It has been a very, very long time since I sat down to write. I don’t know what snapped today, but I felt this sudden, stubborn urge to put something down—something felt rather than overthought. Maybe I was slowly turning into a perfectionist, trapped in the delusion that I shouldn’t write until I had some groundbreaking, entirely original thought to share. That silence threw me into a long hiatus. But I’m back, and in the quiet of that break, I have changed quite a lot.

Today was an unusual day to realize that. I was running late for the office. Traffic was inevitable, and pragmatism dictated taking an auto, but on an impulse, I boarded a bus instead. Inside, crammed among commuters with fixed expressions and predestined routes, I spotted two aghoris chatting casually. They weren’t local; they seemed to be speaking Punjabi. Listening in, I realized they were casually debating where they should go next. Think about that for a second: sitting inside a moving bus, only then deciding their destination. To me, they were walking embodiments of pure uncertainty—and pure freedom. I’ve often dreamed of doing that: hopping onto a random bus without checking the route number, letting it carry me wherever it wants. But I never had the nerve. Maybe I will, once I untangle myself from the self-made web of words I keep spinning.

I managed to find a seat and just looked out the window. No phone, no reels, no digital noise. Just staring outside. I knew the bus route by heart, but I found myself turning to the passenger next to me like a naive tourist, asking whether the bus would turn right or head straight past a landmark. I simply wanted to talk to someone.

A few kilometers later, a mechanical fault forced us all out four stops early. Instead of rushing to the metro or waiting around for another bus, I just started walking.

Kolkata was waking up in full rhythm. The footpaths were lush and shaded, cathedral bells rang through the air, and outside the gate, women were picking fresh sunflowers for prayer. The city was already lit up and buzzing for Durga Puja—that strange, intoxicating Kolkata mix of celebration and daily struggle. Decade-old cabins and restaurants were either washing their floors or dishing out early breakfasts, everyone caught in their own routine. My romantic drift was eventually cut short by the clock nearing 11:00 AM, so I hopped into another bus, got off near work, and walked the final stretch. But something had shifted. Amid the heat, the rush, and the impending deadlines, I was just happy. Laughably happy, and for no discernible reason at all.

Which brings me to the philosophical side of things. For a while now, I’ve been questioning the basic architecture of reality. After digging through different traditions, I kept bumping against the same discomfort. I read Advaita and dipped into Kashmir Shaivism, but positing an extra, grand metaphysical variable called “Consciousness” as the ultimate ground of reality always felt like an unnecessary complication—a bloated explanation. Then came Nagarjuna’s idea of emptiness (śūnyatā). It has this clean, austere, minimal elegance. It strikes like a stealth arrow straight through the heart of metaphysical baggage: everything is empty of inherent, independent existence; everything exists only in relation to everything else. People often mistake emptiness for cold nihilism, but that’s a lazy reading. Emptiness isn’t a void that cancels life out; it’s radically existential. It clears the table completely. It wipes away predetermined mandates and hands you absolute freedom—freedom to define who you are, to construct your own morality from scratch, and to exist without a cosmic script.

Perhaps there is a consciousness separate from matter; perhaps there isn’t. I don’t really know, and I don’t need to force an answer. As a minimalist, I prefer explanations that are lean, honest, and spacious enough to let me breathe. Intellectual freedom always brings its own brand of angst and uncertainty, but that uncertainty is stunningly beautiful. Just like those aghoris on the bus, not needing a mapped-out terminus to justify their ride.

We spend our entire lives turning joy into a transaction. We treat it like an achievement, a reward for hitting a milestone, or something owed to us because of a circumstance.

Don’t make happiness a goal. Don’t labor to achieve it, don’t hunt for a reason, and don’t make it indebted to anything or anyone. Life needs the unscripted detour, the malfunction that drops you four stops early, the space to taste the freedom of not knowing.

Happiness should be entirely independent of a cause. Just exist in it. And when someone catches the quiet smile on your face and asks what made you so happy, don’t search for an excuse. Just tell them: I am.