Category: Random Philosophy Page 1 of 16

Why finality

Why find a finality to everything?

The ticking timeline of our lives forces us to find closures to everything. Fixing it. Find a natural end to the problem at hand. An itch waiting to be scratched occupies the headspace like a necessary addition to the course of it. We’ve started treating everything as a problem. Awaiting a solution.

I watched the 3-part series on Bill Gates, aptly titled, ‘Inside Bill’s Mind’ today, where the Microsoft founder is trying to find solutions to world problems. Drainage, Polio and Nuclear power. Occupying his mind, investing his energy and resources and a quest to get a handle on things that matter to him.

It’s interesting that even for a man, who is one of the richest and most influential persons on the planet, the problem expands multidimensionally. Not that there isn’t progress. Efforts do yield results if you work towards it. But there isn’t a finality to it. A definitive closure. One gives way to another. And, Bill isn’t alone in that.

The obscurity of our mind and the ways we try to push it, knock it for answers and command it to find solutions, is insane. Pestering it to dive into uncertain waters to bring us a semblance of a fitting answer is so common that we don’t think twice. We don’t give that poor organ, a break. Even when it tries to give us signs of an abrupt slowdown, by tiring us-our bodies, making us frustrated and irritated at our cores. A break? Naah!

Definitive goals are good. Going after those goals, with all our might, is even better. Keeps us focused and occupied when existentialism winks us as we age.

Achieving it, fixing it, finding an answer or bringing an end is all a finality. Like a sentence awaiting a full stop. Like, the lives we live.

Should our lives be defined by the start and end of our existence? Like, the problems we keep trying to fix? Or the answer we want to find?

Or, let’s make an attempt to live it. To breathe. And pause. Not everything has to be fixed.

Coffee with a window view

Staring outta this window

A window that looks out towards the moving world while the freshly brewed liquid gets sipped past my longing lips. It’s a relief. Relief from the heat from outside that this artificial air cools down.

In the abyss of unknown city dwellers in company and the ones that stare inside, this kid sits next to me writing on paper. I casually take a look. The thinking pen takes breaks to allow him to correct his sentences. A strike here and an addition there. He doesn’t take his eyes off the page. Not even at the cute girl standing outside the window looking at her phone, waiting for someone.

My eyes are lost in the traffic outside. The shaded lanes of Park streets and the moving traffic. The yellow taxis and the careless walks on the pavements. The rush to reach somewhere and the one where there’s no hurry. They all stare right through the glass here. With bags on their shoulders. Heavy, perhaps.

I notice them. They all want to look through. Curious eyes. Just passing across but wanting to know it all. Like they all do. The curiosity pulling them closer to peep through. The outsides they like.

And then they leave.

The boy has stopped writing. There’s another man in between us now. A seat apart. Talking on the phone. The boy and me, both look at the man. He doesn’t care. He’s looking out of the window too. There’s no one outside now.

The afternoon is fading away. Trying to welcome the evening clouds. The traffic has slowed down in anticipation. As they all come out on the one-direction of this road. Few, on the other side too. The ones who dislike rules and probably find the swear words coming out of the moving traffic blissful.

All three of us are silent. All three of us are writing. The boy, the man and this guy you’re reading.

I lower the noise of the brewing and foaming inside and the traffic outside, and listen to the music being played. The background of voices dipped in the conversation doesn’t let me guess the song. It’s nice though. The flow of it. I don’t want to know the song. This is a coffeehouse song. I’ll leave it when I walk out of this door.

I sit there in silence, staring outta this window.


There’s no end to lies we tell ourselves. And we keep telling it, like a self-created propaganda, inflicted every moment for adjusting our head to reality. The scary reality of people and the world. Mostly, people.

As soon as the ground beneath starts trembling, we start finding solace in our ability to find new pastures of comfort, and tell ourselves that this is better. Better in our heads, of course. That’s the one to be convinced after all.

Our fear of staying of sinking along with the trembles just doesn’t let us stay there. And that is smart. Why risk it? Why fall? 

Building a wall around and not letting ourselves be affected. Playing it safe. The cautious ones, are we?

And then there are few. The ones who enjoy the gloom. Immersing themselves to be engulfed by the mourning of failures. Letting themselves fall like it’s a ride leading them somewhere. It leads, of course. Leading them to the depths of the hollow surfaces. Like a free fall with consent signed on it.

Awaiting a rescue to pull them out while they peep out of those tiny holes. Lying there. Waiting. Optimism in the eyes pushing ourselves along with the pulley. Maybe, this time it’ll be better? Lying there, lying to ourselves.

Which one are we?

The ones who run away, or the ones want to get stuck?

Or, our shuffle keeps getting exchanged?

But maybe, these are all what we tell ourselves. Finding closures when there aren’t any; reliving what wasn’t worth it or wasn’t ours from the start itself.

But, what do I know?

Maybe, even this all is a lie, I’m telling myself?


Of all the tiresome things, the one where we get tired of our own pattern of decision-making is the most heart-wrenching. Figuring out the cause of your problems is your own self and your stupid decisions and behavior, is you, just a sad version of a face-palm moment. In slo-mo.


It’s not like we have no idea when we’re making those decisions, but that tiny clasped nudge of optimism pushing us forward, like teenage boys telling their friends to jump off the first floor. Nothing will happen. They’ll say. And, Lol!

It’s like a song ringing in your head. When you don’t even like Pink Floyd that much but you can’t get this out of your head.

‘..Out there in the cold.. … can you hear me?!

..hey you!’

And all of this have reminders. Popping like mushrooms on the thrown away wood after rains. Not needed, but there. Purposeless existence. And yet, visible.

In the exercise of trying to make well-thought out decisions, our life still follows a pattern. The troughs and crests of our lifetime fall back to their OCDish nature of creating a symmetry. Even when we are trying to enjoy the highs, the creepy feeling of falling down doesn’t let us be free. Sure, and vice versa, we know we’ll move up as well. But in between, one just gets tired of it. Why can’t we walk on a plain road. Just walk, we don’t even want to run to reach anywhere. The plain and boring are fine. Let’s stay here and chill.

But, no!

We need excitement in life. Heck, the life needs excitement and it wants us to try it all. Hit-and-trial.

‘Did that work?’


‘Okay, let’s try it this way!’

But, let’s wait

‘Come on, this’ll be fun. You’ll be fine this time’

Umm.. ohkay. If you insist.

And damn, we’re back to the same. Pattern.

The Itch

There’s an itch that I can’t seem to put my finger on and scratch. And yet, I know of the presence it has over a part of me. I keep looking for where exactly it is and just cannot seem to locate. No, it’s there. Somewhere accessible, definitely. All I’m saying is, I can’t put a pin on it.

It’s a problem. The problem of not being able to define the problem itself.

Even with an occupied mind, the creeping moments of dissonance disturb the flow of returning to normalcy.

Like a sloth not being able to get out of bed to a tired body which cannot fall asleep, even when it really needs the rest. If not for anything, at least from the headache that’ll ensue the next morning until a few gallons of coffee is nuzzled inside. No, drinking isn’t the problem here. My sad tempt-ridden vices.

Few scratches here. And probably there as well. I just seem to have unpacked boxes that didn’t need any meddling. Objects should’ve remained intact. The status quo as someone said to me once. Maintain that. But, my damn itch. Let’s scratch it to win. Win prizes everyday.

Hit-and-trials of a series of root-cause analysis doesn’t bring out any conclusion. Unacceptable, indeed.

On hindsight, everything seems avoidable, every decision examined and all what-ifs answered when nothing could be changed. The silence of the presence engulfing the chaos past like a it meant nothing. But it did. It all did. It all made sense back then. O’ you! The monster of the present, stop treating the kid of the past with disdain, and have the empathy. The future’s karma won’t spare you!

I’m still left wondering, where’s the damn itch! To scratch and feel better. Temporary relief, but the cravings of the soul are real.



Losing your true self is easier than we think. Being lost in the milieu of storms, big and small, over the course of this finite existence is tragically real. Our life is a constant commute with every stop just a reason to change lanes. Criss-crossing parallelly without any intention in place. We just exist.

In the midst of this chaotic marathon, we sprint and walk, or just stand to take a breath. But this marathon never ends. One check-post to another. We don’t realize but we change over the course. Outwearing our shoes and our souls, getting older with every mile. We call it growth, we call it becoming an adult and we can keep calling it what can make us happy. Perceivably happy, to our own self. Pep-talking our way with our brain. Making it believe what will make us happy. The desires and the wants. Feeding the code onto its script. Compile.

Like every good run. You get tired when you go a little ahead of yourself. Reaching where you’re unprepared for, falling short of breath, every time.

And then, like an epiphany, a menial thought pops up to show you the pattern. Listing out reasons, a long list, telling you to stop and take a deep breath. Take it. Untie your brows from the shackles of your goals. Just take a deep breath. For now.

Look back. Look at the journey you’ve made. Look at your damn worn-out shoes. Not the one you’re wearing but what you’ve never removed. No, don’t glorify the past. And no, don’t look at it like a failed attempt. Acknowledge the journey and the survival. Let the wind blow over your face and be grateful. Forget, forgive and feel it all like a black and white flashback. Yes, b/w, it looks better that way. Search for your true self. Deep Breath.

Sure, put on your shoes again, and make a run for something new. It’s a marathon, remember?


In the entrapment of the gloriously shaded world, finding time for your own metamorphosizing self is a struggle. We’re not the only one. The cries of ‘Why me?!’ is the most stupid echo that our pain can shout. Look around. Like, really look, even stare deep into the souls flying around your eyes. In cubicles, in buses which lead you to them, through the open windows of your pooled cars, flowing through the absence of windows of your auto or in the signals, waiting for the change of lights. Look.

You’re no different than them. And, well, they aren’t from you.

Hate them for what you’re not, but the facts, just won’t change. Even if your science to religion ratio varies, you know deep down, you’re all the same. Colors, structures and views, aside. You’re all the bloody same.

In the finite vagaries of lifespan, which won’t take permission from you before it calls it a day, hating is easy. Finding differences is easy. Instinctive, even. But, don’t do easy. Question hate. Question why there is that hate.

It doesn’t matter what you believed. It’ll matter what you can believe. Believe in what makes you the same. Gravitate towards love. You don’t need a moral code for this. You don’t even need a compass to guide you. Or, if you do, find and hold that compass close to you.

Start with people you know. Forgive. Understand perspectives. And, let this feeling grow. Let it seep through your core because that can reflect the positivity you’ll give out.

Yes, I hear you, times when we’re down, when the pain from the actions of others affect us, all of this sounds BS. Outrage is what we all find solace in. Letting it out. And maybe, that’s right too. Let it out. But, come back to it, reflect and question the leftover hate. Don’t let that stay. Not for them, for you.

Reflect. Reflect and ponder on what we did, we do, so that we take better decisions later.

2018: Looking back & Ahead. Maybe.

As I start to write down about the year that just slipped past us, I was reminded of my ’17 Review and I immediately looked up on what I wrote.

Recalling the highlights of 2018 needed a let-me-close-my-eyes-and-look-back moment. And then, that’s it. It just took a moment to travel back to the start of the year and head back. My calendar year is usually a chronological order of the travel every month gets compartmentalized in. The entire experience is just that one moment packed into a capsule.

Growing up (older & wiser) is all about understanding ourselves and the attached perspective that is always in motion. The metamorphosis of moments held together of time & people juxtaposed alternatively in the cycle of our lives. Even with the staged progress of change, big changes, the entire gist is a moment. The moment when I write this, on one side, and the entire year stitched together on the other. This one moment of feeling. The truth of this moment, amazingly, sucker punches the highs & lows of the year that went by.

While we can worry about the long-term planning of the mosaic of life, which’ll eventually become, fluffs of moments, when you glance at the rear-view as soon as the earth completes another revolution.

Then what remains?

The constants.

The constants that remained part of these moments. Family, Friends and the solace you never stop searching for.

It is these constants in life that defined and will keep adding colors to your 70mm version of that moment. Year after year.

There’s always a choice. The Red and the Blue pill. The matrix of choices that glorify the prize at the end of it. Towards the end of these calendar years, we always look at those finish lines, the chosen path or the regretted path left back, becomes secondary. It is only when we analyze our life’s choices that the regrets pop out. The constants with you are the ones you chose right. Or, they did. Whatever, it worked.

I don’t know if the next year will again become just a moment its new year resolution might actually make it change. All I care about is the blessed and privileged life of constants that we have, remain part of every year’s moments. That there are less regrets in life than stupid laughs later. We all know which one hurts less.

To a year of being unabashedly true to ourselves, hello 2019! And thank you for the moments, 2018.

Why are we always looking for an Upgrade?

Any juncture of life, the element of ‘being content’ seems just a little ahead of us. Like a dangling stick with a prize stuck on the bonnet and you keep driving on the road that never ends. If by the sheer dare of it, you jump out to grab it, risking the drive you’re on, a momentous joy seeps right in. The photo moment of your glory filled with the silent applause of the world. The moment ends without your express permission. You try carrying yourself on the back of it for a while. Until you see an upgrade.

We keep filling our lives with our need for an upgrade. In everything. Crossing over the materialism of this recurrent exercise to even the realm beyond it. Even into the intricacies of human bonds. The idea of getting bored of things transposes onto redefining expectations, blaming it onto human nature instead of the associated greed. Knowing the moral conflict doesn’t stop us from this association. Our blame game is strong AF.

We’ve stopped even in indulging in the glory of momentary wins. Comparisons maketh them small. It’s not success if everyone can claim it. We want to be explorers not visitors on claimed properties. There are no idols. We want to be Idols. Not by emulating them or even joining them in the podium. But beating them at it. The world seems possible and territories marked doesn’t entice rather propels us towards newer (read better) avenues to explore. Even unattainable ones.

Where does it end?

Unanswered questions akin to the crisis that engulfs us. Existentialism. A constant need to fight this need of by bringing in spirituality that can bring temporary relief to the idea of few of those Whys. Few, yes.

In a society where living by the standards set by others was the norm. We question it. To better it. And yet follow their lead in bettering ourselves in comparison. Changing Yardsticks, and yet still a yardstick. Like beads in a rosary, something new and then back to the same after a revolution. Just craving for a new rosary, every time. Maybe that’ll bring a new joy. A new upgrade to our monotonous life as the cycle of upgrades become thus. A new launch is always anticipated for our tiring souls to lift spirits.

Why are we built this way?

Can our complexity not be simplified without us having to settle, but just in reduction of that need to an upgarde? Or should we always expect a new phone model to continue enticing us to stand in queues?

Of Hate

of hate

It’s powerful. Powerful enough to make people blind. Blindly giving away their humanity to the whispers of the devil on their shoulders. A strong resolve to avenge or teaching ‘them’ a lesson. The shape wriggling itself out like a reptile finding its way in the sand. You see its head, but not the tail. When you finally see the tail, the head morphs into plurality. Each spewing venom in multitudes. The whispers are gone. They’re hissing aloud.

You’re still not scared.

We’ll stop them when they’re done with ‘them’.

They’re not done with them. Not yet. The lessons have just started. It’s all about reforming them. To show them their place. Them.

Let’s call them 1. Let’s call them 2. Let’s call them 4. Let’s call them what is not us.

Their way of life is wrong. Offensive. Insensitive. Ours is the righteous path. The one to whom this land belongs. The one true owner of this landmass. Not them. Definitely not them. The outsiders. They will remain so ever.

The hisses are far gone. The whispers blare out louder with each passing day.

Where will you go now?

“Are they still not done with “them”?

Not yet, you dim-wit.

The hate is strong in this one.

Working Hours

There’s a lot of talk in workplaces and even outside, on working hours. What’s the ideal number an employee should be spending in the vicinity of their office.

We’ve definitely moved beyond the 9-5 routine. When was the last time you entered your office and left when the clock ticked a time, and you’re like, ‘Time’s up!’ ?

Not saying that people don’t do this, but I’m getting to hear less of this now a days. At least in the circles I move in.

There are people who do come to office early and there are many (like me) who take their own sweet time to swipe in. The philosophy that I intend to follow is to stay in office as long as you feel like working, swipe out when you don’t. Hours added to your time-in-office for the sake of it are nothing but a waste of your own productivity and strain your non-work life.

Agreed, unavoidable meetings and deadlines don’t always agree with ‘Oh! I don’t feel like working today’ but if you always get this feeling then there are bigger questions to ask. For instance, do you even like doing what you’re doing?

The general perception that offices have created is working late means working more. It’s evident in everyone who candidly remarks, ‘Areyyy! You’re leaving early?’. Your work output should be the only metric defining you at any workplace.

I tried sticking to this system in my previous organization and it did turn out well-Work till you feel like working, leave when you don’t. I’ll strive to maintain the same with the new one as well.

In an age when opening work even when I’m home, or commuting or out on a vacation, is such a regular thing, sticking to prescribed work timings sounds like living in the an olden era.

There’s of course, no hard-and-fast rule to it. Maybe even I’ll break this sometime. But having a philosophy to remind you, time and again, helps draw a baseline.

What’s your take on working hours, anyway?


Difficulty of Writing in front of others

Writing in seclusion is what I always prefer. Zoning out, and penning down my thoughts. Not caring about the world in motion.

What I don’t quite like is people starting on my screen when I’m trying to write. As of the words won’t just come out on their own. Self-consciousness-bs aside, the mind just goes blank. Even with the knowledge that nobody can actually read the small font sized letters that the screen is adjusted to, it just gets so difficult to write!

I tried writing on the bus, on my way to work, but the dude next to me preferred the WP-editor on my phone than the scenery of traffic out of that window. Then once in office, ended up responding to emails and then my desk got shifted and there-my resolve to write first thing in the morning went for a toss. It’s like getting out on a duck after promising to score a ton. Well..

But, why it is so difficult to write when people are watching?

I definitely don’t mind people reading once I’ve finished. It’s definitely not the fear of being judged. I threw that away long back. I mean, I don’t even do a proofread of my blog before I hit publish. Just like this one. Unless, someone points it out. Or months later when I re-read this (which rarely happens), and go like, why is there a typo?! And how come no one noticed this?

So.. while I try to figure out the reason. Please don’t go ask someone, when they’re writing, ‘What you writing?’. There are so many other ways to make small talk.


Also, let me know what do you think is the reason.

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