Am I squandering my time by living so quietly? Ordinarily? Routinely? Am I meant for more than what my life looks like right now? What if I find comfort in routine, repetition and order? What if I genuinely find joy in the everyday?
Must a meaningful life be remarkable or extraordinary in some way?
If you ask me what’s up or what’s new, I’m afraid I won’t have much to say. The bookshelf is dusted, the plants have been watered, my daughter is fed, the cookie jar is full. The succulent is still alive. I buy groceries. The kettle whistles. I brew coffee. The day passes gently.
There is hardly anything glamorous about my life. I don’t remember the last time I travelled or partied. I don’t remember the last time I made money. I don’t remember the last time I weighed 60 kilograms. I don’t belong to any fancy communities or groups. I don’t drink and dance. I don’t play pickleball. I don’t know how to play Mahjong. I don’t even know what it means to start a supper club in Mumbai. But my to-do list refills itself – wake up, pray, make coffee, read, write, make art, be present with my daughter, walk – I like the idea of fully inhabiting my life.
Some of my most profound journal entries are almost about nothing – the way I laughed with my daughter when she mispronounced ‘reception’, the smell of earth after the rain, the way a novel stirred something within me. My days stop blurring – they become textured and meaningful instead.
I am learning to sit with myself instead of reaching for noise. I recently bought a succulent in order to tend to something outside myself. I like to nurture it. I like to watch it grow. Care is a gateway to meaning – tending to my daughter, the succulent and my home make my days less about consumption and more about care. I feel responsible for something thriving.
Meaning does not come from grand epiphanies or life-changing breakthroughs. On the contrary, it lies in the everyday – in the pressure cooker that whistles every morning, in a shared meal, in my daughter’s laughter or in a page turned. Meaning arises from the mundane – cleaning out my closet, rearranging books, feeding my daughter, or the simple act of showing up for another run-of-the-mill day.
Meaning accumulates quietly. Gently. It is found in the unhurried twirl of prayer beads between my fingers as I whisper, “Om Namah Shivay”. It is found in the familiar rhythm of household chores. In literary essays that shift something within me. Meaning takes shape in conversations that leave me lighter and wiser. In little acts of love and devotion I perform without expectation. A meaningful life is woven from thousands of seemingly insignificant moments, each adding another thread to the fabric of who I am becoming.
I have stopped waiting for life to begin. It has been unfolding all along.
There are hardly any dramatic moments in my life. I have stopped hankering after that something more. Ordinary is enough for me; ordinary holds the meaning I have been yearning for.
Besides, my ordinary life is someone else’s dream.
