. Now I let it pass. I no longer carry yesterday’s noise in my mind. I choose to stay calm and content within myself, knowing that every disturbance is temporary. The work will finish, the dust will settle, and quiet will return in its own time. My peace does not depend on the noise ending. It is already here, steady and untouched.

Sometimes I walk through the orchard and see last year’s leaves turning to soil under my feet. They were once bright and full of life. Now they feed the roots of new saplings. Our past mistakes and pains can serve the same purpose if we let them settle and nourish the present instead of clutching them in our hands.

Do not keep turning the same patch of earth in the orchard. Digging it over and over only dries it out. Leave yesterday’s ground to rest. Today’s care is enough. Water the young sapling that stands before you. Pull the weeds you can see now. Live in the present.

Just, let the past go !

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One of the most profound things I have discovered while living a slower, more mindful life is how deeply I have come to observe not only my own reactions but those of the people around me. Anger, in particular, has stood out. I never really questioned it before. It was simply there, an ever-present undercurrent, ready to rise at the slightest trigger.

In the past, anger would arise more often than I realised. It would surface in small disagreements with family, friends, college batchmates or neighbours – people I trusted and cared for. I used to tell myself that it was natural to express frustration only with those close to me, as if that explained it away. But over time I realised this was a way to avoid facing a deeper truth. Even when I stayed calm outwardly around strangers, the anger still lingered inside, quietly simmering. I would find other ways to release it. The fault was not theirs: it was my own, a reaction I had yet to understand.

Since shifting toward a slower life, I have noticed something quietly transformative. I now analyse more than I react. When someone makes a mistake or says something hurtful, I pause. I try to understand why it happened instead of letting it trigger me. More often than not, miscommunication is the culprit. Sometimes it is insecurity, other times jealousy or sheer carelessness. Observing this has given me a new way to deal with anger, one that does not drain me but invites deeper understanding. At times, this leads to me ending up over-thinking or being sensitive, but with time I hope to find a solution to this too.

On the road, I’ve discovered an opportunity to observe myself and practice staying calm. In the city, life felt like a race. I always had to be right, fast, ahead. There was a constant fear of falling behind, of failing. Perhaps that is what drives so many people into irritation and aggression. But here, I let it go. If someone wants to overtake me or tailgate, I simply let them pass. Maybe they are stressed, maybe they are in a hurry like I used to be. Allowing them space has not only kept me calmer but safer too. A little patience prevents accidents and protects my peace.

That is not to say anger has disappeared entirely. There are still moments when it rises sharply, testing my resolve. I recall two incidents clearly. Once, a biker hit my parked car without looking. Another time, a driver overtook me recklessly and swerved dangerously into my lane. In both cases, my first response was anger and helplessness. I cursed the lack of traffic sense and shook my head at the chaos. But later, I sat with myself and asked, what else could I do? The damage had been done. Retaining my health and peace was my choice, not theirs. Maybe the biker and taxi driver were stressed, rushing or careless. Perhaps their life, like mine, is burdened with unseen pressures. Why should I punish myself further by feeding my anger?

Another memory lingers. While working on a corporate social responsibility initiative in an organisation, I strongly opposed the approach they wanted to take. They wished to focus on a nearby area, while I argued the funds would be better used in a more needy, distant community. The disagreements grew heated. We exchanged harsh words, and I felt anger boiling inside me. Years later, I met the managing director over coffee. That is when I learned their true reason. They wanted the projects close to the office not for community support, but so they could closely monitor the funds. If I had known then, perhaps my anger would have vanished on the spot.

Slow living has also reshaped how I deal with personal failures. Now, when I plant a tree, sometimes an expensive cultivar of a delicious fruit, and if I accidentally kill the young plant, I no longer feel angry at myself. I may feel a little sad at the wasted effort and money, especially since resources are often limited, but the sadness is soft, not sharp. I have learned that the earth is patient and that not every attempt will bear fruit. Anger would only cloud the experience. Reflection allows me to accept the loss and try again.

I also remember watching the ‘Kungfu Panda’ film with the kids. The shifu, their teacher, wants to achieve mental peace. After years of practicing, even he is unable to do so. That gave me a sense of comfort. It reminds me that mastering the mind is a lifelong journey, not an instant achievement. It gives me hope that with passing time and with a shift in my living style, I will be able to further reduce my anger and perhaps one day let it disappear altogether. I hope to influence not just myself, but also my family and friends, gently leading them toward the same path.

And yet, I am not perfect. My friends and family members still get angry and argue. I am yet to influence them. That too is a journey, not a failure, but a reminder that change takes time and that compassion toward others is as important as compassion toward oneself. The path is long, but it is meaningful.

Anger is a quiet destroyer. It eats us from within, slowly hollowing out our sense of balance and compassion. Yet when I step back and observe it with care, it begins to dissolve. Slow living has not magically erased anger from my life, but it has given me space to understand it, to choose how I respond. I am learning to let go, to breathe, to question, and to hold on to calmness like a tree holds onto its roots in the wind.

The world has not changed. People still rush, collide and disagree. But something in me has shifted. I now meet life’s little storms with patience and curiosity. And strangely, peace feels more alive than ever.

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For many years I lived in cities. The noise, the hurry, the endless demands seemed to pull me in every direction. I kept busy, chasing goals and meeting expectations, but somewhere along the way I drifted from myself. My body felt worn by restless schedules, and my mind clouded by distractions. Spiritually, I felt disconnected, as if the small, simple joys of life had faded from view.

City life, with its bright screens and hurried footsteps, kept me from pausing. I forgot how to breathe deeply. I forgot how to sit quietly and simply be. Watching sunlight fall on leaves or listening to the wind in the trees became distant memories. Comfort and convenience had crept into every corner of my life, and I had grown unused to life’s small uncertainties. I tried at times to fight back, by taking my camera out, and going for an occasional photowalk with friends but it was not enough.

After living in different cities for so long, one thing became clear. I had grown unable to face actual hardships. A small change in my comfort zone and I would twist and turn, restless and uncomfortable. As a child I slept many summer nights under open skies, staring at the stars. But with time I got used to closed rooms and predictable comforts. I could no longer imagine sleeping outdoors. The temperature had to be just right, not too cold, not too hot. The city had softened me. I was so used to material comforts that I had forgotten how to live without them.

Now, in the village, I am finding myself again. I know I can live without electricity and mobile networks. On hot summer afternoons, I enjoy cool lemon water and feel sweat evaporate with every breeze. Even when I visit hot cities like Delhi, I no longer feel the suffocating discomfort I once associated with high temperatures. Climate change has made extremes more common but even a couple of degrees difference from my younger days no longer unsettles me. Winter’s chill, once unbearable, is something I welcome with a smile. The only comfort I need on cold nights is a hot water bottle by my side. Day by day I feel myself growing stronger both in body and mind as I live this slower life.

The same goes for water. As a child, I drank straight from taps without a second thought. In recent years, that seemed almost impossible. Perhaps the quality of water had declined, or perhaps my stomach had grown too sensitive after years of relying on purified and bottled water. But now, I feel that strength returning. I can enjoy fresh spring water and even drink water from someone’s home without worry. What suits others suits me too. I might even enjoy street food, but concerns about adulteration make me cautious, so I choose to stay away. That said, I’m still a little unsure about drinking tap water in cities, though it no longer feels as intimidating as it once did.

I have found a healthy circle of family and friends around me. Some stay in this village, some in the nearby towns and cities. I enjoy my own company but once in a while we meet. Instead of loud parties I prefer quiet conversations, one on one time with people I care about. We cook and eat together. Sometimes we go out for a walk in the hills. We talk openly, share problems, and help one another find solutions. Not long ago the wood in a couple of my windows began to rot. I thought I would have to replace the entire frame. A friend suggested a simple fix and helped me repair it without spending much. In the city my friendships revolved around eating, drinking, and entertainment. Here they are about meaningful talks about literature, philosophy, spirituality, life, and community living in the form of helping each other. It feels as though with every conversation I gain new perspectives while becoming stronger.

The village has not made life easy. Hardships are still there. But it has given me something the city took away. It has given me the strength to endure, the courage to embrace discomfort, the joy of quiet companionship, and the freedom to reflect. I once lost my way amidst noise and haste. Today in the calm of rural life I am slowly finding myself again. I am becoming healthier – mentally, spiritually, and physically!

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There is something deeply satisfying about learning or perfecting a craft. It is not the applause, recognition, or even the results that bring the most joy. It is the quiet, steady sense of growth and mastery that unfolds with time. It becomes a source of pride that does not demand validation from others but feels like a gift to yourself.

While managing our orchard, I have been learning new skills in farming and orchard care, things I never knew before. From nurturing young saplings to understanding soil health, these practices have become part of my daily routine. What began with simple methods like composting has expanded into discovering the intricate ways trees communicate with one another and how fungal networks enrich the soil. Every new piece of knowledge deepens my connection with the land and its natural cycles.

What excites me most is how these skills are helping me tune into the environment by reading signs from nature such as changes in the weather, how clouds form, or how insects and birds behave, which give hints about what is coming. Weather apps and government’s messages help, but in addition these subtle messages from nature also provide a lot of information. This knowledge brings a sense of preparedness and calm in the wild spaces around the homestay.

I have also grown more confident navigating through forests and fields by learning to identify landmarks and read the terrain. Observing how vegetation thrives depending on the direction of the rains and sun, how plants lean towards light, how moss and lichens cover tree trunks, and where birds choose to build their nests – all of these, and many more clues from nature, help me find my way. What once felt like an intimidating wilderness now feels familiar, inviting, and full of quiet guidance.

And then there is the incredible joy of discovering the world around me. I can identify birds by their calls and colours, recognise trees by their leaves, and distinguish wild berries, mushrooms, and herbs. Some are edible, some medicinal, and some simply fascinating to observe. Nature’s abundance feels like a treasure waiting to be explored. Sitting under a tree, sipping on some hot coffee, I frequently make an effort to listen to all the sounds around me, and feel happy when I can identify some of the bird calls. This has now become a kind of a daily routine for me.

At the same time, over the past few years, as I have been running a homestay, I have found myself learning and perfecting the way I cook by experimenting with fresh ingredients, local produce, and new recipes. Cooking for guests has become more than just preparing meals. It is about creating experiences, sharing comfort, and bringing people together through flavours and warmth.

The free time that comes between tasks or during quieter days has been just as rewarding. It has given me the opportunity to read, reflect, and improve my understanding of various things, from ecology and weather patterns to human behaviour and spirituality. This uninterrupted space to learn has enriched my perspective and made every experience more meaningful. Every time I learn something new, it feels like a veil lifting and revealing a clearer view of the world.

Learning a craft teaches you that mastery is not a destination but a relationship. It is about practising, observing, and listening deeply whether it is cooking a comforting meal, tending to the orchard, or learning from the land’s quiet signals. The small, consistent efforts build into something meaningful over time.

This journey has never been about perfection. It has been about showing up every day with curiosity, patience, and persistence. I have stumbled, made mistakes, and forgotten things along the way, but each experience has made me stronger and more aware. What is important is to be persistent and keep perfecting whatever I want to learn. If you are thinking of learning something new, be it cooking, gardening, or anything else, focus less on where you will end up and more on the process itself. The journey, the discovery, and the connection you build along the way are far more rewarding than the end result.

A few months ago, I was having a conversation with a gentleman, a professor researching theories and different aspects of happiness. While working in the orchard yesterday, I realised that the continuous learning of new skills and the sense of accomplishment that comes with it are also essential ingredients in experiencing true happiness.

For me, this has been a journey of discovery and wonder. The most meaningful accomplishments are often the quiet ones, nurtured by care, curiosity, and the simple joy of learning. These small achievements have filled my days with a sense of purpose and joy, bringing a deep, lasting happiness. They remind me that growth doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic; it’s in the steady steps, the newfound skills, and the moments of understanding that we find true fulfilment and a profound sense of accomplishment.

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When I first moved to the village and a community of ‘new settlers’ was beginning to form, I often found myself drawn, and at times nudged by peer pressure, to be social and attend various gatherings and parties that were being hosted. Occasionally, I even invited neighbours. However, I soon realised that all this was taking up a lot of my time, precious time that I would rather spend with myself, nurturing my hobbies, or with people I genuinely cared for, rather than with a crowd exchanging small talk about the weather or politics.

As time went on, I understood that most of my neighbours were here only for a few weeks each year, treating it more like a holiday destination. For me, though, this was home, a place where I live most of the time and where life is built day by day. I couldn’t justify spending so much time at regular parties when I wanted to live more intentionally. Slowly, I began to withdraw from such gatherings.

I still love meeting my neighbours, but I now prefer spending time with them during the day, having longer, more meaningful conversations. It feels far more rewarding than mingling in the evenings over drinks amidst a crowd. By choosing quieter, more intentional interactions, I’ve been able to better honour my time, my passions, and the relationships that truly matter. I am honing new skills while embracing a slower, more intentional way of life.

In a world that constantly urges us to be connected, through social gatherings like the parties I mentioned above, or even through messages and social media, the idea of being alone can often feel uncomfortable or even frightening. Yet solitude is very different from loneliness. Loneliness comes from a sense of emptiness or isolation, when we feel disconnected from others. Solitude, on the other hand, is a conscious and enriching experience. It is a deliberate choice to be with oneself, to step away from the noise and external demands, and to sit quietly with one’s own thoughts.

When we embrace solitude, we create space to befriend our inner world. Thoughts that once seemed chaotic begin to settle, allowing us to process emotions, reflect on experiences, and discover deeper layers of our own mind. Solitude invites us to explore our fears, hopes, and desires without judgment. It is a companion that helps us understand ourselves, rather than a void we feel compelled to escape. The more we spend time alone, the more comfortable we become with who we are. In the stillness, we gain clarity about our values and passions, and we learn to navigate stress and uncertainty with resilience.

Some time back, a few small misunderstandings, along with some not-so-subtle character assassination, led a handful of neighbours, people I once counted as friends, to suggest socially boycotting me. Ironically, when we meet, they still flash polite smiles and exchange greetings, while both of us pretend not to remember the whispers behind our backs. It’s almost comical how easily we play along, acting as if nothing ever happened. In hindsight, though, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Many of them were occasional visitors I’d mentioned before, here only for a brief getaway. Skipping their gatherings gave me the space to step back, breathe, and focus on what truly matters. As I’m writing this, that incident comes to mind, but the truth is, I’ve long since forgiven them and everyone else involved. In time, I realised how much lighter and more meaningful my life had become, as if I’d been gifted with the space, peace, and clarity to truly appreciate what matters most.

Coming back to solitude – My mind is no longer clouded by unnecessary distractions, allowing me to focus on what truly matters. I’m finally catching up on books I’ve long wanted to read, exploring the intricacies of organic farming and permaculture, and enjoying meaningful conversations with most of my neighbours. I’m also able to spend more quality time with my family, which brings a deeper sense of connection and balance to my life.

This time spent with oneself does not mean rejecting the world or cutting off from others. On the contrary, it helps us engage with others more meaningfully. Solitude teaches us to discern which relationships are nourishing and which are draining. It allows us to approach companionship not as a way to fill a gap but as an opportunity for genuine connection and intellectual stimulation. When we are at ease with our own company, we are better equipped to be present and patient with others, offering empathy and understanding rather than distraction or dependence.

Spending time in solitude is a gift we give ourselves. It is where creativity flourishes, where new perspectives emerge, and where self-compassion takes root. By allowing ourselves to simply be, we cultivate a sense of peace that carries into our relationships and daily life. Solitude becomes not a sign of withdrawal but a source of strength, a companion that nurtures both the mind and the soul.

From enjoying the dance of butterflies while resting under the wild apricot tree, to listening to the soft rustle of apple leaves as they prepare to fall and the trees settle into sleep, these moments of solitude add a deeper, more meaningful dimension to my life. With each experience, I hope to grow, learning to become a better person with time.

In these simple moments, you become more aware of yourself – your needs, your passions, and the simple joys that often go unnoticed. Solitude gives you the space to reconnect with what truly matters, allowing you to invest your time in meaningful conversations, heartfelt laughter, and shared experiences with family and friends. It’s in these moments of presence, away from the noise, that relationships deepen and self-awareness grows. By choosing to slow down and be with yourself, you create room for connection, compassion, and a richer, more fulfilling life.

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After days of unrelenting rain, the weather finally cleared up. Sunlight spilled across the orchard, and the air filled with the cheerful chorus of birds. On one of our old apple trees, a lively group of parrots gathered, their chatter as bright as their feathers, as they feasted on the ripening fruits. Were they smiling or I felt so?

Smile is one of the simplest and most pleasant things that a human can do and yet most forget to do it. We underestimate it. A smile. So effortless, yet so powerful. It’s the smallest gesture we can offer, and often the one that makes the greatest difference.

A smile is universal. It travels across cultures, languages, and even species. Babies respond to it instinctively, strangers feel safer when they see it, and friends find comfort in it. When we smile, we send out a signal: I acknowledge you. I accept you. I mean no harm.

I remember reading a poster from as a child when I was growing up. It hung in my bedroom in one corner and said – Smiling is happy and fun, and doesn’t cost anything. Someone once told me that a smile is the easiest improvement one can do to one’s personality and face. No amount of make-up comes close.

But smiling is not only about others, it is deeply healing for ourselves. Science tells us that smiling releases endorphins, serotonin, and dopamine, the “feel good” chemicals that naturally lift our mood. Even when forced, a smile tricks the brain into thinking we are happier than we are. In other words, the body listens to the face. Remember the ‘All Izz Well’ trick from the famous 3-idiots film? It actually works, and even more so for smiles.

Smiling is also contagious. Think of the last time someone smiled warmly at you. Chances are, you couldn’t help but return it. That small moment created a connection, however brief. Multiply that across daily encounters, and suddenly life feels a little lighter, a little kinder. A teacher entering a class with a smile immediately makes the pupils happy and more receptive. When I smile at my homestay’s team members, they smile back and it creates a bond that makes us all perform better.

Of course, a smile should not be confused with suppressing pain or faking happiness. The incessant rains had left our village road in ruins, slowing the transport of fruits and vegetables and causing inevitable financial losses for many farmers in the valley. Yet, on this clear day, most of them seemed in good spirits, perhaps from relief, perhaps from a sly touch of drink or two. Some, excessively tipsy, swayed along with the mood. Amid arguments and rising tempers, yet softened now and then by a few smiles, everyone came together to get the road repaired with the help of a JCB, making it temporarily motorable. Life has its storms, and every emotion deserves space. Yet, the act of smiling, genuine, heartfelt smiling – can become an anchor, a reminder that joy can still be found, even in small moments.

So why not practice it more often? Smile at yourself in the mirror. Smile at a passerby. Smile when you are grateful, when you are relieved, or when you feel love. Like I mentioned earlier – it costs nothing, but the returns are immeasurable. While reading the above lines, you, my reader, I hope that you smiled.

A smile cannot solve every problem. But it can change the energy of a room, soften a heart, and brighten a day. And sometimes, that is exactly enough.

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When I moved into a slower rhythm of living, I didn’t expect my senses to change. But they did, almost imperceptibly, until one day I realized that the world around me felt clearer, fuller, more alive. It was kind of a refreshing feeling.

Without the constant distractions of television, films, traffic, and loud music, I feel that I have simply begun to notice more. Small sounds stand out now: the flutter of a bird’s wing just before it takes flight, the crisp rustle of dry leaves as a garden lizard darts across, even the faint hum of bees moving from flower to flower in the orchard. These sounds were always there, but I wasn’t listening. My ears had been too crowded to listen. The change has become obvious in unexpected ways. I used to mow my lawn with a powered mower without thinking twice; now I find the noise overwhelming unless I wear ear muffs. (As it turns out, they are recommended for most power tools anyway, a precaution I had been ignoring all along.) Even phone conversations feel different. Along with voices, I now notice the background details: birds chirping, the clatter of utensils in a kitchen, the rise and fall of someone’s breath. These little sounds add texture, making even a brief call more alive and fulfilling. Still, nothing compares to speaking with someone in person, where the unspoken often carries more than words.

The same has happened with people. Since I no longer spend time in large crowds, my attention naturally rests on the individual before me. And it’s surprising how much a person communicates without speaking. A hesitation before words form, the firmness or softness in their gaze, the way their shoulders relax or stiffen, I now notice these subtleties as clearly as I hear spoken language. Most conversations feel almost wordless these days, guided more by presence than by sentences. Earlier, I would pick up on simple cues like sensing a certain insecurity when someone kept their shades on while talking. But now I find myself catching even the expressions a person tries, often unsuccessfully, to conceal. In conversations too, it is not only what is said that matters, but what lingers between the lines.

This shift has also changed the way I connect with people who come to stay at our homestay. Our conversations feel richer, layered with more than just talk of travel, food, or weather. They often open into their lives’ truths, cherished memories, fleeting moments of joy, and the small treasures people carry within them. It is these unspoken layers that seem to leave the deepest imprint often more lasting than the words themselves. At times, I sense their pain as well, but unless they choose to share it, I let it be, respecting the silences they wish to keep.

Coming to yet another sense – I have gradually stopped using strong perfumes, and even my toiletries are now almost free of overpowering artificial scents. Freed from those layers, my sense of smell feels more open, more curious. I always loved the fragrance of wet leaves in a forest, but now I can tell the difference – the damp, earthy aroma of an oak forest is not the same as the resinous freshness of a pine grove. Even within my own orchard, each corner speaks in its own scent. The sweetness of ripening fruit, the delicate fragrance of wildflowers, and then, carried on a sudden gust of wind, the heady freshness of acacia blossoms. Rain too has its own variations: the scent of winter showers is different from the rains of autumn. The moist winter air seems to hold its own quiet perfume. By going mindful and shedding distractions, I find myself living inside these fragrances rather than just passing through them. The world, it seems, always had these notes to offer. I just need to relearn how to breathe them in.

Has it affected my taste buds too? Absolutely. I’ve grown a quiet aversion to most prepackaged foods. They taste either too sweet or strangely artificial. Yet, I must admit, my weakness for salty snacks still lingers. Put a packet of Kurkure, Lays, or Pringles in front of me and I’ll keep munching away, even while knowing they’re far from healthy and nearly impossible to stop once begun. In my kitchen, though, things have changed. I use far less salt and fewer spices than I once did, letting the natural flavor of fresh ingredients speak for themselves. And when it comes to drinks, nothing compares to a glass of cool, fresh spring water, especially after some hard work in the orchard. I do still enjoy fresh fruit juices and the occasional beers. However, when it comes to beers, the company matters!

I find myself pausing to savor the smallest sensations: the delicate drizzle washing over my face, the gentle tickle of grass beneath my bare feet, the warmth of sunlight resting softly on my skin, especially in winter, when even the faintest rays feel magnetic, drawing me toward them as if I could soak up every ounce of light. These are such simple experiences, often overlooked in the rush of daily life, yet they hold a quiet joy when noticed fully. I am learning to linger in these moments, to let them speak to me. Even the ordinary touch of rain or earth feels like a gift.

I am no ascetic, and I do not live a life of strict discipline, yet I feel quietly grateful for what slow living and mindfulness have brought me. Some of my friends have offered valuable insights, and certain things I once took for granted like the flavour of fresh fruits or quietness of nights have gained new significance after being pointed out by my guests. It is as if all my senses had been patiently waiting for me to slow down, to finally give them space to breathe. The world itself hasn’t changed but I definitely have, or am trying to. And in this gentler rhythm, every sound, every glance, every gesture carries more weight, more subtle meaning, more life than I ever noticed before.

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Devta – a word often used in Hinduism to describe benevolent, god-like beings, finds its root in the verb dena, meaning “to give.” At its essence, a Devta is not merely one who wields power or receives worship, but one who gives: light, protection, blessings, and guidance. When we reflect on this meaning, it carries a simple yet profound lesson for us humans as well. To give is to live in harmony with the very fabric of existence. When we give back to society, when we share with those around us, when we restore to Mother Nature what we take, when we care for the earth that sustains us, we are, in our own small way, walking the path of the Devta.

Even the philosophy of sustainable living is rooted in the act of giving – giving back to the Earth, to Mother Nature, who nurtures us in countless ways. Whether it is composting to return nourishment to the soil, or harvesting rainwater to replenish the underground reserves, these are simple yet profound acts of giving. In giving back, we restore balance, honor the cycles of life, and ensure that what sustains us today will also sustain generations to come.

This giving need not always be grand or material. A kind word, a helping hand, a seed sown in the soil, a tree nurtured for future generations, these too are acts of giving. Such gestures refine us, polish our inner being, and make us better people. They align us with a deeper truth: that our lives are not meant to be lived in isolation or mere consumption, but in participation with the greater whole. In giving, we transcend selfishness. In giving, we dissolve a part of our ego. And in giving, we step closer to the divine qualities we admire in the Devtas. Perhaps the highest offering we can make is to live in a way that leaves behind more goodness than we received, to give back not only to people, but also to the soil, the rivers, the forests, and the unseen life that depends on our choices.

A few years ago, a young boy from our village fell gravely ill. His survival depended on a surgery followed by long and costly medical care. To support the family in their time of need, friends and villagers began a small crowdfunding initiative. One by one, people came forward, each giving what they could, some little, some more. To me, every single donor became a Devta in that moment.

There is a simple, deep satisfaction and blissful happiness in the simple act of giving. It also resonates with my inclination toward minimalism, where joy is not found in accumulating, but in sharing. Each time I give, no matter how small the gesture, I feel a gentle happiness arise within me.

Sometimes, it is as ordinary as pausing on a village road to offer a lift to a schoolchild walking by. I have the space in my car, and in that moment, giving it feels natural. At other times, it is in choosing the very best fruits from our orchard – the ripest, most beautiful ones – to gift to others, while keeping the smaller or blemished ones for myself. When it comes to clothing too, I would rather buy the finest for the people around me than for my own use. These are not sacrifices, nor acts of deprivation. They are moments of giving, and each one brings its own contentment. Even at the dinner table, when neighbours join me, I instinctively cut the larger slice of apple pie for them. The joy is not in what remains with me, but in what I can share.

I am also a receiver at times. Life has a way of reminding me of this through the generosity of those around me. A friend once gifted me an oven to bake breads, and fruit trees to plant in the orchard. Another, whenever he visits, brings food items with a smile. A kind couple offers not material things but their time and physical labour, helping me in the garden. Our neighbours support us with prayers and participation in religious activities. Even the shoes I wear at this very moment are a gift from yet another friend.

One aspect of “not giving” stems from the instinct for self-preservation. Questions naturally arise: What if an emergency strikes and I need money? What if I am unable to provide for my family in the ways I should? What if a sudden crisis leaves me without the means to respond? These concerns are valid. A small cushion of safety, for ourselves and our loved ones, is not only wise but essential. Yet, beyond this foundation, there should always remain space for giving. Even the smallest act, the tiniest contribution, carries meaning.

To give, then, is not a duty alone, it is a privilege, and a path to becoming truly human.

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Everything happens for a reason – Bhagavad Gita

Today, while clearing some weeds beneath a peach tree, my hand brushed rather forcefully against a stinging nettle. Hidden in the shade of grasses and other plants, it revealed itself only through its sting. I tugged it out and then sat for nearly an hour with my hand burning and itching, little sores rising like reminders of its power. In Hindi, it is called bichhoo ghaas or bichhoo booti – the “scorpion grass.” And indeed, it stings with the suddenness of a scorpion’s strike.

Later in the day, when I returned to my study, I noticed a scorpion lying dead next to my chair, one I had overlooked in the early hours of the morning while writing some notes. A strange coincidence, or perhaps a whisper of destiny? It felt as though Providence had played a gentle trick: maybe I was fated for a scorpion’s venom, but instead I received only the passing lesson of a nettle’s bite.

Karma, too, has its own ways. Perhaps some unseen good deed lightened the burden, diverting me from greater harm to a lesser one. Nature, in her mysteries, teaches us again and again – pain is real, but so too is grace.

In moments of reflection, when I look back upon the many events of my life, I often feel a deep sense of predestination. The joys and sorrows, the blessings and the struggles – each seems to have unfolded for a reason. Though I may not consider myself overtly religious, I cannot escape the feeling that there is a greater wisdom at play, something I am still learning to understand.

Different traditions give it different names. In Hinduism, the Gita and other sacred texts speak of Karma. In Christianity, it is called Providence. In Islam, it is known as ‘Maqtoob’, that which has been written. Many names, many expressions, yet they all seem to point toward a single truth: life is guided by a force beyond our complete comprehension.

Believing in fate does not mean doing nothing. Fate may open doors, but it is our actions that decide whether we step through. To trust in providence is not to surrender effort, but to act with greater care – sowing seeds of kindness and goodness that will one day return to us.

What we do inevitably returns to us, yet not without the gentle hand of divine guidance. This realization humbles me, and reminds me that my purpose is not only to nurture my own growth, but also to work for the well-being of those around me.

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Lately, I’ve begun carrying a small notebook and a pencil with me. There’s something grounding about it, something a phone can never quite match. When I write on paper, I’m not pulled into the endless swirl of apps and alerts. The page asks nothing of me except presence. A notebook never runs out of battery, never demands an update. Its pages open to wherever my thoughts wish to wander – forward, backward, or somewhere in between.

Of course, after years of professional work and decades of typing on keyboards, my handwriting has become clumsy, almost unrecognizable. But even in its unevenness, I find a simple lesson. Writing by hand asks me to slow down, to let each word take shape patiently. In the act of making my handwriting legible, I notice myself living more gently, more attentively, one imperfect line at a time.

For notes I know I’ll discard in a few days, I simply use loose sheets of paper. When they’ve served their purpose, they find a second life kindling my winter fire. At times I’ve thought about buying a small notepad with tearable sheets, but then I pause, why add another purchase when my notebook is still here with me, its pages more than half empty, waiting to be filled?

Even the notes in my notebook lose their significance after a while. A to-do list that has already been completed, or a set of quick instructions I scribbled for myself while walking through the orchard – once their purpose is served, they no longer carry much meaning. For now, I simply strike them out. But I often wonder if, with time, my notebook will hold more crossed-out pages than notes I truly need to keep.

I use my notebook for many things: scribbling to-do lists, jotting down thoughts and plans for the orchard or homestay, or noting topics to discuss with family and friends. At times, it holds nothing more than a passing thought, a few lines of poetry, or fragments of ideas that might later grow into a blog post.

My simple advice to anyone wishing to live more mindfully: carry a small paper notebook and a pencil. I lean toward a pencil since it never leaks with the pressure changes as I move between the hills and the valleys. But a pen works just as well. Perhaps even a fancy fountain pen, one you come to treasure and turns writing into a small ritual.

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Meditation comes in many shapes and shades. Each tradition, each school of thought, offers its own map. Some speak of a fixed number of practices, others of meditations that unfold in stages, like petals opening over time. The differences can be intriguing, yet also bewildering, as if one were standing before a vast forest of paths, each claiming to lead to the same clearing.

For me, the journey is simpler. I am a humble wanderer who finds joy in the small and ordinary: a bird’s call at dawn, the quiet steam of morning tea, the play of light through a window, water droplets on leaves after a drizzle. In these moments, I find my own form of meditation. And after much reading, and more importantly, much living, I have come to see it in just two gentle streams: Contemplation and Concentration.

When I ponder on a thought, think about it, dive into its depths, and try to understand its various aspects, I find myself in a zone that feels similar to meditation, though it is not exactly the kind of concentration people usually speak of. It is contemplation. Some authors have also included contemplation as a type of meditation, and in that sense, perhaps it overlaps.

This is what I do. When I go for a walk, when I sit under a tree gazing into the distance and thinking about something, when I read a book and pause to reflect on what I’ve read. These are all moments of contemplation for me. My partner often remarks how interesting it is that I read a book and then sit quietly for a while, as if slowly digesting what I’ve just read. That, for me, is contemplation.

In my daily life, I am usually occupied—reading books, learning new skills, or enjoying activities I love, such as photography, cooking, or listening to music. Sitting quietly to focus my mind is something I don’t often do anymore. There was a time when I did. I would close my eyes and simply listen to the sounds around me, becoming aware of every detail, every subtle movement in the air. Sometimes I would focus so intently that all thoughts would fade away. In those moments, I would lose track of time and even lose awareness of my surroundings. It’s a difficult experience to put into words, but when it happens, it feels almost surreal. These days, I usually find this kind of meditation when I visit a temple in the region and spend unhurried time sitting within its quiet premises.

For me, whether I am contemplating or concentrating, the sensations of my body and the influence of my surroundings whether it’s the warmth of the sun, the chill of mountain air, the patter of rain, or the stillness of a heatwave, gradually fade into the background. It is as if the mind steps forward and the body quietly takes a back seat. Perhaps that is why I have never fully understood the need for elaborate, climate-controlled halls for meditation. I see their value for those who seek comfort or structure, yet my own experience tells me that meditation itself can take care of the body. When the mind settles deeply, the weather becomes irrelevant; heat no longer oppresses, cold no longer bites. The external fades, and the internal becomes vast enough to hold everything without disturbance.

This, too, is a part of living a slow life, allowing space for stillness to arise on its own. Meditation comes to me naturally, woven seamlessly into the rhythm of my days. It may not resemble what most people picture when they speak of meditating, no rigid posture, no set time or ritual, but for me, this is exactly what meditation is. It happens in the quiet company of nature: while watching clouds drift lazily across the sky, listening to the low murmur of a stream, or feeling the gentle sway of trees in the wind. It’s in the warmth of sunlight on my face, the cool brush of evening air, the earthy scent that rises after rain, or the gentle drizzle cooling my bare head. In such moments, there is no need to “try” to meditate. The mind softens, the senses open, and awareness rests naturally in the present.

ADDENDUM (17 Aug 2025): Based on a short discussion with a friend of mine, who is an avid reader and a regular practitioner of meditation and mindful living –

One thing that needs to be clarified is that contemplation should not be mistaken for daydreaming. Daydreaming drifts aimlessly, often carrying the mind into fantasies and distractions, while contemplation is intentional. It is a mindful, steady dwelling on a thought, an idea, or an experience with the purpose of deepening understanding.

Regardless of religion or faith, meditation can be embraced as a gentle companion in daily life.

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Most people see walking as a matter of numbers. Nine – Ten thousand steps a day. So many kilometres covered. So many calories burned. A sure way to control your weight, keep the doctor at bay, and if the insurance companies are to be believed even earn you a lower premium.

But I’ve learned that there’s another side to walking. A deeper and more intriguing side. One that rarely makes it into fitness trackers or health blogs. It is the side where the body falls into rhythm, and the mind begins to wander freely. Where each step takes you not only along a path, but inward, into yourself.

I am not a regular walker but I enjoy whatever short walks I can fit in here and there. When I walk the village trails, there’s the crunch of gravel underfoot, the faint rustle of leaves as the wind moves through the trees, the occasional call of a distant bird. Out by the edge of the woods, the air smells of pine, oaks, and damp earth. The sunlight falls in dapples, and shadows stretch lazily across the ground. Sometimes I carry my camera, hoping to capture a few good photographs. Other days, it’s just my phone in my pocket. And lately, there are days when I take no electronics at all.

It is here, in these moments of walking, that my thoughts slow down. Here, the noise of the world recedes, and I can hear the softer voices, the ones drowned out by daily life. I find myself contemplating things I didn’t even know I needed to think about. Sometimes I untangle a knot in my mind without even trying. Other times, I simply let my thoughts drift like leaves on a stream. From interesting concepts that I can use in my orchard and homestay, to ideas that I can discuss with my family and friends. Every walk gives me something to be happy about.

These walks are not just exercise. They are a kind of moving meditation. They are my sanctuary, my pause button, my way of returning to myself. Sometimes, when I can’t go out on the road and towards the nearby temple and village, I optt for walking around in the orchard. Since I know the nooks and corners of my orchard, I am able to relax my mind even better.

One tool that initially helped me focus was my step counter. In the beginning, I had a clear goal to hit and somehow, with every step I took, I subconsciously felt a little healthier. These days, I rarely glance at the counter. My step count has probably dropped, but my mindfulness while walking and the happiness I feel during those walks has grown. Once the rains pass, I hope my steps will rise again. But for now, I’m content knowing that each walk, no matter the distance, leaves me lighter in spirit.

Yes, walking will make you fitter, especially if you go for long fast walks. Yes, it will strengthen your heart and clear your lungs. But the greatest gift it offers is invisible a deep, unshakable peace that lingers long after you’ve returned home. Such walks are mindful and meditative!

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One of the most surprising gifts of slowing down and living more mindfully is that digital minimalism begins to happen on its own. It’s not forced. It’s not a challenge. It just unfolds naturally.

Over time, I’ve found myself deleting most of my social media accounts. I’ve removed dozens of apps from my phone — ones that once seemed essential but were really just distractions in disguise. I still need my phone for work now and then, and that’s fine. It serves a purpose. But that’s all it is — a tool, nothing more.

Entertainment? That’s changed too. No games. No YouTube. No shopping apps. The only “extra” I’ve kept is a simple chess puzzle app that offers four challenges a day — a little mindful workout for the brain, and that’s it.

I still use Instagram (and some other similar apps) but only to share photos and updates about our homestay. It’s a way to stay connected with potential guests, not to scroll endlessly or get lost in someone else’s life. I have WhatsApp and email too, purely to respond to inquiries. No endless notifications. No groups. Twitter is something I check maybe once a week, and Facebook, once a month, mostly to stay lightly in touch.

There’s no TV in my life. No tablet. No smart devices. I don’t need Alexa to turn off a light — flicking a switch is faster and strangely satisfying. Vividh Bharti on AIR FM plays better music than most streaming services anyway, and it does so with a lower carbon footprint. I even rely on a good old-fashioned clock to tell the time. No need to pick up the phone and risk falling down a digital rabbit hole.

What I’ve realized is that we’re all paying a steep price for the digital frenzy — not in rupees or dollars, but in something far more valuable: our time. Every minute spent in mindless scrolling is a minute lost from living. The flood of digital content surrounding us comes with a hidden cost: our attention, our peace, our presence.

The solution isn’t to reject technology completely — it’s to be intentional. Every device, every app should have a clear purpose. It should enrich my life, or the lives of the people I care about. Nothing more. If it doesn’t serve that purpose, it doesn’t deserve a place in my day.

I use a Kindle to read books. A friend of mine prefers reading on an iPad, something I could never bring myself to do. An iPad, with all its apps and notifications, would constantly pull at my attention. He, however, is remarkably focused and doesn’t get distracted easily. People like him are rare, able to resist the digital noise even when it’s just a tap away.

It feels genuinely liberating to know that my attention is no longer being hijacked — that I decide where it goes. Each intentional choice adds a layer of clarity and calm to my day. In a world overwhelmed by digital noise and constant distractions, this mindful way of living isn’t just refreshing, it’s empowering. It feels like I’m quietly reclaiming parts of myself I hadn’t even noticed were lost.

This is the essence of digital minimalism. Not restriction, but thoughtful selection. Not avoidance, but alignment. Use only what matters. And leave the rest behind.

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One of the most profound aspects of living in a remote village is the clarity it brings to the value of relationships. In a place where homes are scattered and people even fewer, every connection matters more. From family members to neighbours, there are just a handful of people I regularly interact with, but these interactions are rich, deep, informative, and meaningful.

This slower life gives me the time and space to truly understand and appreciate the relationships I have. Over time, I’ve come to accept that not everyone will share my worldview, pace, or values. And that’s okay. What matters is that I’ve found my circle – a small yet strong support system of friends and family who are there when I need them. Whether it’s lending a hand during difficult times or simply sharing a laugh on a quiet evening, this community grounds me. With them, I feel seen. I can be myself – open, relaxed, and almost unguarded. Together, we work, reflect, share, and sometimes just sit in comfortable silence.

I’ve also learned that helping others, without expecting anything in return, is one of the most fulfilling paths to happiness. In this slower rhythm of life, acts of kindness are expressions of humanity, woven into the everyday.

Of course, not all relationships endure. There have been moments of hurt – times when people I trusted misunderstood me or spoke behind my back. It stings, especially when it comes from those you once held close. But I’ve come to understand that my time on this earth is limited. Every minute, every interaction is precious. I’ve learned to forgive – for their sake and mine – but I’ve also stopped trying to mend what no longer feels genuine. Not out of bitterness, but acceptance. Life moves forward. Maybe I was at fault, maybe I wasn’t. In the end, what matters is not the past, but how I choose to live now.

For me, purpose often comes from being there for others – sometimes for people I know, sometimes for strangers. There’s a joy in helping, in supporting, in understanding, in simply showing up. I no longer chase meaning in grand gestures. Instead, I find it in the small moments: a shared meal, a conversation that lingers, a quiet walk with a friend, the sound of laughter echoing in the hills, the plans to visit a nearby town, or how to make our place more liveable.

Relishing these moments – truly being present is what slow living is all about. When I sit with my family or friends, there’s no rush. No deadlines. Just the joy of being together. We talk, we listen, we understand. These moments feel whole. They feel real. At first, I had to make a conscious effort to be mindful in these moments, but now, it happens naturally, almost as if mindfulness is now becoming second nature to me.

In this simplicity, I’ve found contentment. In community, I’ve found connection. And in mindfulness, I’ve discovered a deep, lasting happiness.

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One of the most transformative habits I’ve developed over the last few years is sleeping early and as a result, sleeping well.

During my city life, my sleep rhythm was erratic. I’d often return from work around dinner time. After a quick meal, there was usually a late-night movie, followed by an early morning scramble to start a new day and face the grind. Occasionally, when a concern for health surfaced, I’d push myself to wake up early for a cycling session. It felt like an accomplishment – brief, fleeting, but then I’d be swept back into the same relentless routine. Days turned into months, and months into years. Some nights, one movie turned into two, stretching sleep even further.

I convinced myself I had the energy to manage on just a few hours of rest. That, I now realize, was the biggest lie I believed. The movies gave me fleeting pleasure. But I was bartering sleep – real rest – for shallow entertainment.

Fast forward to the present.

Now, my evenings close in a much more mindful way. I have dinner early, truly early by city standards. Then I spend some quiet time reading a good book, or occasionally browsing something thoughtful on my computer or e-reader. Never movies. In fact, I haven’t watched TV channels in over a decade.

As night deepens, I change into my sleep clothes and settle into bed, book in hand. Depending on how engaging the book is and how much I’ve exerted myself during the day, I usually fall asleep within ten minutes to an hour. Even the Wi-Fi shuts off automatically at night. No screens, no distractions. My bedside clock is an old-fashioned analogue one.

At times, the lamp remains glowing long after I’ve drifted off, only for me to wake up later and switch it off. My spectacles might slide down my nose, or lie unused on the table if the font is large enough to read without them.

When it rains, the soft drumming on the roof becomes my lullaby. Sleep arrives even sooner.

Mornings begin with the chorus of early birds. According to ancient Hindu belief, this pre-dawn time, Brahma Muhurta is when good spirits roam the Earth. The air feels different then. Sacred.

Another thing that I have noticed is that when the mind is relaxed and happy, the amount of sleep needed to wake up refreshed automatically reduces. After all, sleep is nature’s way of relaxing our mind and rebuilding the body.

Now, after a good sleep at night and with the mind relaxed, I don’t feel tired in the day time. No need for naps in the afternoon. I feel full of energy from morning till late in the evening. No mandatory mugs of coffee or tea, though I don’t mind them.

“Early to bed and early to rise” – I don’t know if it has made me wealthy or wise. But I can say this with certainty: it has made me healthier, and undeniably happier.

BTW, did you know that genetics also have a role to play in the total hours of sleep one requires to feel refreshed?

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Why is it that we feel calmer, lighter, and even a bit happier after spending time in nature – even if just for a few minutes?

For me, one of the simplest way to feel happy, is to indulge in some horticulture related work in my orchard. Just admiring the buds breaking into leaves or flowers, fruits maturing, leaves changing colors, or in the winter chill the peaceful way the trees appear to be resting, makes me smile. A walk in the orchard is all I need to lift my spirits up, even on the dullest of the days.

This connection between nature and well-being is embedded in cultures that consistently rank among the happiest in the world. Both Norway and Finland, for example, attribute part of their national happiness to friluftsliv, a Nordic concept that roughly translates to “open-air living.” It’s not about luxury or grand escapes, but simply spending time outdoors – walking in the woods, sitting by a lake, or feeling the wind on your face. As the Finnish say, “There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.” This mindset encourages a daily, intentional relationship with the natural world, rain or shine.

What about absence of connection with nature then? There’s growing scientific and anecdotal evidence that the absence of nature can quietly erode our well-being. Richard Louv, in his book Last Child in the Woods, coined the term “Nature Deficit Disorder” to describe the psychological, physical, and cognitive costs of being disconnected from the natural world. He argues that a lack of exposure to nature – especially among children – contributes to a rise in anxiety, depression, and attention disorders.

Not just children, but even adults should come in contact with nature. Nature brings pleasure and happiness. Something as simple as observing a few flower pots can lift the spirits and create a sense of calm and connection.

Living the slow life here, I’ve experienced a quiet, almost surreal kind of happiness, a deep sense of contentment that settles into your bones. Much of it, I believe, stems from the closeness to nature – the rhythm of the seasons, the texture of soil in my hands, birdsong at dawn, and the absence of hurry. The closer I am to nature and more time I spend with nature, the stronger this connection with nature happens, and as a result happiness.

Our bond with nature is just as important for happiness and well-being as any other part of a meaningful life.

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The world today often equates happiness with more – more gadgets, more upgrades, more possessions. The latest phone, the newest laptop, the more expensive and advanced, the better. But somewhere along the way, I’ve come to realize the opposite. The older my phone gets, the happier I seem to be, as long as it still does its job. In the sea of cutting-edge technology, there’s a quiet charm in holding a simple button phone. Even better is the old landline, where you actually sit down, pick up the receiver from its cradle, and dial a number. There’s a certain grounding in that simplicity. I must be one of the few who still uses a landline phone. My aim is to slowly move back to a simple button phone one day.

Minimalism has slowly crept into my home and my life. The clutter has reduced, not just from the shelves and cupboards, but from my mind too. When there is less stuff in home, somehow the mind feels freer too. My thoughts feel more organized, my plans clearer, my daily routine calmer. I feel lighter, happier, and far more at ease.

I don’t have OTT subscriptions. I don’t even own a TV anymore. No monthly bills, no worrying about repair services, no dusting screens. One less object, a hundred fewer worries. And that’s just one example. Minimalism has simplified my life in countless ways, less to maintain, less to organize, less to spend on, and no risk of things breaking down… because I simply don’t own them. And with all that gone, my mind feels lighter too.

This is peace.

I am trying to, and have also succeeded in various ways, on how to limit my needs, and understand the difference between these limited needs and ‘wants’.

By choosing simplicity over excess and slowing down, I’ve made room for what truly matters: meaningful connections, precious moments, and small everyday joys. It’s about living with intention, appreciating the present, and rediscovering the beauty in the ordinary.

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I’ve come to admire the concept of Wabi-Sabi, the Japanese philosophy of finding beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and simplicity, as it resonates with the slower pace of my life.

The exterior walls of my house endure the harsh elements of nature, from scorching sunshine and dry summers to the moisture-laden months that follow, and eventually, the freezing temperatures with frost. Over time, these extremes have worn down the wall finish. I used to cover the walls with plaster of Paris and similar materials before painting over them. Now, I’ve come to appreciate the imperfections. The flaking plaster, merely painted over without further repairs, gives the walls character. They may not be perfect, but they make the house feel like a welcoming home.

When I find a book that that I like, I don’t mind the marks or dents on the cover. Yes, I do appreciate a brand new book, but a one that is slightly damaged also seems fine to me. In fact, it has more character.

The furniture that I enjoy the most shows signs of usage. It feels more inviting to me. I love to relax on a favorite couch of mine, the scratched armrest reminds me of how I had once accidently knocked over the sidelamp over it and felt happy when it still worked.

My old kettle, dented on one side, still hums along just fine. The dining table bears the marks of time, and I find comfort in that. There’s beauty in imperfection – it brings a quiet kind of peace, freeing my mind to savor life’s better moments. The gentle breeze, the birds’ soft chorus, the sun rising and setting, the earthy scent of the forest floor, bees buzzing from one flower to another. And in those simple pleasures, I find a happiness that blooms from within.

Wabi-Sabi now comes naturally to me, maybe as an extension of my slow life.

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Embracing the tranquil pace of life in Natadol, I’ve undergone what I call a profound transformation in recent years. My days now revolve around reading more and more books and cultivating a mindful existence, savoring each fleeting moment. Television is no longer a part of my world (it never was but now even more so), and I’ve bid farewell to the clamor of loud music and disruptive noise.

It’s when I encounter people accustomed to the hustle and bustle of city living that the disparities become glaringly apparent. The raucous music, late-night revelry, and excessive drinking during their vacations stand in stark contrast to my serene way of life. As we gather, they often find themselves engrossed in their individual mobile phones, wistfully missing the presence of a TV. I can’t help but chuckle at the stark divergence between us.

The city folk speak loudly, usually to drown away other noises and maybe other people’s voices too. Here, even that seems to have changed. Whenever such guests leave, I sometimes feel that even after a few days of interaction my voice becomes louder and I have to make a conscious effort to get back to my old self.

I’ve grown fond of the soft, ambient lighting that gently illuminates my paths while preserving the sanctity of the night, allowing the stars to twinkle in the sky. Often, these gentle lights may seem too subdued to those accustomed to the glaring cityscape.

Embracing a life closer to nature, I’ve adopted a minimalist approach, gradually shedding many of my worldly possessions and learning to cherish the few that remain. I’m dedicated to reducing my carbon footprint and take every opportunity to contribute to this effort. This includes supporting local businesses, opting for public transport whenever feasible, and spending on experiences rather than material possessions.

Even my leisure activities have undergone a transformation. I now find joy in simple yet profound moments, often gathered with my family in our cozy living room. Here, we share laughter, stories, anecdotes, and riddles, taking turns to engage each other’s minds and hearts. Life’s true beauty unfolds at this unhurried pace, and it’s a path I cherish.

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The best thing about slow life is unlearning the use of calendars and clocks. It has its own challenges.

For decades, I was driven by the calendar. There were the notorious Monday blues. The weekdays always dragged on. The weekends were awaited and somehow they flew by even before I could feel them. The clocks ! They were yet another force guiding each and every day. When to reach the office, when to meet the people, reaching late was frowned upon and overtime was happily overlooked by the HR along with the board members.

The day, I started my journey of living a slow and peaceful life, the first thing that I stopped using was the clock. The resident blue-whistling thrush, that lives outside my window, wakes me up. There’s no need for an alarm clock. In fact, now the excitement of doing something fruitful makes me get up on my own, sometimes at almost the same time as the little birdy plans to sing. I have my lunch when I feel hungry and not when the clock tells me to. When the sun goes down, it’s time to relax by the old lamp, on my favorite chair, with a good book in hand. Winter evenings are marked by the smell of hot chocolate that I get to enjoy while I read my book. Summers, it’s a chilled beer or two, sometimes in the company of friends who are yet to stop using their clocks and watches. When I feel sleepy, I go to sleep. Someone asked me about the time I usually sleep. I am usually lost when someone asks this. It depends on the book that I might be reading before bedtime and also on the amount of physical work that I might have done in the day time.

The absence of clocks and watches also has its own advantages. Last week, I went to my car’s service station. They changed the oil, did some regular checkups, and also a minor paint job. I reached the place a little early to pick up my car. Actually, a lot earlier than expected. They were supposed to hand it over at around 3 in the afternoon. I reached there at around 1. I always carry some books and a notebook (the real paper kind, and not the laptop) with me. So, I just requested a place to sit and enjoyed a nice book. It seems that they handed the car at around 6 in the evening and were apologizing for the delay. I was surprised since I did not realise that so much time had passed. In fact, I thanked them for the comfortable corner they had provided me, with an endless supply of coffee and cookies. Every once in a while someone gave me an update about what was taking time, though I never asked. Without watches and clocks, I do not have to hurry anywhere or be late for anything. If I am traveling to the hills and it gets late, I can always stop wherever I feel like and check into a homestay, or call up a friend to spend the night. After all there is no Calendar to keep.

That brings me to the second thing that I quit using. The Calendar. Now every day is a Sunday and every day is also a Monday. It does not matter. Just two things to remember are the start of the new month, when I have to pay some salaries and rentals (usually someone or the other reminds me) and the days when some guests come to stay at our homestay. I don’t buy into the tradition of avoiding non-vegetarian food on some days and eating on others. For me, either a person is a Non-vegetarian, a Vegetarian, or a Vegan, or whatever else they believe in. I am not prejudiced and I cook for our guests based on their beliefs.

Living without a calendar also has its own set of minor problems too. Last Sunday, I called up a friend in the morning. He was still in bed. From his voice I realised that he was woken up by my phone call. For him, Sunday was the day when he could sleep late, while on the other days he had to get up early to go for his work.

There are lots of other things too that now I have a very limited use of. TV channels, News, Social networking.

I can hear someone calling my name outside. Maybe some friend has come to visit me. Is it already lunch time? Maybe, I will ask him to stay back for lunch or if it’s too early, we can enjoy some tea together. I will ask him, rather than deciding based on the time of the day. My friends are actual friends whom I can directly ask and get a real helpful reply.

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