I dreamt again.
We were all in our mid-forties — caught between what we’ve become and what we still wish to be. There was some kind of drive; everyone seemed to be role-playing. Our parents were now the last living generation — their parents were gone. We were next.
Someone asked how much time we thought remained with us. Many casually said, “Maybe twenty years.” Our parents and teachers agreed: “Come on, you’ve got no more than twenty years left.”
That’s when it struck me — my father is seventy-one.
His mail ID still carries his birth year, 1954. Time had quietly passed, and I had barely noticed.
You know — age hunts us when we lose faith, when competition replaces companionship.
When we live feverishly, working only to prove, learning only to achieve, speaking only to be right — that’s when time beats us.
That’s when we grow old.
Because once our purpose is either met or failed, we feel done.
But there are homes that stay forever young — houses of intellect.
Where conversations are about greatness, not gossip.
Where learning is shared joy, not obligation.
Where everyone is creating something meaningful, not to be recognized but because it’s natural to create.
Such a home is a house of youth — where age is just the number of seasons, not a measure of decline.
The talk there should be about our own learning, not our children’s. Their growth should be the fragrance of that environment, not a forced garden we try to cultivate.
In an atmosphere rich with intellect, wisdom grows effortlessly.
But when desires become feverish and unfulfilled, we retreat into the cocoon of age.
We seek doctors, not direction. We make our children feverish too, handing them our unfinished dreams to carry.
And then I saw people — our parents’ age and older — advising their children to marry doctors, as if a profession could heal a restless life.
No — we must stop.
Not to give up, but to settle into ourselves.
To rest, to breathe, to do what we truly love — even if it’s simply sleeping or walking or gazing at the sky.
Because doing what we love keeps us young. It gives life a quiet, natural purpose.
Yet even the feverishness to stay young is dangerous.
When we force ourselves to be young, we become artificial — hiding under makeup, clinging to diets, pretending to bloom.
It’s okay to let the hair turn grey — just tuck a rose behind the ear because you love it, not to prove you still can.
That’s true youth: the grace of not resisting change.
Guruji once said, “A place cannot make you happy.”
Even in the most romantic corner of Italy, if your mind clings to sorrow, you’ll carry sadness like luggage.
When the mind is restless, time feels short; joy feels conditional.
But when happiness is natural, time expands — it no longer hunts you.
Good things must become our natural choice, not forced habits.
If healthy food is only eaten to stay young, it loses its purity.
We must become the kind of person who enjoys what is good, not endures it.
Then, even in a feast full of tempting foods, we’ll naturally be drawn to what nourishes us — because our foundation is strong.
Today, I realized I am not leaving non-vegetarian food — I am withdrawing naturally.
It feels like the last day for it; not by decision, but by ease.
Vegetarian food feels like my natural choice — not because of age, but because of alignment.
And yet, in Japan, in Europe, some of the best minds eat non-veg. So it isn’t non-food.
If we call eating farm-raised fish or poultry violence, someone could argue that plucking a fruit before it falls is violence too. That is kutarka — twisted reasoning.
The truth is simple: what is naturally chosen is right.
Whether it’s boiled chicken for health or fruits from the tree — both are food, when chosen with awareness.
When time hunts, let it find you natural, peaceful, and quietly young.
Let your youth be not in your body, but in your freedom.
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