It really doesn’t take much. I don't expect anyone to do big things for me, like you don’t have to move mountains or create grand gestures. Very small things, but genuine things are enough. A good meal can make my day. An interesting thriller book that holds my attention for a few quiet hours feels like luxury. A cup of good coffee, a canvas to tell a story, working with the camera, writing some random story, sitting outside in the winter sun, a good series on the TV, a homely "macher jhol", trying out an unknown cuisine, learning a new dish - but most of my contentment, if I am being honest, revolves mainly around food and travel.

You take me out of the house, to any place at all, and I’m already happier. That's why the moment I finish a trip, I start envisioning where to go next. On regular weekdays, I am someone who works a lot—sometimes too much—and I genuinely enjoy it. I’ve seen myself perform well when boundaries are pushed. I like when a presentation comes together well, when the storyline is crisp, when something looks neat and intentional. Over the years I’ve been told many times that I balance both sides well—the technical and the “salesy” parts—and those little acknowledgements give me quiet a mental boost. 

Being the Gemini I am, I’ve also learned to compartmentalize. There were days when work stress followed me home, but now, once I log off, my mind consciously shifts gears. And that has helped me recenter my thoughts and the much needed breather to make space for things beyond work.

And yes, I need those “other things” to stay sane and functional. They are usually creative in nature—writing, reading, the occasional urge to paint, rare bursts of home organization, experimenting with a new recipe, researching places I might travel to, or more recently, editing my travel videos. I push myself to find time for these even during packed workdays. They help me decompress and give me a sense of being meaningfully occupied.

I was never a big dreamer in the conventional sense. I never had a checklist (like "40 things before 40") of things I must achieve—  onsite assignments, earning in dollars, owning a house by a certain age, buying branded clothes, collecting cars, or showing off success. Those things were never my milestones. My only aim in life was always very straightforward: I wanted to feel happy. If I felt happy, I felt content. Whether that happiness came from something small or something big didn’t matter to me.

I never really compared myself with others. A friend’s high-profile job or someone else’s expensive car never made me feel envious or inadequate. Everyone has their own journey, and I believed that long before it became a fashionable statement. This perspective didn’t come from self-help books or motivational videos. In fact, I tend to stay away from all forms of self-help literature. I once tried reading The Secret. Initially, it impressed me, but midway through I realized it was articulating things I had already been practicing in my own way. It felt less like a revelation and more like someone articulating something I already knew. Maybe such books help people who don’t talk to themselves much—but I always have. I’ve always talked to myself. And I’ve always talked to God.

I know “talking to God” can sound controversial. But my relationship with God has always been simple and deeply personal, something I learned entirely from my mother. I don’t want to turn this into a religious debate, but for me, God was never distant or complicated. God is a support system. God is a friend. God is that place I go to when I can’t cry in front of anyone else. Sometimes God feels like a mother, sometimes like a friend, sometimes just like a presence I lean on. The form changes depending on what I need at that moment, but the accessibility never does.

My mother never taught me to rely on rituals to feel God’s presence. She was deeply spiritual but not ritualistic, and that shaped my way of looking at spiritualism. I still remember how, even when I was very young, after study hours we would sit together in the patio and talk about spirituality and its nuances. She made it simple for me—to reach out when I needed strength. God was never about fear or formality. God was comfort. God was strength. God was a safe place to fall apart. And that philosophy has shaped how I deal with life even now.

I never wanted big things in life, yet somehow, things kept coming my way. I don’t know how else to explain it except that I stayed true to myself and made choices that felt right at that time—many of which I later questioned or regretted. 

I still remember the time around 2008–2009, during the recession. Everyone around me was desperate to go onsite. People were pushing managers, chasing visas, doing everything possible to get that opportunity. We were sitting in a large ODC setup—almost 150 people on that floor—and almost everyone was trying to get their paperwork done. I was probably the only person in my grade who hadn’t even asked for a visa, forget an onsite assignment. One day, my manager called me and told me I needed to get my visa done. I told him I didn’t want to travel, that I was too homesick and uncomfortable with the idea. He practically forced me to do it. And that’s how my first onsite happened. I didn’t ask for it. It came to me.

The same thing happened with my house. I never imagined I would buy a home when I did. My salary was low, and I say that without discomfort now. Buying a house wasn’t even on my radar. But I had a pet, and we were living in a rented apartment where the neighbors were irritated because my pet would wander into their space. I realized I needed to move—not for investment, not for status, but to give my pet a better, safer environment. People look at me incredulously when I tell them that I made a 50+ lakh investment because I wanted a better home for my pet. But for me, it made perfect sense. At that stage of life, I didn’t have grand financial ambitions or a family to support. The pet came unplanned and became my child. And when it’s about your child, you discover how far you’re willing to go.

But with highs come lows. I lost my pet just when I was about to move into my new home. Life suddenly felt drained. Directionless. Empty. To make things harder, my personal life was also unravelling. The emotional turbulence was intense, and even now I don’t fully understand how I made it through. As they say, God carries you through your darkest moments. But when life hits hard, you forget the things that once made you you. Somewhere along the way, I let go of my crafts, my hobbies, my small joys—not intentionally, it just happened. And I didn't even realize that I was missing a part of me. 

At some point, something unsettling dawned on me: I felt content. Not unhappy or dissatisfied, but complete in a way that felt final. I had done many of the things I once hoped to do. I had travelled, been at onsite, fell in love, fell out of love, bought a house, paid my own expenses, had no one to question my life choices and achieved more than many of my peers. I felt deeply grateful for that. And yet, there was no strong desire left for what came next. There was nothing I was chasing anymore. That sense of contentment, while peaceful on the surface, felt strangely dangerous underneath. When there is nothing left to look forward to, the days begin to blur into each other.

The idea of disappearing crossed my mind more often than I care to admit. Not dramatically, not impulsively, but almost practically. However, disappearing is not as simple as it sounds. You cannot vanish overnight. And extreme choices come with risks that offer no guarantees. The possibility of surviving in a state without control frightened me more than the idea of ending things. So the question became quieter and more persistent: how do you pass your days when you are content but still cannot leave?

The answer, for me, came through creativity. If I was going to continue living each day, I needed something that felt entirely within my control. Something I could shape, build, and return to on my own terms. That was when I found my way back to creating.

I began blogging in 2010, at a time when very few people did. Social media as we know it didn’t exist. Influencers were not a concept. Writing felt enough. Over time, words led me to food photography, and photography eventually led me to video storytelling. I resisted the shift to video for a long time. I questioned myself relentlessly—whether I really wanted to take on something that demanded so much more effort. Video meant learning editing, color grading, storytelling through visuals, choosing devices, understanding angles, and finding my voice again in a new format.

I asked myself repeatedly whether this was worth it. The honest answer was that I wasn’t sure. But I also realized that if I avoided challenges altogether, I would slide back into that dangerous comfort of contentment. So I decided to try, cautiously. I invested in a basic adventure camera, deliberately not the most advanced one. I wanted to see whether I could manage video storytelling at all, especially given that I travel only a couple of times a year.

When I finally started uploading videos to YouTube, my intention had nothing to do with views or numbers. I wanted to create memories. I wanted something tangible that my mother and I could revisit together. She has been my constant travel companion for years now, and more than anyone else, her opinion mattered to me. Watching those videos allowed us to relive our trips in detail during our evening calls. We would talk for hours about small moments, forgotten corners, and shared experiences. That joy, that shared remembering, gave me a sense of fulfilment I hadn’t anticipated.

Slowly, I improved. At least, that’s what my mother tells me. I became better at voiceovers, better at stitching moments together, better at telling a story that felt complete. And unexpectedly, a few people on the internet began watching too. They found the videos useful. That surprised me more than anything else. I have always had a tendency to over-explain, but when I realized that my detailed approach could actually help people plan their own trips, I leaned into it. That’s why my videos are long bad for the YouTube algorithm, perhaps—but honest. I try to capture the entire day, the logistics, the experiences, and the small, unfiltered moments that often get left out deliberately by professional travel vloggers who thrive on sensationalized versions.

So far, I’ve been fortunate. I haven’t faced trolling, disrespect or objectification from the audience. The numbers are still small, and I am genuinely content with that. Even small validation humbles me. Knowing that a few people, beyond my mother, find my work worth their time is enough. 

Not every day is smooth. There are still days when I question my choices, when that old sense of contentment-without-direction returns. I ask myself what the point is—of editing videos, planning trips, creating things—when all of it feels momentary. Sometimes the world feels like a facade, as if we’re all playing our parts to keep the clock of karma ticking. Like a long tunnel you must walk through until you reach an exit meant only for you; you cant escape or disappear.  

I have stopped complaining now. I know I am in a far better situation than many other women who don't have a voice, who don't have that financial independence, who are not even given their due respect by their husbands or partners, who cannot even do small things for themselves without taking prior permissions from half of the household, who cannot decide whether they can continue working after having kids. Every situation has its good side and bad side and the funny thing is we never know on which side we are. And on nights like this—typing this vlog at 12:38 a.m.—I feel grateful again. In a parallel world I might have ended up as a deeply distressed housewife, mentally tortured and exhausted with her life but Instead, I chose to break away from prescribed norms and gifted myself this silence, this freedom, this moment.

Looking back, I realize I’ve always lived this way—quietly choosing what feels right over what looks impressive. I’ve been content with small things, grateful for what came my way, and deeply anchored in my own sense of happiness. I don’t like chasing noise. I don’t seek validation anymore. I like my world small, my joys simple, and my faith uncomplicated - like my pash balish: simple, familiar, and comforting every single time I hold it close.