Category: Random Philosophy Page 1 of 20


People want more. More than they have. More than what others have. Isn’t always materialistic. The need isn’t always satiated through a click-and-buy. A bit of peeling through windows, perhaps.

More the merrier. Ye dil maange more. We’re all consumeristic in our hoarding needs.

In deccani we say, hiris. It’s a version of the urdu word – hirs. And like most things deccani, urdu words get a totally differenntttt enunciation. Its meaning in everyday usage is more for yearning (not in a good way).

There’s a blurry line running between ambition and what I always refer to as hiris. Thin, almost non-existent and easy enough to not see and cross. The heart wants what it wants, they say.

The question is, who’s heart is it? And do we not have any control over it?

Foregoing a moral science lecture and to think of this is a note-to-self, I wonder if the attainment of a content life lies in letting go of our hiris?

Finding (it)

When checklists start to dictate decisions, the romanticism of living this life ceases to matter. Questions, answers. Umms and aahs. All filled onto the timesheet.

The heart craves for meaning. To be appeased with the gift of time. Let it cook. Let it simmer—a maybe, at the end of it.

Trauma of yesteryear, seeped in, ingrained, refuses to move. Stubborn. Is that true? For, I overthink, O’dear.

Free fall is scary. But what’s a life that hangs in a calculated balance moving nowhere. And still, see-sawing through.

Throw away caution to the wind. For it’ll blow away the dirt. Of today and before. Bringing with it, the fragrance of tomorrow.

Blank canvas

It’s futile to wish that life will ever offer a blank canvas to repaint. Those of us, who, from time to time, indulge in such childish fantasies need to absorb this truth.

The least you can strive for is a fresh batch of paint. A paint strong enough that makes the painting look anew.

Sure, there will be shades of what it had before too. But that’d probably add a bit more depth. Take that depth in your stride and paint away a newer life.

At least try to.

Misplaced hope

The quickest recipe to get disappointed is notching up our hope. Worrying too much about a plan to succeed only to see it crumble. Either all at once or gradually. Like a sand castle.

You shouldn’t plan. It’s not in your control. What’s in your control is to make a decision. And that decision is definitely not about building your castle in the air. It’ll get blown out.

But, what’s the alternative? Sit back and let it happen on its own? Perhaps.

I mean, let it happen without any worry? How is that not ‘too hopeful?’.

The complexity of overlaps

Our mind is always running through multiple overlaps. Tricks. Playing, toying with us.

Stories, timelines, what ifs, and what wills. Throwing them as puzzles that won’t ever finish. All we’ll do is sleep away. One way, or the other. Some beds will be comfy. The last one, not so much. Maybe.

Linearity isn’t something our brain likes. Imagine, compartmentalizing it all like a history book where chapters bring forth new kingdoms and their history. But, imagine they all overlapped through each other. That. I know right? Confusing.


It lasts for a few moments. Feeling in your head where you seem to have decided that this is it. This is the moment I’m going to change my life. That rush of optimism flowing through as you take steps towards. Towards, where you want to be.

This momentary feeling if it could be bottled, would be the Red Bull for times you can’t crawl out of your own bed.

The difference between those who do and those who think they will do it is probably just this. The ability of stretching these moments and turning it into a drive. Excelling in a form is more about being at it. In all it’s ebbs and troughs. It isn’t about a graph that linearly just keeps going up.

It’s easy to blame others for your own inability or zeal to go after what you want. The easiest of it all is probably ‘life’ that gets accused of not letting us get to where we want. More often than not, it’s the driver of this life that isn’t looking at the road ahead but is still in the parking lot, waiting for the road to become better.


The flow of life, at times, is similar to a puddle. Stagnant. Seeping slowly down in a drain. There’s hope that it eventually sashays itself into the vast meaningless void of the ocean. Brooding through motions of mundane.

There’s a wait for rain. The one that comes with a thunderous roar. Pushing through the openings, clearing blockages and jumping into the same ocean to fill it with meaning.

The flow remains the only change. Everything else is constant in the equation of life.

Gushing downwards with a force isn’t the goal. There’s a calm in ease too. Like a friendship where you don’t have to talk. Silence is flow too. Not controlled. But, flow with ease.


The news of death brings forth an abundance of thoughts and dilemmas that remain for days on end. People you’ve seen walk in front of you talked to and talked about them in the third person when they were alive when they die, it’s like, they vanished.

You do have memories flashing by. Faint recollection of them, unless you’ve met them recently. How long do we hold onto their memories? Once they die?

Family and friends, sure. What happens to others?

Hypothetically, put yourself in this permanent position of absence from the world, and think. What would others make of us? Long after we’re gone? Did we impact anyone’s life so that they’ll remember us?

We imagine ourselves to grow old and slither away. But, what’s the guarantee that we won’t live to see that day.

Sure, there’d be people who will be pained to not find us with them, but how much will we matter when we’re gone? Like, really gone?!

There’s a verse in Quran (Surah-Al-Imran) that you can find in every Muslim Graveyard, “Qullu Nafsin Zaikatul maut,” which translates to “har jaandaar ko maut ka maza chakhna hai” (Every living being will taste death). Every time I read this, I question, what am I even planning things for?

Is it for this life or the next?

I recall one of my first visits to the kabristan when one of my friends’ grandfather died. Throwing a handful of soil onto the grave while murmuring prayers in unison, we laid him to rest. The process happens quickly, but the feeling stays—the sense of putting an end. Stays, and you remember it every time you hear the news of a death.

Perhaps death is a lesson for all of us to stay grounded. We were made from the soil and would go back to it eventually.

image of road with vehicles



Different. Distinct. Stops. Pauses. Jumps. Skip. Change course. Move. Forwards and backward. Short. Long. Ups and downs. Restart.


Our journey in life continues to evolve in myriad ways. Changing characters as we traverse through the corners. Zigzag. Shifting gears as we speed up towards unknown goals that we’ve marked as milestones. ‘One more’ we say as we cross ’em on the right. Catching a glimpse in the rearview. Not even waiting for a victory lap as the chequered flag gets waved. Such is the rush.

Breathing. Feeling our breath as we slow things down. Fuel? Bad roads? Traffic?

Reasons galore as we halt our pace. ‘What happened?’ spelling out of our faces for them to see. A breakdown. Visibly shattered.

Slow down.

Change course.


And a little down.

Go back.

To come back faster.

Or, just take a new road.

Milestones change and so does our journey. All have their own tracks that take ’em somewhere. Somewhere they want to go and maybe not. But we all move. Not moving is also a journey. Getting stuck on repeat. Tiring. Confusing. Still our journey. Pushing hard to get out of the wreckage of life. Days and nights go past without an inch being moved. How is this even a journey?

To see it all move for others. ‘Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear’. Zooming past us as we look ahead.

The sun sets.



A push on repeat. It’s a new day after all. Move. Slow. Move. Stop. Move. Slow. But, move.

Another journey begins.

City through a bus window


Cities are personalities. The kind that influences yours too. Not just the outer you but the core of it. Repeatedly brushing it with faint strokes. For days. And then they leave you in colors you’d have not known to be there. Fathoming combinations that hitherto existed in a faraway reality. Stuff that they show in movies you rewatch and in books that take you places. The same brushes paint you silently.

The lack of resistance and the need to experience the aura of these cities, the vibe check and a stay that absorbs it all. Slow roasting the pot of your marinated soul. A city can do that.

The memory of the other city fades away like a different self you left behind in the bylanes. Photographed away, somewhere.

Over years of living in the shell of our ageing bodies, we realize that we are one of these cities. A vibe match that struck a deal with that same inner core.

The gloom of it, the sun of that or the ripples of water touching you or just the snow falling outside the window or just the cherry blossom paving your path back home on a Sunday afternoon post-lunch. Any of the above. One or maybe more. Calling you like an azaan. Asking you to come.

From windows of crowded buses as you eye the seat shifting to the air brushing past your ears as the tyres move away in the traffic, cities change. The noise remains, but the noises change. So does the silences.

Leaving one, or arriving at a new one, or returning after a decade is surreal when you stop to think and mundane if you continue walking. Imperfect interpretations of what it can mean change with a new brushstroke of the city.

The city changes your lehza. One lafz at a time.

The silence of the nights, staring at the ceiling or the silhouettes of passengers outside long windows ask questions on coping better with it all. Does a better way exist? In this city or that?

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