New Reflections

MY EXPERIMENTS WITH HAPPINESS

One of the first serious questions I remember asking myself—when I was about eleven—was surprisingly not about school, friends, or even the usual childhood dreams. It was this:
“What makes people truly happy?”

Now, I know it’s not the kind of question you expect from a child. But in my case, it wasn’t random. It was something I had seen—felt, really—in a way that left a lasting impression.

You see, my father was an IAS officer. His days were filled with government files, district plans, and policy meetings. But when it came to raising me, he had a slightly different approach. He believed that real education didn’t only come from textbooks or classrooms—it came from observing life.

So, during my school holidays, instead of sending me off to tuition or hobby classes, he took me with him on his official visits across the district. We travelled in his government jeep—no frills, no air conditioning, and certainly no screens. But those rides offered me a view of the world that no school ever could.

We would leave the noise of the city behind—its traffic, its urgency—and enter a world that felt slower, wider, and quieter. The villages were modest, the homes simpler, and people had far fewer possessions than anyone I knew. And yet, what I encountered there surprised me.

Every morning, as we drove along those rural roads, we’d see groups of Adivasi men and women walking to work. But unlike what I was used to in the city—where people seemed weighed down by their day before it had even begun—these villagers walked with music in their steps. They danced. They sang. Their clothes—bright saris, scarves, and headbands—seemed to catch the wind like sails. And their laughter—it wasn’t polite or forced. It was full and generous, rising into the air without hesitation.

And what struck me even more—they were still singing when we saw them again in the evening. After a full day of hard labour in the fields, their bodies must have been tired. But their spirits? Still lifted.

It confused me. These weren’t people with big bank balances, college degrees, or modern conveniences. By every conventional measure, they had very little. And yet, they seemed to carry with them something most of us spend our lives chasing: happiness.

At that age, I couldn’t put it into fancy words. But I could feel it. And even now, decades later, that memory stays with me—clearer than most things I studied at that time. What those villagers had wasn’t just cheerfulness—it was a kind of deep, unselfconscious joy. The kind that bubbles up not from having everything, but from needing very little to feel whole.

Later, I would come to think of that joy as something in rhythm—something musical. Not the kind of music you play with instruments, but the kind you create with how you live your day. Your pace, your presence, your perspective.

That early experience taught me something simple but powerful:
Happiness doesn’t always come from what we add to our lives. Sometimes, it’s about what we already have—and how we choose to see it.

In the years since, I’ve seen happiness packaged in many ways—achievement, comfort, recognition, luxury. But rarely has it looked as real and effortless as it did in those early morning walks through the forests and fields.

And there’s something else: happiness spreads. You don’t need to be the one singing to feel the music. Just watching someone else radiate joy can lighten your own mood. Just like laughter—it travels.

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A Quiet Takeaway

So what does this mean for the rest of us—living in a world that is fast, demanding, and often overwhelming?

Maybe it’s not about escaping our lives or becoming someone else. Maybe it’s just about pausing long enough to notice the little things:

• A shared meal
• A walk at dusk
• A song you haven’t heard in years
• A quiet moment with someone who sees you

The people I saw back then didn’t have easy lives. Their work was physical. Their resources were limited. But they found happiness in connection—with nature, with each other, with the simple rhythm of life. They didn’t wait for everything to be perfect to enjoy what they had.

That’s the part that stayed with me the most.

And perhaps, if we all remembered to notice those quiet moments—if we allowed ourselves a little music in our step, a little lightness in our hearts—we’d discover that happiness is not as distant as we think.

Sometimes, it’s just a jeep ride away.