I turned a year wiser recently. By God’s grace, I could have planned any celebration. Instead, I chose something quieter: one single day, just for myself. No party with friends or family, no noise, only a peaceful day away from everything that usually keeps me busy.
The plan was simple. A slow day to sit with myself and ask what truly matters at this stage of my life. But life had its own plans. A day before, the plan I had made a month earlier began to fall apart. The day came, and it turned into a beautiful mess. Yet somewhere in that chaos, I found a strange kind of beauty. And one question stayed with me: was I expecting too much, or is trying to fit life into plans is our biggest illusion?
In the days that followed, the noise settled—and with it, a few truths began to take shape.
Every one of us has something that drives us. For me, it is love: the kind that holds on tightly. Love for my work, my family, my friends, even the small things that are mine. Every decision I make, every effort, every milestone carries that love inside it.
And that is where I saw the irony. The same love that keeps me moving is the one that brings pain in ways we don’t expect. What gives my life a meaning also gives it an unexpected pain.
I saw two ways out. The first is detachment: letting go of everything so completely that nothing can hurt anymore. But as long as I breathe, it will be hard to let go, because I will keep following the same fire, and as long as I live, I will keep holding on. And that brought the second realization: real peace cannot come before the final call of this life.
So now I ask myself a different question. If मृत्यु से पहले मोक्ष is not possible, can I at least prepare for it? Can I live in a way that, on the day when everything finally slows down, I can finally be at peace, and this cycle never repeats?
In seeking an answer to that question, certain resolutions have taken deeper root within me. I carry responsibilities toward the people, relationships, and karma into which I was born and with which I have engaged. I will not turn away from them; I must honour them first.
After fulfilling these responsibilities, one wish remains—the purpose that gives this chapter of my life meaning: to give back, in whatever way I can, to my roots and the land that shaped me. For the past few years, I have felt a growing desire to uplift lives, even in small ways. With every such realization, that purpose grows stronger. The seeds of this purpose planted five years ago, have already begun to grow into a small but beautiful plant—one I will continue to nurture.