Chapter 6 - Marriage Palaces

 

6

 

            There is a strange sadness in places where happiness was loud only a few hours earlier.

 

            That morning, from the dusty window of my bus, I saw a luxurious wedding palace standing tired beside the highway. The lights were gone. The music had disappeared. Decorations hung like exhausted smiles after too much pretending.

 

            Workers cleaned leftovers while the morning wind carried torn flower petals across the empty parking ground.

 

            Last night people must have danced there as if life had finally defeated sorrow.

 

            But dawn has a cruel habit of telling the truth quietly.

 

            The road was still half asleep.

 

            Tea stalls had just begun breathing smoke into the cold air. Milkmen moved slowly on bicycles like tired clock hands. Dogs stretched lazily beside closed shops. Somewhere far away, a temple loudspeaker was testing its voice against the silence of dawn.

 

            The bus moved through the outskirts of a town where the night had recently spent itself in celebration.

 

            And then I saw it.

 

            A grand wedding palace stood beside the highway.

 

            Only a few hours earlier, it must have looked like a kingdom borrowed from dreams. I could almost imagine the floodlights, the perfumes, the music, the decorated gates, the expensive cars lined outside, and people dressed as if sorrow had permanently left the world.

 

            But now the palace looked abandoned.  The lights were gone.  The music had died.

 

            The entrance gate, still covered with flowers, looked tired. Torn ribbons fluttered weakly in the dusty morning wind. Plastic plates lay scattered near the parking area. Half-burnt fireworks rested like dead insects on the ground.

 

            A few workers were cleaning the leftovers of happiness.

 

            One man gathered empty water bottles into a sack. Another swept flower petals mixed with mud. A cook sat near giant utensils, rubbing his eyes with exhaustion. Two stray dogs fought over pieces of leftover bread near the back wall.

 

            The palace that must have echoed with laughter all night now sounded hollow.

 

            It felt strange.  Just a few hours earlier, people probably danced there believing the moment would never end.  But dawn had arrived quietly and taken everything away.

 

            The bus slowed near the gate, and for a brief moment I kept staring at the scene.  Human celebration suddenly appeared very fragile to me.  Maybe happiness is not meant to stay.  Maybe it only visits us for a few hours and leaves before sunrise.

 

            An old thought rose silently inside me: "Most celebrations end before the decorations are removed."

 

            I kept looking outside.

 

            Huge photographs of the bride and groom still stood near the entrance. Their smiling faces looked untouched by reality. Printed happiness survives longer than real happiness.

 

            I wondered where they were now.  Perhaps sitting in a decorated room surrounded by relatives.  Perhaps exhausted already.  Perhaps nervous about a future they had only imagined but never truly understood.  Marriage is strange.  Two people smile before hundreds of guests while secretly carrying thousands of fears inside them.  No wedding photographer captures that part.

 

            Marriage season had covered the highways with celebration.

 

            One palace after another appeared outside my bus window like giant reminders that humans still try to decorate life against the certainty of time.

 

            The bus moved ahead slowly, but my thoughts stayed behind at that palace.

 

            I remembered the marriages of old days.  And suddenly the distance between celebrations of yesterday and today became visible to me. 

 

            When I was young, marriages did not need palaces.  People themselves became the palace.  Houses became crowded with relatives days before the wedding. Courtyards became kitchens. Roofs became sleeping places for guests. Every wall carried noise, laughter, and instructions shouted from one room to another.  Nobody cared about decoration themes.  Nobody discussed "destination weddings."  There were no drones flying above the bride and groom.  No DJs shaking the ground.  No giant LED screens announcing love like a political campaign.  And strangely, despite having less, people seemed fuller. 

 

            In those days, marriages were not performances.  They were gatherings of human warmth. I remember how wedding parties often stayed in religious places, schools, or panchayat ghars. The arrangements were simple. Charpais spread across large halls. Steel buckets filled with water. Tea prepared in giant kettles before sunrise.  Nobody complained about "facilities."  People carried patience naturally in those days.

 

            Today comfort has increased, but tolerance has reduced.  Back then, guests adjusted themselves.  Today arrangements adjust around guests.  Yet satisfaction still seems missing. 

 

            I smiled faintly while remembering my own marriage.  It was so different from the grand palaces standing beside highways today.  My marriage did not happen near my home.  It did not even happen near my state.  Life had taken me far away from familiar roads and known faces.  And perhaps that distance itself taught me something important about marriage - that two people begin their journey alone no matter how crowded the wedding may be.

 

            Only seven people were in my marriage party.  Just seven.  Including my parents.  No luxury convoy.  No decorated fleet of cars.  No orchestra.  No loudspeakers.  No DJ trying to force happiness into the air.  No dancing crowd blocking roads to announce temporary joy to strangers.

 

            The ceremony was simple.  The reception was simple.  And yet when I look back today, I do not feel anything was missing.  In fact, sometimes I feel simplicity protected the purity of the moment.  There is less exhaustion in memories that are not overloaded with display.

 

            Modern weddings often look less like unions and more like competitions.   Who booked the bigger palace.  Who served more dishes.  Who hired the famous singer.  Who created the grander social media clips.  It feels as if marriages today are sometimes arranged more for cameras than for hearts.

 

            The bus crossed another wedding palace.

 

            This one was still glowing faintly from leftover lights.  A worker stood on a ladder removing decorative cloth from the gate.  I watched him carefully.  All night people must have admired those decorations.  Now one tired man was quietly dismantling them before the town fully woke up.

 

            That image stayed with me.  Maybe life itself is like that.  We spend years decorating temporary moments.  Then time arrives silently with a ladder and begins removing everything one by one – Youth, Beauty, Strength, Possessions, Crowds, Applause.  Even relationships sometimes.  Nothing stays permanently tied to the gate of life.

 

            Another thought touched me deeply: "The world rents us its joys. Ownership belongs only to time."

 

            Outside the bus window, the morning had become brighter.

 

            Children in school uniforms walked beside the road. Vegetable vendors arranged their carts. Life was already preparing for another day, completely unconcerned about last night’s grand celebration.

 

            That is how the world moves.  Someone cries while another celebrates.  Someone gets married while someone becomes widowed.  Someone enters life while someone leaves it.  The earth never pauses long enough to honour one human emotion completely.  Perhaps that is why wisdom often grows quietly after celebrations end.              Noise hides truth.  Silence reveals it. 

 

            I remembered old village marriages again.  There used to be tiredness in them too, but a different kind of tiredness.  Women cooking together through the night.  Relatives washing utensils together.  Children sleeping in corners wrapped in shawls.  Men discussing crops, jobs, and family matters after dinner under open skies.  The marriage belonged to everyone.

 

            Today weddings often feel outsourced.  Caterers cook.  Decorators decorate.  Event managers manage emotions.  Photographers instruct smiles.  Guests arrive polished and leave quickly.  Convenience has reduced participation.  And where participation decreases, emotional ownership also weakens.

 

            I am not against modern celebrations.  Every generation creates its own ways of expressing joy.  But sometimes I wonder if we are slowly losing the human simplicity hidden beneath these expensive layers.

 

            The bus entered a narrow stretch of road lined with trees.  Sunlight filtered through leaves and fell across passengers' faces.   An elderly man sitting across from me was half asleep, his head moving gently with the motion of the bus.  A young boy beside him watched reels on his phone loudly without earphones.  Two generations travelling together, separated by invisible worlds.

 

            I looked outside again.

 

            The wedding palace had disappeared far behind us now.

 

            But its morning emptiness continued sitting beside me.  I started thinking about happiness itself.  Why do humans celebrate so loudly?  Maybe because somewhere deep inside we know nothing lasts.  Maybe music is our temporary rebellion against mortality.  Maybe dancing is the body’s way of forgetting time.  And maybe weddings are not merely celebrations of love.  Maybe they are collective attempts to convince ourselves that permanence still exists somewhere.

 

            Yet life quietly keeps teaching the opposite.  Even the strongest emotions slowly change shape.  Love becomes responsibility.  Excitement becomes routine.  Beauty becomes memory.  And memory itself eventually becomes silence.

 

            Still humans continue decorating gates, lighting fireworks, and gathering crowds.  Perhaps that is beautiful too.  Because despite knowing life is temporary, people still choose celebration.  There is courage hidden in that.

 

            The bus stopped briefly near a roadside tea stall.  A few passengers stepped down.  I stayed seated near the window.  The smell of boiling tea entered the bus softly.

 

            Nearby, I saw another leftover sign of a wedding night - a crushed flower garland lying beside the road.  Yesterday it must have rested proudly around someone’s neck.  Today vehicles passed over it without noticing.  Fame, beauty, celebration - all share the same destiny eventually.

 

            Dust.  The bus started again.

 

            I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes for a moment.

 

            Faces from old marriages returned to me.  Simple people.  Simple clothes.  Simple food.  But genuine laughter. 

 

            Not every memory shines because it was grand.  Some memories survive because they were honest.  That is why I still remember my own marriage peacefully.  No loud music competes with the memory.  No extravagant show distracts the heart.  Just a quiet beginning between two human beings trying to trust life together.  And perhaps that is all marriage truly is beneath the decorations.  Not a palace.  Not fireworks.  Not photography.  Just two imperfect travellers agreeing to continue the road together despite uncertainty.

 

            The bus kept moving forward.  Fields passed.  Shops passed.  People passed.  And somewhere behind us, workers would have completely cleaned that wedding palace by now.  By evening, perhaps another celebration would begin there again.  New lights.  New music.  New promises.  New photographs.  The world repeatedly rebuilds temporary joy over the same floors.  And maybe that is the greatest truth of human life.

 

            We know celebrations fade.  We know decorations tear.  We know mornings always arrive after loud nights.  Still we continue singing.  Still we continue gathering.  Still we continue hoping.

 

            Because perhaps humans do not celebrate to defeat impermanence.  Perhaps humans celebrate simply to make peace with it.

Chapter 5 - Labour

 

5

 

            There are some afternoons that do not move.

 

            The road keeps stretching, vehicles keep passing, people keep speaking into phones, shops remain open, dust continues flying in the hot wind - yet time itself seems to sit down somewhere and refuse to walk further.

 

            That afternoon was one of them.

 

            The bus had left the town behind and entered a long half-constructed highway where civilization looked unfinished, as if the earth itself was still under repair. Broken milestones leaned sideways. Iron rods rose from incomplete buildings like exposed bones. Piles of sand slept beside the road. Cement dust floated in the air like tired fog.

 

            Inside the bus, people were drowning in their own small worlds.

 

            A young man near the front seat was watching short videos and laughing loudly without expression. Two women were discussing the rising prices of cooking oil. Someone behind me snored with complete honesty. The conductor sat silently near the door, counting folded notes again and again as if numbers gave stability to life.

 

            And outside the window, the Sun burned without mercy.

 

            The fields looked thirsty. The road shimmered in heat. Even the trees appeared exhausted.

 

            Then I saw him.

 

            Under a lonely neem tree beside a construction site, a labourer was sleeping on the bare ground. 

Around him were stacks of red bricks, grey cement sacks, rusted pans used for carrying concrete, and a half-built wall that would one day become part of somebody’s dream home.

 

            But the man building that dream was sleeping without even a proper bed.  One arm rested over his eyes to block the sunlight filtering through the leaves. His shirt was stained with cement powder. His slippers lay a little distance away. His feet were cracked like dry land waiting for rain.

 

            He had folded his body inward, as if trying to occupy less space in the world.

 

            The bus moved slowly because of road repairs, and for a few moments that sleeping labourer remained beside my window like a still photograph.  I kept looking at him.  There was something painfully pure about the scene.  No complaint.  No audience.  No speech about struggle.  Just a tired man borrowing shade from a tree before returning to lift the weight of other people’s futures.

 

            The strange thing about cities is this: The tallest buildings often stand upon invisible backs.  We praise architects. We celebrate owners. We admire design, paint, lighting, marble flooring, imported furniture.  But nobody asks who carried the cement bags in June heat.  Nobody remembers the hands that mixed concrete while coughing dust into their lungs.  Nobody frames the photograph of the man who slept hungry beside the same wall he built.  Perhaps modern civilization is built upon selective blindness.

 

            We see comfort.  We ignore the cost. 

 

            The bus crossed the construction site slowly, but my thoughts remained behind beneath that neem tree.

 

            I began wondering where he came from.  Maybe from a small village where farming no longer fed families.  Maybe from a flood-damaged town.  Maybe from a house where old parents waited every month for money that always arrived late and incomplete.  Maybe he had children who believed their father worked in a “big city,” not knowing he slept beside bricks under open skies.

 

            Cities are strange creatures.  They attract the poor with promises and then slowly consume their names.  A migrant worker arrives carrying identity, language, memories, songs, relationships.  Years later he becomes only “labour.”  No surname.  No history.  No place in memory.  Only labour.

 

            And yet entire cities stand because of him.

 

            A fly buzzed near the bus window and suddenly I remembered another afternoon many years ago - from my days in the Army.

 

            Some memories do not arrive loudly.  They walk softly into your mind and sit down beside you.  That memory came like that.

 

            It was during the rainy season.

 

            I was posted far from home then. The barracks were under expansion, and construction work continued day and night. Labourers from distant villages had been hired for the work. They lived temporarily near the site in makeshift shelters made of plastic sheets and torn cloth.

 

            That evening rain had fallen heavily.

 

            Cold wind swept through the camp long after midnight. The rainwater had left the earth damp and icy. I had returned late from office duty, exhausted and sleepy, carrying files under my arm.

 

            Most of the camp was silent. 

 

            Only the distant sound of dripping water remained awake.

 

            As I walked past the construction area, I noticed two labourers sleeping in the open.  Not even properly sleeping.  Enduring the night.   They had curled themselves tightly, knees pressed against their chests, trying to preserve warmth inside their own bodies. Their thin clothes were damp. One of them shivered in sleep.

 

            For a moment I simply stood there.  Even today I do not know why that moment pierced me so deeply.  Perhaps because suffering looks different when nobody is watching it.

 

            Daytime poverty still carries some movement, some dignity, some distraction.  But night-time poverty is naked.  It has no defence.  Cold exposes truth very honestly.

 

            I returned quietly to my room, picked up my two blankets, and walked back.  The rainwater still dripped from nearby tin sheets. The wind felt sharper now.  I gently covered both men with the blankets.

 

            One of them woke up suddenly in confusion. The other sat up halfway, startled.  For a few seconds they could not understand what was happening.  Then they realized.  Both folded their hands immediately.  No words.  Just folded hands.

 

            Their eyes carried that awkward gratitude poor people often carry - gratitude mixed with hesitation, as if kindness itself feels expensive to receive.

 

            I remember feeling uncomfortable at their thankfulness.  Because the blankets were ordinary.  But their suffering was not.

 

            That night I returned to my room, yet sleep came late.  Somewhere inside me, a question kept moving: Why does survival itself become such hard labour for some people?

 

            A rich man loses comfort.  A poor man loses sleep.  And perhaps there is a difference between the two that society never discusses honestly.

 

            The bus suddenly hit a pothole and my thoughts returned to the present.

 

            Outside, the labourer beneath the tree had disappeared behind the dust.  But his image remained inside me.

 

            I looked around the bus again.  Air-conditioned offices.  Online debates.  Political arguments. 

Religious slogans.  Luxury apartments.  Investment plans.  People discussing success as if it were entirely self-created.  Yet somewhere in every success story exists an unnamed worker who carried invisible weight.  Human civilization often behaves like a king who forgets the soldiers that protected the kingdom.  We admire polished floors but never the knees that bent to install them.

 

            Maybe this is why labourers sleep so deeply whenever they find shade.  Physical exhaustion has an honesty that mental exhaustion lacks.  A rich man lies on a soft mattress yet keeps changing sides all night.  A labourer sleeps beneath a tree and enters unconsciousness within minutes.  One carries burden in the body.  The other carries burden in the mind.  And strangely, the second burden often becomes heavier.

 

            The bus stopped near a roadside tea stall.

 

            A few passengers stepped down lazily. Hot wind entered through the open door. Somewhere nearby, a radio played an old song about journeys and separation.

 

            I remained seated.

 

            Near the stall, another construction worker washed his face using water from a plastic drum. The water turned muddy as it fell onto the ground. He wiped his face with a faded cloth and immediately began lifting bricks again.  No pause.  No drama.

 

            Life, for many people, is simply continuous carrying.  Perhaps that is why poor people understand silence better.  When life becomes too difficult, words slowly lose importance.

 

I have noticed something during my travels: The people closest to the earth often speak the least.  Farmers, Labourers, Drivers, Old villagers, Widows, etc. They do not explain life philosophically.  They survive it practically.  Maybe wisdom does not always arrive through education.  Sometimes it arrives through endurance.

 

            The bus started moving again.

 

            Clouds had begun gathering slowly in the distance. Their shadows moved over fields like tired thoughts.

 

            I rested my head against the window.

 

            And suddenly another realization came quietly:  A migrant worker may spend his entire life constructing permanent homes for others while never owning permanence himself.  He builds schools his children may never enter.  Hospitals he cannot afford.  Apartments where security guards stop him at the gate.  Roads on which expensive cars later insult poverty through tinted windows.

 

            Still he works.  Not because hope is strong.  But because hunger is stronger.  There is a tragic dignity in that.  Society often celebrates ambition, but survival deserves equal respect.  Not everybody dreams of greatness.  Some people merely dream of uninterrupted meals.  Some dream of medicine for parents.  Some dream of school uniforms.  Some dream of one room without leaking rainwater.  And some simply dream of sleeping one full night without fear.

 

            The world measures achievement unfairly.  A businessman earns applause for building towers.  A labourer receives daily wages for lifting the tower upon his spine.  Yet if one disappears, the city notices.  If the other disappears, construction stops.

 

            The bus entered another town.

 

            Shops returned. Noise returned. Human urgency returned.

 

            But inside me that silent labourer still slept beneath the tree.

 

            Perhaps he would wake after twenty minutes, wash his face, lift another cement sack, and continue building walls for strangers.  Perhaps years later the same building would be painted beautifully and advertised as “luxury living.”

 

            Nobody would know that one summer afternoon, before the roof existed, a tired man had slept there beside bricks under a neem tree.  Nobody would remember.  But maybe life remembers what society forgets.  Maybe the earth keeps account differently.  Maybe every bead of sweat fallen honestly onto soil becomes part of some invisible scripture.

 

            As the bus moved ahead, I looked once more through the dusty glass at the fading road behind us.

 

            And somewhere deep inside me, a quiet sentence formed without asking permission: Some people spend their entire lives carrying cities on their shoulders…yet leave this world without even leaving footprints inside those same cities.

Chapter 4 - Children in Mud

 

4

 

            The rain had arrived without permission that afternoon. Dark clouds hung low over the Punjab roads like tired travellers searching for rest, and every passing vehicle carried the smell of wet mud upon its tyres. I sat beside the fogged-up window of an ageing bus, watching raindrops race each other down the glass while the world outside looked freshly washed and strangely honest. Somewhere between two unknown villages, children were dancing barefoot in muddy water, farmers were pulling their shawls tighter against the wind, and the earth itself seemed happier than the people travelling across it. Inside the bus, however, faces remained trapped in worries, schedules, and glowing mobile screens. It was then I realised something unsettling - perhaps modern life has taught human beings how to stay comfortable, but forgotten how to let them feel alive.

 

            By then, I had started understanding something strange about journeys. The destination was always smaller than the road leading to it. Human beings spent their entire lives planning arrivals, but wisdom quietly waited somewhere between two bus stops.

 

            The afternoon sky was heavy with rainclouds. Not the violent kind of clouds that threaten storms, but the tired grey clouds that seem to carry old memories inside them. The roads were still wet from a recent shower. Water had collected in broken patches beside the highway, forming muddy ponds that reflected pieces of the sky like cracked mirrors.

 

            Inside the bus, people looked exhausted.

 

            A man in formal clothes was continuously checking his smartwatch as if time were leaking out of his veins. Two college boys argued loudly over which mobile phone had the better camera. An elderly woman counted prayer beads slowly while occasionally looking outside with eyes that seemed older than the road itself.

 

            Near me sat a child with expensive shoes and a costly tablet in his hands. His mother kept wiping his fingers with sanitiser after he touched the window bars.

 

“Don’t lean outside,” she warned every few minutes. “There’s dirt everywhere.”

 

            The boy nodded obediently, though his eyes carried the sadness of someone imprisoned in comfort.

 

            The bus moved past fields soaked in rainwater. Farmers walked through mud without irritation. Buffaloes stood silently under trees. Children in villages ran barefoot on wet roads as though the rain belonged personally to them.

 

            Then suddenly the bus slowed near a small settlement.

 

            I looked outside casually at first.  And then my eyes stayed there.

 

            Near a roadside ditch filled with muddy rainwater, four or five poor children were playing wildly. Their clothes were dirty. One boy wore half a shirt without buttons. A little girl’s slippers were broken. Another child had mud spread across his face like careless paint.

 

            But they were laughing.  Not smiling politely.  Not posing happiness for photographs.  Not performing joy for social media.  They were laughing from somewhere deep and untouched.

 

            One boy jumped into the muddy water with such celebration that droplets splashed over everyone. Another chased a floating plastic bottle as if it were a precious toy boat. The little girl clapped loudly whenever thunder echoed in the distance.

 

            For a moment, the entire world disappeared behind that scene.

            The muddy water looked filthy.  But the happiness looked pure.

 

            The bus passengers barely noticed them.  Some looked with pity.  Some with disgust.  Most did not look at all.

 

            A man sitting behind me muttered, “Poor kids… no proper place even to play.”

 

            I wanted to agree with him.  Yet something inside me hesitated.  Because the children themselves did not look poor.  Their stomachs perhaps were empty.  Their houses perhaps leaked during rain.

Their futures perhaps frightened destiny itself.  But in that moment, they possessed something many rich people spend entire lives searching for.  Unmanufactured joy.

 

            The bus moved slowly ahead, but my eyes remained fixed on them until the scene disappeared. 

And strangely, after it vanished, the silence inside me became louder.

 

            I leaned back against the seat and remembered an advertisement I had seen recently.  A luxury resort somewhere in the mountains.  It promised “complete happiness packages.”  Infinity pools. Rain dance areas. Artificial waterfalls. Nature therapy. Digital detox camps. Happiness retreats.  Families paid enormous amounts of money there just to laugh together for two days. 

 

            Meanwhile, beside a dirty roadside ditch, barefoot children had discovered the same joy for free. 

Or perhaps an even truer version of it.  Maybe civilisation has not improved happiness.  Maybe it has simply commercialised it.

 

            I kept thinking about this while the bus crossed another village.

 

            Human beings today know how to buy entertainment, but they are slowly forgetting how to experience joy.  There is a difference.  Entertainment distracts the mind.  Joy awakens it.  One is consumed.  The other is lived.

 

            The richest industries in the modern world are built upon lonely people. They sell vacations to the exhausted, motivational seminars to the hopeless, meditation apps to the anxious, and expensive cafés to friends who no longer know how to talk without phones between them.

 

            The world earns billions from emotional emptiness.  Perhaps that is why simplicity has become dangerous.  A child playing in rain threatens entire industries.  Because a person who can find happiness in puddles will never become a loyal customer of artificial paradise.

 

            The boy beside me on the bus tapped repeatedly on his tablet screen. Racing cars moved rapidly there. Bright colours flashed. Digital coins exploded.  But his face remained expressionless.  Outside, those muddy children had nothing.  Yet their eyes shone brighter than the tablet.

 

            At what point does comfort steal natural joy from human beings?

 

            The question settled quietly inside me.

 

            Maybe the theft begins slowly.

 

First, we stop walking barefoot.

Then we stop touching rainwater.

Then we stop sitting silently under trees.

Then we stop watching sunsets because we are busy photographing them.

 

            And one day we realise we have protected ourselves from life so carefully that we no longer know how to feel alive.

 

            The bus stopped briefly near a roadside tea stall.

 

            Passengers climbed down lazily. Steam rose from kettles. Wet soil released that beautiful fragrance which arrives only after rain…the fragrance no perfume company has ever successfully captured.

            I remained seated near the window.

 

            Across the road, another group of children were now floating paper boats in flowing rainwater. Their boats were badly folded. Most sank within seconds. But every sinking boat produced fresh laughter.

 

            Failure did not embarrass them yet.  Children are perhaps the last philosophers left on earth. 

They cry honestly.  Laugh completely.  Forgive quickly.  And forget status naturally.

 

            Adults teach them sophistication.  Then life spends decades trying to heal them from it.

 

            A memory suddenly returned to me from my own childhood.

 

            During monsoon days, we too waited impatiently for rain. We played in muddy streets until our mothers shouted angrily from rooftops. We floated leaves like ships. We returned home soaked, shivering, and unbelievably happy.

 

            Back then, happiness had no entry fee.  No luxury package.  No Wi-Fi password.  No imported coffee.

 

            Just rain.  Simple rain.

 

            I wondered when exactly we had become so difficult to please.

 

            Perhaps modern life has overloaded human desires. Earlier generations wanted food, shelter, companionship, and dignity. Today people also want validation, online attention, upgraded lifestyles, perfect photographs, social superiority, and endless stimulation.

 

            The human heart was designed to carry emotions.  Not competition.

 

            The bus horn interrupted my thoughts.

 

            Passengers returned with tea cups and snacks. The mother beside me handed her son an expensive packet of imported chips.  He ate quietly while staring outside.

 

            Then something unexpected happened.

 

            The bus began moving again, and as it crossed the muddy roadside area, the child suddenly pressed his face eagerly against the window.

 

            “Mamma,” he whispered softly, “can I also play there once?”

 

            His mother almost looked offended.

 

            “There? In dirty water?” she replied. “No. Good children don’t play like that.”

 

            The boy became silent again.  But his eyes followed the children until they disappeared behind the rain.

 

            I do not know why that moment disturbed me deeply.  Maybe because childhood understands freedom before society teaches fear.  We train children for safety so thoroughly that sometimes we accidentally train wonder out of them too.  Of course cleanliness matters. Education matters. Better living conditions matter.  Poverty should never be romanticised.  Those children deserved proper homes, schools, healthcare, and safe playgrounds.  But even while improving human lives, perhaps we must be careful not to destroy humanity itself.  Because comfort without connection becomes emptiness.  And luxury without simplicity becomes exhaustion.

 

            The rain started again lightly.  Droplets struck the bus window gently, racing each other downward like tiny transparent travellers. 

 

            Outside, fields glistened. Electric poles stood silently beside roads like patient witnesses of human drama.

 

            I noticed something strange then.

 

            Poor people often look at the sky more.  Maybe because they still depend upon nature directly. Rain affects their work, crops, roofs, and daily survival.

 

            Rich people mostly look at screens.  Weather reaches them through notifications.  Perhaps that is why many modern people feel disconnected from existence itself. They experience life second-hand. 

Even sunsets now arrive through wallpapers.

 

            The bus entered a crowded town area. Shops flashed colourful boards. Loud music played from somewhere. Traffic screamed impatiently.

 

             Yet my mind remained behind with those children.  Their laughter had exposed something uncomfortable.  Human beings are not unhappy merely because they lack comfort.  Sometimes they are unhappy because they have lost contact with ordinary life.   A man can sleep on a five-star hotel mattress and still remain restless.  Another can sleep beneath a leaking roof and wake up grateful for morning sunlight.  The difference is rarely furniture.  It is relationship with existence.

 

            I remembered a line I once heard somewhere: “People who have forgotten how to enjoy small moments are often forced to purchase big ones.”

 

            Perhaps wisdom is not learning how to become happier.  Perhaps wisdom is remembering what happiness looked like before the world complicated it.

 

            The bus crossed a bridge where rainwater flowed fiercely below.  For a brief moment, I imagined the muddy children years later.  Would life harden them too?  Would they also become tired adults carrying invisible burdens?  Would they also begin measuring happiness through salary, status, and possessions?  Or would they preserve something rare inside themselves - the ability to laugh freely beside imperfect things?

 

            I do not know.

 

            Life changes everyone.

 

            But some people somehow protect a small untouched corner within themselves. A corner where rain still feels magical. Where tea during storms still feels rich. Where human company matters more than luxury.  Perhaps those people are the truly wealthy ones.

 

            The evening slowly approached. Villages faded behind the growing darkness. Lights appeared in distant homes like scattered thoughts across the earth.

 

            Inside the bus, most passengers had become quiet.

 

            The child beside me had fallen asleep holding his tablet loosely against his chest.

 

            But outside, somewhere beyond the wet roads and muddy fields, I knew children were still probably laughing under the rain.

 

            And strangely, that thought gave me hope.

 

            Because as long as humanity can still find joy in simple things, the world is not completely lost yet.