Lessons on Happiness

I remember it vividly—I was in a car, traveling from Sikkim to Darjeeling, passing through small towns nestled in the hills. In one of these towns, as we drove through in a private car, I noticed a young girl and her brother, probably around ten and eight years old, playing shuttlecock on a narrow mountain road. Behind them stood their small, weathered home, pieced together with corrugated steel sheets. Further in the distance, the glorious Himalayan range stretched across the horizon.

They were playing right on the edge of the road, laughing without a care in the world. Their faces, their eyes—everything about them radiated joy. Pure, effortless joy. And there I was, sitting in comfort, surrounded by privilege, yet somehow removed from the kind of happiness they so freely shared.
I remember feeling envious of their happiness—and confused. How could they be so content, so full of light, when they had so little in material terms?

Not so long after, I found myself far from those hills and deep in the pressure of early success. I was fortunate enough to start a company early in my career—I founded it while still in college. As a founder, I felt a constant responsibility to lead from the front, to be the person who worked tirelessly and carried the weight.

At the height of it, I did. I worked endlessly. Long days blurred into longer nights, and I carried the strain in my body. My muscles were always tight, my shoulders tense, my chest constantly clenching—as if I were gasping for air. I was always bracing, waiting for something to break, for something to fall apart. When the day ended, I’d return to a rented apartment in Toronto and collapse into bed. I remember waking up at 8 a.m. every day and working all day until 2 a.m., coming back to an empty high-rise apartment that overlooked the lake and the city—the dream for many, but it felt detached from me. There were no friends waiting. No hobbies. No joy. No one to share anything with. I was living, but not really alive—just cycling through the motions of ambition, worn out and alone.

I thought I was chasing greatness. I had built something real, led a team, and was being noticed. But slowly, it all began to feel hollow. It felt like everyone around me was performing—putting on a show, pushing their own agendas, angling for their own slice of success. The humanity was missing. The compassion, the authenticity—it was gone. And I wasn’t immune to it. I was part of the performance too.

I remember one evening in particular. My mentor took me out to dinner, and I started unloading—explaining the stress, the stakes, the way everything felt like it might fall apart. He looked at me and said, “Relax. The sky is not falling.” And in that moment, I realized how tightly I had been gripping everything—how much pressure I had put on myself to be perfect, to look successful, to stay on top. It had come at the cost of my own well-being.

I eventually burned out and took a few years off. For the first time, I prioritized my own happiness—I began putting my needs first. I joined a men’s group and attended a retreat focused on growth, vulnerability, and masculinity. I remember the raw, feral energy I felt while walking barefoot across burning coals. Cold plunges shocked my system, forcing me to surrender—to trust the moment, to grasp for air, to breathe deeply for the first time in a long time. I was learning how to be comfortable with uncomfortability. Those experiences pushed me far outside my comfort zone and challenged the rigid ideals I had clung to: the need to always be good, to always be right. In shedding those layers, I began to feel something I had never truly known—freedom. I had spent so much of my life attached to societal and parental expectations, seeking approval. And for the first time, I began to live on my own terms. The first layer was shed.

As I began healing, I started traveling and living as a nomad. I explored salsa dancing. I went out often and made friends from all over the world—Europeans, Australians, Colombians, Mexicans, and many more. These connections taught me something profound: no matter how different our backgrounds, we share the same human longing—to be seen, to be heard, to belong. I realized that travel isn’t about checking off places on a list; it’s about the people you meet, the unexpected conversations, the silent understanding between strangers. It reveals the humanity that binds us. It humbles you. It stretches your thinking and challenges the idea that your way is the only way. I still remember spending time in a small Caribbean beach town in Colombia. I was the only foreigner, the only Indian. No one spoke English, but that night, we danced and laughed and shared something deeper than language. We shared a moment of joy, and in it, I felt completely connected. It reminded me: wherever we are, we all want the same thing—to feel alive, and to feel like we matter.

It was only after this shift that I began to notice the same question surfacing in other parts of the world. When I visited Hong Kong, I saw a highly modernized and wealthy society—yet many people appeared serious, withdrawn, often avoiding eye contact, immersed in their phones and in their own worlds. I remember being on the subway visiting tourist sites, surrounded by people—everyone looking at their phones. We were all physically close, but emotionally distant. It felt almost impossible to strike up a conversation with a stranger. Then I traveled to Bali, and the contrast was immediate. People smiled. They looked you in the eye. There was an openness, a warmth. Life was simpler there, yes—but it felt richer. On multiple occasions, even when I was with friends, I found myself striking up conversations with strangers. People were ready to talk, to connect. Despite fewer economic means, there was noticeably more joy. That same realization echoed the one I had years ago in the hills of India.

I’ve come to understand that while career ambitions are important, money is simply a tool. True happiness lies in human connection—the laughter shared, the warmth of a glance, the conversations that bridge cultures, and the deep bonds we form with those we love. These are the moments that give life meaning.

And still, I know this journey isn’t finished. Writing this has surfaced questions I thought I had long buried. Like before, I feel a quiet unease, a sadness rising again—an invitation to go deeper, to heal further, to shed another layer. Happiness, I’m realizing, isn’t a place I arrive at. It’s a relationship—with myself, with others, with the world.

Sometimes, I think back to that moment in the hills of Sikkim. The girl and her brother playing on the edge of the road, radiant in their joy. Back then, I couldn’t understand how they were so free with so little. But now, after all these years, I see it more clearly. Their happiness wasn’t about what they had. It was about how they were—with each other, in the moment, fully alive.

Maybe that’s the lesson I’ve been chasing all along.