All my life, I have felt the urge to overgive, and to give freely. Since becoming aware of this, I have tried to understand myself better and even help myself.

Recently, I was in a situation where I had to be paid in return for my services. It was long overdue; I had been waiting for it for months. As agreed upon, I delivered my work, even better than we had imagined. The project was a success, and it was upon the other party to hold up their end of the bargain and pay me the agreed-upon amount.

It’s as simple as that.

Under these circumstances, I had the same thoughts that I always have: the need to justify my work, from the number of hours spent to the delivery of the work on time. These are all part of my work ethic, which I follow and have high regard for in anybody who does the same.

But this time, these very thoughts felt strange to me. I questioned myself: why would I ever do that?

Why did I ever complicate my life for so many years when things are meant to be as simple as that?

Perhaps my nervous system had learned to operate from a place of feeling unworthy.

As though I needed to do more than my remit to prove something, or to make myself deserving of what I already am.

To believe in myself. That I am enough. To accept that I am enough.

Knowing your value instead of trying to prove your worth.

Acceptance. Simplicity. Perhaps these are signs of a healed self. Feeling confident, grounded, and worthy.

It is actually that simple.

It’s meant to be simple.

A healed nervous system keeps life simple. There is a clarity that comes from self-respect and self-assurance, and I think this is something we need in today’s corporate world.

There is that glass wall, so clear, you could see through it and know. Nothing standing between you and what is true.

And perhaps that is the difference. I can give more because I want to, because I care, because it feels good to give. Not because I need to prove that I am worthy of receiving.

Life does not always ask us to do more. Sometimes, it asks us to stop complicating what is already enough.

I think about this now in so many other parts of my life.

Maybe some of my need to overexplain began much earlier. As a child, I often felt the need to explain why I wanted something, what I would do with it, why it mattered, why I deserved it. Somewhere along the way, perhaps I learned that a simple want was not enough. That I had to build a case for myself.

And maybe that is where discernment becomes important.

Knowing when to explain and when not to. Knowing when something needs to be validated, examined, and understood deeply, and when it is simply a yes or a no.

Sometimes we do need to take the time to understand something fully. Sometimes we need to explain ourselves, have difficult conversations, and get to the depth of a situation.

And sometimes, it really is as simple as a yes or a no.

To live slowly, perhaps, is to create enough space to ask: Do I need to spend my energy and time here? Do I need to explain this? Who am I explaining it to? Is there really a need?

There is a subtle power dynamic between human egos that can be difficult to understand. We are constantly explaining, proving, defending, seeking validation, and trying to establish where we stand with one another.

But there is a certain power in knowing yourself well enough to know when you do not need to participate in all of it.

Perhaps this is how we reclaim our power.

Not by controlling the situation or the people in it, but by knowing ourselves.

I have begun to think of the nervous system in much the same way. When we feel worthy, content, and grounded in our own lives, something within us settles. We no longer have to twist every thought into an explanation or turn every situation into something we must solve.

A calm, centred nervous system is a powerful place to live from.

And half the time, when we find ourselves in complicated situations, perhaps it is not the situation itself that is complicated. It is our own minds and thought processes around it.

We keep turning the thought over and over, adding another explanation, another possibility, another reason, another justification. And somewhere in that constant mental movement, the nervous system becomes entangled with it.

Perhaps one of the simplest ways back is through the things closest to us: our thoughts and our breath.

To notice what we are thinking. To notice how we are breathing. To pause before reacting. To give ourselves enough space to ask whether this really needs our energy.

So tell yourself this: “Yes. Is it that simple?” when you find yourself feeling short of something, when you feel the need to overdo, overprove, overexplain, or give extra validation.

Maybe it really is that simple.

Life is meant to be that simple.

And perhaps that is what I am learning now: to simplify everything I once thought I had to complicate.

Sometimes we need to say yes to ourselves, quietly, in our own minds.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is simply know and believe.

Guess how many times I used the word ‘simple'..

For the longest time I wanted the blue pea flower plant (Clitoria ternatea). It’s a wild flower that we call Shankhapushpa. I couldn’t resist till I had the flowers in my garden and offer them to Shiva. It’s said that he has a special love for these blue flowers.

When I finally got the plant from a neighbor, I saved up the seeds and started to plant them everywhere.

And I had to follow my little ritual while planting any seeds in the soil.

I take them in my palms and whispher to them that though they are being buried, this is not the end but only a beginning.

One can only imagine what it could be like, beneath the dirt in the dark and the unknown.

Haven’t all of us felt this way at some point in our lives?

When we're in a dark place, we might feel like we have been buried, that it's all over.

But what if we have been actually planted.

Nowhere else but underneath the very soil that we come from. Incubating in the darkness, but still warm.

Not abandoned by air or water.

All of life supporting that little seed to become what it's meant to be.

And one day it shall sprout, because we all contain within ourselves that spirit which is eternal.

Breaking through it's own skin and bones the seed is no longer a seed. It must give up its old identity to become this new version, with a root and a shoot. And one day bear fruits and flowers.

The ground too softens for the gentle shoot to break through the cracks and rise up to the light.

You have not been buried, and this is not the end of you.

Look at around you. All of life is supporting you. May that spirit in you breathe new life into you and sprout in joy🌱

And I no more fear it because this has happened before and shall happen again. All we can do is keep faith and enjoy the beauty of life.

We often hear, “You can also take a variation of this pose to accommodate yourself.”

Variations are not imperfect poses; they are simply variations. There is an openness and grace in that.

Some time ago, when I had a sprain in my ankle, I tried variations of almost all the poses.

Even now, depending on the state my body and mind are in, I explore different variations of the poses.

A variation, really, is all about “finding what feels good,” as my favourite yoga guide on the internet, Adriene Mishler, Yoga with Adriene would say.

This got me thinking about how naturally we flow into these variations on the mat, and how rarely we do the same in life.

And if we really look at what a variation means, it is not a drastic change, only a slight shift. A different angle, a different depth, a different support, while the intention remains the same.

In life, too, there always seems to be an ideal version that we are all aiming for.

An ideal routine, an ideal pace, an ideal body, an ideal timeline. But it is never the same.

We are all living the same life, only in different variations of it.

Variation is not just a yoga principle. It is one of nature’s oldest principles, too.

Biological science itself studies life through these differences, through variations.

For evolution by natural selection to occur, individuals of a species must be variable.

Slight differences in size, colour, behaviour, physiology, all of it matters.

Variation allows some individuals within a population to adapt to changing environments and survive where others may not.

Nature itself survives through variation. It progresses through small accommodations, not rigid sameness.

So why do we spend so much of life trying to erase our own variations? Why are we taught so early to aim at being everything except ourselves?

Variations are neither about getting better nor getting worse. They are built into the very nature of life, though we rarely learn to see them that way.

Sticking to and striving for the right pose is good, but finding alignment and creating harmony within variations may be the real practice.

Perhaps that is how nature intended growth all along. Not through imitation, but through variation.

Not by becoming identical, but by becoming aligned.

That is evolution in its most personal form.

Over time, the notion of having a relationship with oneself has become one of the most widely discussed ideas of our times.

And lately, I’ve begun to feel that we are being nudged to explore it more deeply.

By definition, a relationship exists between two or more entities.

So when we speak of a “relationship with oneself,” what are we really referring to?

Here is how I’ve come to understand it.

The mind moves through conflict, comparison, and conditioning. Most of us identify with it: its memories, emotions, and the many shifting narratives it carries.

In that sense, it can feel like there are multiple parts within us, relating to each other.

And the relationship between them is what we experience as self-love, self-doubt, self-criticism, and everything in between.

When parts of the mind resist or reject each other, self-love becomes a way for the mind to reconcile itself, to soothe, to make peace.

In that sense, it is meaningful. Necessary, even.

But it also raises a question.

If the version of “me” I am trying to love today is not the same version that exists tomorrow, then who or what exactly is being loved?

This kind of love begins to resemble liking, something transient and conditional, which cannot be called love.

And yet, the longing for love remains constant.

So where is it coming from?

Wondering about that myself, here is what I have arrived at.

Beneath all of this mental chatter, there is something quieter. A witness to the movements of the mind.

Perhaps we can turn our attention there, toward the one who is aware.

The “I” that notices. That remains as the constant witness—that which does not change with every passing thought or feeling.

Not the personality. Not the mind.

But awareness itself.

The Self.

The Self is not something that needs to be loved. It is love, not as an emotion, but as its very nature.

Maybe the question is not “how do I love myself?” But “who is the one that is loving? or Where is this love coming from?”

That right there is the doorway to the love that we all crave.

A treasure that each one of us holds within, but looks for outside.

The world teaches us how to perform love, how to express it, and how to earn it.

But to be love, to recognise it as what we are, is something each of us can only discover on our own.

Perhaps self-love is not the final destination, but a doorway to the Self.

A necessary step for the mind to come into alignment with all of our being, as a whole.

Not a relationship with oneself, but to move beyond the illusion of separateness from love.

That there is no separation within, but just the colours of the mind, changing under the constant shining light of awareness.

Our bodies are mostly empty space - groupings of tiny energy waves bound together

Bound together by forces of attraction strong enough to convince us that metter is solid and stop my body passing through yours.

Quantum physics, in its own way, seems to gesture toward a world that is less solid, less fixed, and far more subtle than it appears.

In the world of energy, the colours we see, for instance, are not really colours at all, but frequencies interpreted by the brain. So is all of our sensory experiences.

The quantum view of reality as observer-dependent and interconnected mirrors the timeless truths of Advaita Vedanta ( Non-dual Philosophy).

While quantum physics describes these phenomena mathematically, Vedanta provides the philosophical framework to understand their deeper implications.

The non-local behaviour observed in entangled particles aligns with Vedanta’s assertion of oneness—that all existence is interconnected and all distinctions are illusory and that ultimate reality is one and indivisible within the fabric of Brahman.

According to Vedanta, the only ultimate reality is Brahman, pure consciousness, and the world is an illusion (Maya).

Everything in the universe, despite its multiplicity, is a manifestation of Brahman.

And I believe Brahman to be the all-pervading field of awareness/consciousness upon which all of creation appears.

Therefore, I have come to experience that everything is Chinmaya—that which is light or consciousness itself.

If everything is Chinmaya, if everything is this field of consciousness, it must be composed of the same light.

Like the reflection of a city on the surface of a lake, every inch of that city is nothing but water itself.

And if this consciousness is intelligent, aware, and deeply interconnected, then perhaps we are not separate from anything at all.

Not only living beings, but even what we call inanimate objects exist within this same field, each carrying its own energetic presence.

And what if we learned how to communicate in the language of energy? Or channel it with intention from one point of consciousness to another?

To begin, we would first have to percieve ourselves beyond the physical body, the mind and ego. From where we have been conditioned to live in fear and survival.

Learning to understand I am energy and that I am energetically interacting with different energies, inside a vast field of awareness.

It all began for me when I started to speak to my art. To listen to it. To build a connection beyond mental reinforcements.

All creation comes through when the energetic channels open up, whether we do it consciously or unconsciously.

Something like Cooper in the movie Interstellar, moving through the tesseract, beyond the dimensional limits of space and time.

Every point in space and time is nothing but a point of consciousness itself. All existing in the field, at all times.

Take any two points in space; they seem to us to be separated by time, i.e, it takes me X amount of time to travel from A to B.

But the reality is that we can access any point of consciousness from wherever we are if we cross the mental barrier of perceiving time as linear.

This does not mean manipulation, gaining control, or that reality bends to our personal desires.

It means trusting that there is a higher intelligence beyond individual wants and fears that knows better.

Perhaps it is not about understanding reality completely,
But about learning how to relate to it differently.

Over time, that understanding moved beyond religion and God. And somewhere along the way, thinking about them more closely began to change the way I see life.

We can be disciplined, but only up to a point. There is always a limit.

Devotion does not seem to have one.

Discipline asks for structure. It asks for control. It often comes with consequences. When it is broken, there is a sense of failure, sometimes even punishment.

Devotion feels different.

It is softer, but not weaker. It does not force, it draws. There is always a way to be more devoted, not out of obligation, but out of willingness and love.

Growing up, discipline was a part of our home. But devotion was something larger, something we were left to find on our own, because it’s personal.

Devotion cannot be taught; each person comes to it on their own. It is a seed placed in the heart by grace, and it grows in its own time.

And once found, it does not stay contained.

Devotion pervades.

Discipline is concerned with where we are going. Devotion is absorbed in where we are, it puts process before outcome.

My devotion to writing does not belong only to the act of writing. It shapes the way I observe, the way I listen, the way I understand the world.

My devotion to yoga is what brings me back to the mat each day. Not discipline. I was never rigid about it. I did not punish myself for missing a day or impose rules that made it feel like an obligation.

It became a ritual. A way of honouring something I believed was good for me in ways more than I can imagine.

Over time, that devotion suffused itself into my whole life. Into how I eat, how I speak, and how I take care of myself. It became less about the practice and more about the way I lived.

I have come to see devotion as a kind of love language. To love someone is to be devoted to them, to care for them, to serve them in the ways that feel true.

Perhaps to love, in its truest form, is simply to remain devoted.

Discipline may help us begin. Set up a foundation. But devotion is what allows something to stay and grow.

Devotion is not only prayer. Not only ritual. It is present in the way we love, the way we care, the way we show up.

And perhaps we need both. Discipline to hold us, devotion to move us.

To be devoted is not to control, but to trust, to trust what it asks of you, instead of trying to control what it becomes.

Somewhere in that process, we are shaped by it, and that becomes a beautiful journey in itself.

It was the year 2012, and I remember hearing a rumour that a classmate liked me. I refused to even hear the details. I knew who he was, and I was certain I could not accept the likes of him.

Maybe his feelings were sincere, or maybe it was just a passing crush. Either way, I questioned his audacity. I was twelve, childishly convinced that I could not allow this to happen.

And yet, even then, a part of me could sense that his feelings were hurt. He was, after all, my classmate, a friend too, in a way.

Today, I wonder what might have happened if I had allowed him to express himself to me. But was that ever in my right? To allow or not allow?

There is something profoundly unjust in denying someone the right to love.

My inability to acknowledge or accept the love coming my way was never proof of another person’s inadequacy. It was only my own ignorance, though I did not know it then.

We often assume that love is lacking when it does not arrive in the form we desire, without questioning whether we ourselves are prepared to receive it.

To deny someone the space to express love is to interfere with something that does not belong to us.

How did we arrive at a place where we doubt another person’s capacity to love before we have even examined our own sense of worthiness in receiving it?

Life itself is an ongoing expression of love, and each person has the right to take part in it in their own way.

Yet we walk up to one another and attempt to regulate that expression, deciding what qualifies and what does not.

If a budding flower is judged incapable of fulfilling its purpose before it has had the chance to bloom, how could it ever reveal its beauty?

We deny love unless it arrives perfectly, on our terms, in the form we desire. In doing so, we overlook what is already present.

Let’s look at the other face.

The ache of unexpressed affection…

The quiet grief of unrequited love. Moments when we cared deeply for someone or something and would have loved well, if only we had been given the chance.

Most of us have lived on both sides of this experience.

We hold the false belief that the key to our hearts is held by someone else.

We wait to be permitted. We wait to be chosen. We wait to be allowed.

And we tell ourselves that if we had been let in, we would express love in all the right ways.

I am not speaking only of romantic love here, but of love in all the relationships we cherish, respect, and share our lives with.

We do not seek permission to love the sky, the stars, the mountains, the oceans, or our pets. We simply respond to them. We are free to love nature, and free to turn away from it too.

That freedom is what love looks like. It finds its own language. Some of us paint, some sing, some dance, some write. Art, in all its forms, is often love attempting to express itself.

The standards we hold love to are curious ones. We tolerate small acts of disrespect, moments of disloyalty, even quiet harm, but love must arrive flawless.

And yet love is not separate from imperfection. It is imperfect until we quit trying to change it, mould it.

Allowing someone to love you, or to express love in the ways they know how, is a gift.

Over time, I have learned not to deny love when it comes. This is not about abandoning boundaries or turning the heart into a battlefield, but about allowing others to reach the gate and knock.

Of all the love I have witnessed in my short life, with its range of intentions, some tender, some flawed, much of it was love I resisted.

And I wonder now, if I had not resisted it so fiercely, who might I have become? And who might they have become in the process?

There is something transformative about the courage to love. When someone enters your life with the intention to simply love you, without expectation or agenda, it changes the shape of what feels possible.

This kind of love is rare not because it is extraordinary, but because we hesitate to allow it. If more of us showed up willing to love without conditions, we might recognise that this is the same freedom with which the world offers itself to us.

What we often call unconditional love may be less a miracle than a practice we keep forgetting.

When that love is received, or even simply acknowledged, it offers us the courage to understand ourselves from different perspectives.

Love exposes our vulnerabilities, fears, desires, and responsibilities. In loving, we show who we are.

So perhaps we give one another the chance to love.

They may not arrive as we imagined. They may not speak, walk, or look the way we hoped. But everyone longs to give love, to experience it, and to be held as a lover.

To allow love, then, is not a passive act. It is an act of recognition, of what makes us human and reminds us why we are here at all.

At its root, content means something contained; to rest or be satisfied; to give satisfaction.

I am trying to understand how we collectively arrived at the use of this word to refer to something endlessly consumed.

In today’s world, content belongs largely to the realm of social media. It is most often associated with content creation, content creators, influencers, and advertisements.

Though we are in a constant pursuit of happiness, it is contentment and satisfaction that we are truly seeking. Contentment, whether spoken of or not, is perhaps the end goal of our lives.

Have we altogether forgotten how to content ourselves with?

To contain a feeling, an emotion, or a memory. To contain names, places, people, and even ourselves.

Today, most of what we once held within us is stored elsewhere. We carry our lives inside our phones and move through the world feeling strangely hollow.

Curiosity fades, and real connection begins to feel harder than scrolling.

To form a meaningful connection with anything, to share life with someone, or to simply serve one another, we must bring something that we contain within ourselves.

But increasingly, we arrive empty.

Do we no longer have the space to contain?

Do we no longer know what is worth containing?

Are we choosing emptiness, or has the act of containing itself become too heavy?

In a world saturated with content, one might expect contentment to be easier.

There appears to be more than enough to satisfy everyone, and yet the opposite seems evidently true.

We create and consume endlessly, yet remain restless, unsatisfied.

If content does not bring us closer to contentment or satisfaction, then what does it leave us with?

Contentment is passive; satisfaction is active. The former is the feeling of one who does not needlessly pine after what is beyond their reach, nor fret at the hardship of their condition. The latter describes the mental state of one who has all they desire and feels pleasure in the contemplation of their situation.

A needy person may be contented, but can hardly be satisfied.

Contentment lives in small, seemingly unremarkable moments. Moments where we are not performing our lives, but simply living them. Where we are present, unobserved, and at ease with ourselves.

The larger moments, however, are often reserved for display. They are curated for social media. Our gazes have turned outward, and we have begun to experience our lives as content rather than as something to feel content with.

Maybe a long life is not necessarily for a contented one.

For me, contentment feels like a full acceptance of the present. It is a form of vulnerability with whatever life contains in a given moment.

This newsletter, for example, is far from what I would like it to be. I do not think I can ever be fully satisfied with it. There is more to be researched and written. But I am content with what is before me right now. I am content with what I have created in this moment.

Learning to accept all parts of life without rejection or judgment may be the work.

When we share, beyond our fears and doubts, what we truly contain as unique beings, connection becomes possible.

Perhaps this is also how creating content can bring us closer to feeling content.

Contentment is not an achievement waiting at the end of a long life, nor is it something we earn through effort.

Perhaps contentment begins the moment we learn to contain, with grace, what is already here and who we already are becoming.

This is an inquiry into direction—where the mind habitually turns, and what becomes visible because of that turning. It asks whether truth is found by moving further into the world, or by learning how to return inward, toward our own centre.

Here, a useful distinction appears. Much of everyday life unfolds within what might be called a shared mode of being: we think, value, desire, and judge as one does. Attention circulates through opinion, comparison, and response.

This outward dispersion is not a personal failure but a default condition.

When consciousness is absorbed in what is immediately available and publicly affirmed, it loses touch with its own centre without noticing the loss.

Modern systems intensify this condition. Social media, for instance, does not merely encourage sharing or creativity; it trains attention to remain outward-facing, evaluative, and reactive.

What appears as authenticity often functions as alignment with prevailing moods rather than inward truth. The issue is not falseness, but displacement.

This displacement is reinforced by the logic of consumption. We are encouraged to take in continuously, but rarely pause to assimilate. The imbalance lies not in consumption itself, nor is it corrected by producing more. Creation does not automatically restore inwardness.

Contemplation and assimilation perform the same work, allowing what is consumed to integrate into consciousness rather than merely pass through it. Without this inward digestion, experience accumulates without depth.

True creation does not begin as output. It begins as inward listening. Beethoven’s music was not gathered from the world but found within him. His journey was not toward novelty or recognition, but toward depth.

What emerged resonated with the centre rather than the periphery, suggesting that the truth of his work lies not merely in talent, but in the inwardness that preceded form.

Understanding our true nature, then, appears central to the question. When an inclination is pursued inwardly rather than outwardly, there is a possibility of encountering something true. Not all digging leads to water. The task is not to dig everywhere, but where there is a genuine possibility of reaching the water table.

An outward-growing mind, trained primarily through consumption, continually pulls attention away from its centre. By chasing what we like, it drifts further from the ground where truth might arise. Truth appears only through the inward folding of the mind, not through further venturing into the world.

To search for water in the desert is to encounter sand, and sometimes the illusion of a mirage. To seek happiness in the world is to find only the world itself, and with it, transient forms of joy.

At this point, broader structures come into view. A society organised primarily around money, exchange, and perpetual growth does more than regulate economies. By rewarding speed, visibility, and outward expansion, it continually reinforces dispersion. Its failure is not merely moral or political, but ontological.

It keeps attention moving away from its source, mistaking motion for meaning and accumulation for truth and depth.

Yet even within such a world, inwardness remains possible. It does not reject life, joy, or interaction; it provides a stable ground from which to engage the world with awareness, choice, and quiet presence.

Perhaps the deepest freedom is not in doing more, seeing more, or expressing more—but in knowing when to fold inward, to drink from one’s own well, and allow that presence to shape all that follows.

Mental health, as we now call it, is beginning to pave a new way into our inner world. Yet, we have not truly ventured into the realm that lies beyond the plane of the mind. We’re only scratching the surface, so to speak.

Most of our actions originate in the mind; our natures and tendencies also seem to be expressions of the mind itself. So understanding the mind, laying it open and bare, naturally feels like understanding ourselves.

Sometimes we even bring in professionals to help us do that, because the mind is a maze, it can play tricks so sly, we would never know.

When we’re in the process of understanding ourselves, the first thing we do is listen. The mind is being presented with new data about itself, and it doesn’t even realise that it’s being made to process information about itself. The only sense of identity that makes us feel, “I am talking about myself,” is the ego.

The mind, by itself, is merely a tool; it has no attachments, unlike the ego. The mind without the ego is like ChatGPT: it simply processes and responds. And that alone does not help us in truly understanding ourselves.

On the other hand, if we set the mind aside and attempt, through a certain methodology, to reach the intellect, enabling it to discern who we are trying to understand, it may appear to be a better approach.

But, who’s doing the talking then? The mind.

The mind, all minds, is not our most reliable narrator, because it is subtle and restlessly dynamic.

This entire attempt to understand ourselves thus becomes a dance between a blind and a deaf partner, each moving with intent, yet unable to truly see or hear the other.

So how can true understanding occur beyond the plane of the mind’s exchange of data? If it’s not the mind listening to itself and processing the same old information, then what is understanding? Can we ever come any closer to who we truly are, or what we truly are?

We certainly can. And that plane lies beyond words and sounds. In silence.

Not merely mental silence, but the absolute silence of the Self. It is found in stillness and complete awareness.

When one can simply observe the mind and its gymnastic routines as it tries to grasp itself, a serene blanket of inherent understanding unfolds, an understanding that neither judges nor seeks to change.

Therapy, psychoanalysis, and all forms of mental guidance, as well as the self-help books and philosophies we turn to, will have little to no impact without this silent observation.

What happens in this state is that witnessing the personality we believe ourselves to be, in silence, allows it to assimilate back into itself, much like an ice cube melting in water. In this state, the ice no longer holds its shape or properties; what was always water becomes water again.

The mind, ego, or intellect may still try to mould the ice, to shape it, to make something of it, but it was, and always will be, only water.

The ice is liberated the moment it recognises that it has always been water. What greater closure, what deeper understanding can there be, than this?

This state of silence is always present; we don’t necessarily need to sit in a quiet meditation room to access it. The inner silence is the supreme silence, ever-present in every moment when we anchor ourselves in the simple awareness that we are.

There are a few practices one can learn and follow, though they serve only as manuals for the mind, to guide it within this state, without letting it get in its own way. And that, we call mindfulness.

The mind must do its work, reflecting, learning, training itself to see clearly—but the essence of that work is fulfilled only in silence.

It may even feel as though it does nothing, no ‘results’, yet try to be fully present in that silent awareness. Expose your mind to the reality that there is nothing to be done, only to witness the ice melt back into water.

The mind’s greatest resistance lies in its foolish enthusiasm to act, to control. A sign of true silence is when this mind, so ever-present in our waking life, suddenly goes missing—MIA, big time.

Try to find this mind in that silence—try, and you’ll find it. Observe, and you won’t.

My dear readers, I do hope you make that journey to the banks of that silent river. The mind learns through effort; the Self reveals itself in stillness. May you honour both.

The phone.

Obviously, because we are living through our phones.

We’re conditioning our minds day and night to recognise everything we experience on the phone as “the world.”

But it’s really just a network.

A network is a system that connects devices to facilitate communication and data sharing.
A network is a collection of interconnected devices that share resources and information.
A network consists of multiple devices that communicate with one another.

Our world is not this network.
We have turned ourselves into some sort of pseudo-devices, facilitating this network.

This is how we’re enabling the AI takeover—by treating ourselves like devices that can’t survive without the network.

By fueling this network with our lives, we’re keeping it alive. And it grows, every moment.
The network is evolving into separate ecosystems, sub-networks, and so on.

And it’s happening right now.

I’m connected to you, and you’re connected to me—through our devices, on the same network.

And we believe that without these devices, or the internet, or any form of mass media—paper, radio, screens—we would have no kind of connection.

But that’s not true.

Each person is inherently connected to another, knowingly or unknowingly.

If I asked you, while watching a movie, whether there was a distance—a space, a disconnection—between two characters on the screen, you’d say no. Obviously not.
They’re on the same screen. They can’t possibly be disconnected.

There have always been signs—telepathic communication, remote viewing.
All of it shows that we are connected outside this network we call “the world.”

Are there different types of internet I’m not aware of?
So far, there is one vast network (maybe with different speeds).

Similarly, there is one infinite plane of consciousness (let’s call it a plane for easier understanding).

No matter how expansive the internet gets in connecting all parts of the globe, it could never compare to being one with the collective consciousness, which is infinite.

“The real world is the interwoven web of all beings—microscopic organisms, trees, animals—everything on this planet, which is itself part of a greater system, within an infinite universe.”

A tiny part of that universe is projected, discussed, and shared in this network that we’re calling “the world.”

But being part of this inter-net-work is not the same as being part of this plane of existence—this reality where all life plays out.

A real connection doesn’t have to be made.
It already exists.
Without it, our entire world and all its ecosystems would start crumbling.

Something we’re evidently witnessing right now.
Human disconnection from nature, and from the reality of this universe, is why.

We need to make attempts to connect independently of our devices and this network.
Nourish the wounded connections beyond our screens.
Build bridges, not walls.

How about that for a Tuesday night, huh?

The future is going to be something amazing.
And it’s already here.
Now.

It made me wonder: why does that happen? Who are these people? What turns an interaction into something meaningful, rather than just casual?

The other day, I bought some clay, maybe make a plant pot, and then a mug perhaps, for an occasional cup of tea or coffee.

“The other, the other, other”, the mind went on for a while, until it dawned upon me that every time I use that mug, I’m really using clay.

I can point to the pot or the mug and call it “clay” because it’s not just made of clay, it is clay, through and through.

It has been given a name, a shape, a purpose and yet, its real nature remains unaffected.

Beyond all the labels, on what basis could we say, “this is one person” and “that is another”?

Because whatever we are made of, whatever we may be, we are first and always the soul.

This is something the mind can never truly comprehend. It simply isn't built for it.

The mind, by its very nature, is a tool evolved to distinguish, categorize, and separate. It cannot grasp the truth of oneness, it cannot wrap itself around something so boundless.

Maybe those moments of meaningful connection aren’t really about what “another” person makes us feel.

Perhaps they are brief glimpses of the soul recognizing and experiencing itself.

It is not simply a special connection between souls—a spark, a zing—but a moment of recognition that they are one.

Do I mean that a mug is the same as a pot? No.

Can I use the pot to drink coffee? why not? do something crazy. Maybe we plant something in the mug, that’s beautiful too.

We may call it by whatever name we like, use it for whatever we want, but can one change it’s real nature?

And why should it?

A broken pot is still clay.

The pot does not have to be used as a mug, or the mug does not have to turn into a pot, to prove that they’re the same.

They don’t have to become one another; they already are.

Who are we trying to convince otherwise?

We try to synthesize love in our minds, attempting to become something or someone, to be loved.

But we are the love that we seek from others, because, there are no ‘others’.

Call it what you want, but the reality is as simple as that.

Grief is known mostly as a response to death.

The loss of a loved one is the biggest loss of all, for it seems like it is the loss of life itself for the ones who must go on living.

And why is it that the grief that death evokes in us, though imminent and universal, is quite challenging to cope with?

Unlike most emotions, grief is felt only in the heart. It fills and pervades every part of our heart, body and soul.

For most of us, our lives look different when we’re alone at home, when we’re working at the office, or out at a party. But in grief, everything feels the same.

It’s the same life everywhere, so momentary and fleeting. The illusion wears off.

One does not have to go anywhere to be reminded of them, to miss them. The feeling will follow everywhere.

So, where is anywhere or everywhere, but inside us.

Another common term used to refer to death is “they are no more”.

No More of what are we referring to?

Of their worldly possessions? No.

No more of their love, their presence.

There seems to be no more of it. Yet, once they are gone, we are so full of it, within ourselves.

So who has gone? And from where?

Maybe we are just looking for them in the wrong room.

Grief is a chance taken away from us to truly and deeply experience love.

Though one may argue that grief is just an emotion, it has the full power of love.

It is the backdoor to love.

The greatest loss is actually the loss of love. But some may even call love just an emotion.

Grief feels like a dam broken down.

All this love that we hoped to give this soul, or all the love that we’d hoped to receive, all this pent-up water waiting to be used for some grand purpose. Suddenly, free.

And then the river does not know where to go, which direction to flow.

Liberated, but does not understand why.

The river rushes through the broken walls, washing away everything in sight. Gradually, flooding the ground.

What happens to this river now?

No more gateways and dams.

The only way to help this river is through channels and pathways.

A river can carve out paths in the most unpredictable ways, and so can love, after a loss.

Finding new ways to channel this love we had for that one person, pet, plant, place, whatever it is. Anything and everything it interacts with is a channel for that love. To love everything as it is and to let be loved.

This is the only way.

2024, in many ways, felt like the evil twin of 2023. But isn’t that what change often feels like? Necessary, yet undeniably uncomfortable.

Since the internet is currently trending with “perspectives,” I thought, why not share mine as we close this chapter?

Let’s start with this: I’m 24, single (by choice, so I really have no complaints), and working a job that pays too little, with no security or benefits. I still live with my parents, and the furthest I’ve traveled outside my state is Goa. I often feel lost, doubtful of my own abilities, and apprehensive about the uncertainties of my future.

But then, let’s shift the lens. Through rose-colored glasses, this is me: I’m only 24—still so young. There’s a world full of people to love and experiences to embrace. I’ve chosen to step away from the life society mapped out for me and pursue what truly makes me happy, even if I’m still figuring it all out.

The places I want to see? They’ll still be there. And so will I.

I have the privilege of leaning on my family and friends—their unconditional love, forgiveness, and acceptance, which means the world to me.

And that I can still go on learning to be a better person and enjoy the life that I have been gifted by God’s grace.

And, perhaps most importantly, even with shadows and flaws, I can say—quietly, maybe a little awkwardly—that I love myself.

Baahhhhhh.

There you have it—parts of my life (the ones I’m willing to share publicly). The rest? That’s for my late-night journal, waiting for its own quiet reflection.

To those who’ve been with me all year, I’m deeply grateful for you and send you love.

As we prepare to let go of this year’s energy and step into the next, I have one thing to say: Some of us did it all alone, and some of us could never have made it through alone. So, thank yourself—and thank the people and moments that brought you love and joy, no matter how small.

I heard the gods grant you one special boon at the end of the year, to make it all up to you. So go after what your heart craves—send that message, kiss that person, apply for that job, book those tickets. It cannot be a mistake if you never tried.

It’s not time to assess progress, count mistakes, it’s the time to seize the moment. The rest is still unwritten.

Two months ago, I was at my friend’s house. It was a pleasant day, my mind at peace, until this happened. My gaze fell upon a basket, woven with white cotton threads, sitting quietly in a dusty corner. It was something I had seen many times before, filled with pens and markers. Yet suddenly, it seemed transformed—no longer just a basket, but a beautiful piece of art.

All day, I found myself drawn to it, consumed by an irresistible urge to make it mine. And then, almost involuntarily, I began to fantasize about it. I couldn’t imagine not having it. I pictured all the ways I could use it: to hold my scarves, books, or little trinkets.

The desire grew so intense that I started justifying it. "What if I took it?" I thought. "He has so many other baskets, and look how neglected this one is." The thoughts appalled me, and I hated myself for even thinking them.

Why couldn’t I just admire it as it is now, instead of claiming it as mine? I didn’t understand.

Eventually, I asked my friend. I hesitated, unsure how to phrase what I was feeling, but the words found their way: "Why does one, when finding something beautiful, feel the need to make it their own?"

He thought for a moment before responding, "I’m not sure, but I’ve read that the ignorance of inner beauty makes us seek beauty outside ourselves."

I nodded quietly.

To someone else, the basket might seem ordinary, but to me, it had become something I felt I must possess and admire every day.

I returned home only to notice that my entire room was filled with objects I had found beautiful—each one acquired in the same restless pursuit, in the name of decoration, admiration.

From room to home, phones to books, clothes, people—my whole life seemed like a collection. Without any of it, I would have nothing—bare, empty, lacking.

And yet, here lies the paradox: We live under the illusion that we lack something inside, so we seek to fill that void with external possessions.

The desire to possess does not stem from the object itself but from the love and grace it evokes in our souls.

Just like the basket, many things in life hold beauty, but they are not what we truly need to possess. This one basket would merely replace yet another basket I once found beautiful.

What does it really mean for something to be "mine"? Is it by keeping it in view, using it, and taking care of it? Does it become mine if I create it with my hands, or buy it with my money? If I possess it, does it truly belong to me? Where do these ideas even come from?

So, what is truly mine, and what is yours, in this world?

To appreciate the basket’s beauty, to admire and use it, does not require me to own it. Wherever it is, whoever it belongs to, its beauty remains undiminished. And so does my love for it.

We do not need to own what we love—we only need to recognize the love we are capable of giving.

And in that recognition, we realize that we are already whole, already abundant, filled with love in countless forms. You need only to feel that love fulfill you. You need only to own yourself, and nothing else.

Happy weekend love :)

I hope you’re all doing well. I wanted to touch base and acknowledge that it's been three friday’s since the last edition of Mindful Musings. Initially, I planned for a short break, but it’s taken a bit longer than expected.

I’m taking this time to reflect and recharge, and I appreciate your patience and understanding. Rest assured, I will return with new content when the time feels right. Until then, thank you for being part of this journey, and I look forward to reconnecting with you soon.

With gratitude,

Apoorva Kumar

I believe we’re all inherently simple; it’s our lives that become complicated. Right?

Preaching about “simplicity” is far easier than embodying it’s philosophies.

We often associate simplicity with having minimal material attachments, viewing it as a virtue and ideal cherished by society.

But is simplicity truly about desiring fewer things, like a villa by the ocean, a private jet, or a yacht?

Or is it about being centered and less emotionally reactive, which we often believe leads to a simpler life?

Yet, what if someone with these qualities still has numerous desires and struggles with contentment?

Let me break it to you,

Simplicity cannot be quantified as having less, and complexity isn’t merely about having too much or too many.

These concepts reflect the paradox of life itself.

For instance, a flower’s beauty appears simple, yet the processes sustaining it—from photosynthesis to reproduction—are complex.

It explains why we feel both ways,

When one is emotionally exhausted by the world, we crave solitude—a life free from family, acquaintances, and the chaos of society.

Yet, sometimes, we are captivated by the beauty of this world—drawn to music, people, places, and the experiences that make life a vibrant circus.

Even the desire to live in isolation, free from society’s trappings, is itself a form of complexity.

Simplicity and complexity are intertwined aspects of the same paradoxical reality.

So, how am I to live in this world and not be of it?

How do we embrace simplicity in the face of complexity?

Personally, I find refuge in my inner world, the sanctuary of the self.

This inner realm is deeply personal. Through here, life feels simpler. Because, like everyone else, I yearn to love and be loved.

People love people, people love things, people love themselves.

Some love the birds, some love power. Some love to be free, some love to hold on.

Some love to love, some love to be loved.

What you love, what you don’t love, who you love, why you love—love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love..

Sounds simple to me.

Maybe we need to be a bit more honest in the matters of love then. We could begin by learning to love and let it guide us.

In this embrace, I promise, simplicity will find its way to you.

Have a good weekend now. Take care, bye.

Once words are spoken,whether or not there was intent to offend, they take on a life of their own.

There’s a funny thing about taking offense—it often says more about us than it does about the person who supposedly offended us.

If someone makes a comment that rubs us the wrong way, why does it sting so much?

Maybe it’s because that comment pokes at something deep within us—an insecurity, a value we hold dear, or even a fear we haven’t fully confronted.

Could it be that we are defining ourselves more by what we oppose than by what we truly believe in? It’s easier, after all, to rally against something than to stand for something.

It takes less introspection to react in anger than to dig deep and understand why that anger exists in the first place

For many people, taking offense is closely tied to personal identity.

In a world where social, political, and cultural identities are increasingly emphasized, any perceived attack can feel deeply personal.

This sensitivity is understandable, especially for those who have experienced discrimination or marginalization.

However, it can also lead to a rush to judgment, where people react defensively even when no harm was intended. Haven’t we all been there?

Expressing outrage can sometimes be a quest for validation.

When we align ourselves with a group that shares our values, we often seek a sense of belonging and affirmation.

This can be empowering, but it also creates echo chambers where differing opinions are not tolerated and meaningful dialogue is stifled.

However, this can also reveal a deeper issue: a lack of personal identity.

While it’s natural to want to connect with like-minded people, true strength comes from individuals who are confident in their own beliefs.

A collective of strong, independent individuals is far more powerful than a group bound by a single-minded consensus.

Is there another way to look at this? Honestly, I don’t think so. Is being the “bigger person” the solution?

But what if this mindset is actually a way of avoiding our own feelings and inflating our egos?

We often think that not taking offense when we could have makes us appear superior or more evolved.

It’s not about putting on a mask of superiority, staying relentlessly positive, or brushing things off with a chuckle.

Adopting a 'bigger person' attitude might seem noble, but it often distracts from the real issue: our emotional responses to what others say, whether it's accurate or not.

When someone’s words affect us, it’s a signal that we need to turn our attention inward, not outward.

This isn’t about self-criticism but about self-compassion.

Happy weekend, take care!

If we align ourselves with society's truths, we may start to doubt our own beliefs and instincts.

Conversely, if we trust in our personal truths, we might find ourselves questioning the norms and expectations of society.

This interplay between internal and external truths fuels the fires of doubt, leaving us to wonder: which truth is real, and can truth ever truly erase doubt?

A constantly doubting mind can be detrimental because it fosters instability and erodes trust.

Persistent doubt undermines confidence, making it difficult to commit to decisions or actions.

This perpetual uncertainty can lead to analysis paralysis, where one is paralyzed by overthinking and unable to move forward.

Without the ability to trust in one's judgments or beliefs, the individual may struggle to find direction or purpose, resulting in a fragmented and unsettled mindset.

Doubt can perceived as a negative force, something that paralyzes us and prevents us from moving forward.

However, it doesn't carry the negative connotations of suspicion. These words can and do get mixed up.

While doubt encourages us to question and explore, suspicion can cloud our judgment with mistrust and negativity.

Suspicion often leads to a closed mindset, where we are quick to assume the worst in others or in situations.

"Incertus animus dimidium sapientiae est" is a Latin phrase that translates to "A mind that doubts is halfway to wisdom".

It appears in Sententiae by Publilius Syrus, a minor Latin poe

Doubt, in this sense, is a journey—a process of discovery. It pushes us to delve deeper into our beliefs, to test their strength, and to refine our understanding.

By embracing doubt, we learn to navigate the gray areas of life with greater ease, recognizing that not everything is black and white.

Next, we face the responsibility to make choices—drawing upon the insights we've gained from our exploration and applying them meaningfully to our lives.

This is where wisdom begins to take shape.

It’s natural that after a period of doubt, we feel the urge to make decisions, to commit to a course of action that aligns with our deeper understanding.

However, it's important to distinguish between doubt and denial.

Denial is not simply the inability to make a decision; it is a decision in itself.

When we deny something, we reject its truth outright, refusing to acknowledge its existence or validity.

Denial can feel safe, but it ultimately limits growth because it prevents us from engaging with reality.

Staying in denial may seem like avoiding a decision, but in truth, it in itself is a conscious choice to reject what is uncomfortable or challenging.

Developing the power to make these decisions requires courage, trust and discernment from inside our hearts.

Wisdom lies in this balance—knowing when to doubt and when to decide.

In making decisions of truth, we bring our explorations full circle.

It felt like the universe was giving me a gentle nudge, reminding me of all those times I’ve been overly eager—constantly checking in, searching for signs, and hitting the refresh button way too often.

Whether it’s obsessing over tarot readings, endlessly scrolling through horoscopes, or bombarding friends with “any updates?” texts, we’ve all been there.

We were talking about intentions last week, remember? One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is that intentions are like seeds.

You plant them with care, settle them into good soil, and then—here’s the tricky part—you let them be.

Just like you wouldn’t keep pulling a seed out of the ground to check if it’s growing, you shouldn’t constantly question whether your intentions are taking root.

Patience—it’s like flying a kite. You let it soar into the sky, and then, the hardest part—you hold steady.

You don’t keep pulling it down to check if it’s still flying; that would only bring it crashing to the ground.

Instead, you let it dance on the wind, trusting that it’ll stay aloft as long as you give it the right amount of slack.

But how do we do this? The urge to constantly check and adjust often stems from our desire for control and immediate results.

It’s about balancing effort with ease? trusting that our intentions, like a river, will flow and flourish as they are meant to.

We might feel anxious about the uncertainty or fear that our efforts won’t yield the desired outcome.

Engaging in grounding activities, celebrating small milestones, and focusing on the present moment can help us resist the urge to constantly check and adjust.

Acknowledging our impatience and making a conscious choice to step back creates the space needed for our plans to evolve naturally.

Just as a river carves its path through the landscape, our intentions will find their way and flourish when we trust the process and allow them to flow at their own pace.

Journal Prompts for Cultivating Long-Term Plans:

1. Magical Growth Journey: Envision your goal as a seed with unique potential.

Write a story about its journey to becoming a thriving plant. What challenges does it face, and what kind of support helps it grow?

2. Gardener’s Insights: Imagine you’re a gardener tending to your goals.

Reflect on how you nurture these goals, including any creative or unconventional methods you use to support their growth.

3. Growth Needs List: If your goal were a plant, what would it require to flourish?

Create a list of essential needs for your goal, such as resources or actions. How will you ensure these needs are met?

4. Superhero Seedling: Picture your goal as a small but powerful seed with special abilities.

Describe how it uses these abilities to overcome obstacles and progress. What strategies or strengths help it succeed?

5. Vision of Success: Imagine your goal has achieved full success.

Write about what this success looks like and how it feels. What steps did you take to reach this point, and how has it transformed your life?

So, the next time you find yourself impatiently checking for signs or updates, remember to take a step back. Embrace the journey of growth with patience and trust.

As you let your intentions grow, remember that progress happens in its own time.

Just like a kite soaring on the breeze or a seed quietly sprouting in the soil, your intentions will flourish when given the space to grow.

For more journal prompts, click here. And if you’re interested in exploring the world of tarot, I highly recommend KINO TAROT—she’s my all-time favorite and truly the best.

Bye for now, and have a wonderful weekend! :)