The Feeling We Never Truly Name

There is one stage in life that almost every one of us has experienced at least once.

That strange feeling of skipping a heartbeat every time we see that person. Waiting endlessly for a single glance. Putting ridiculous amounts of effort into crossing paths “accidentally.” Feeling sweat rush through your body because of one word, one smile, one unexpected message. That peculiar willingness to flip your entire world upside down just to fulfill one wish of theirs.

And somehow, during that phase, nothing else seems to matter.

The world could be at war. Economies could collapse. The neighbor’s house could be on fire.

But none of that enters our universe.

We live inside a dreamland of our own — powered by hormones, imagination, hope, and emotional chaos. Every second feels magnified. Every moment feels meaningful. Every microsecond becomes worth remembering.

Perhaps it is one of the most alive experiences human beings can have.

Fear may come later. Wisdom may come later. Reality certainly comes later.

But first comes this.

A Feeling Too Large for Words

Our minds seem almost designed to crave this experience.

Yet we struggle to define it.

Calling it attraction feels insufficient.

Calling it infatuation sounds dismissive.

Calling it love feels premature.

One word cannot contain an emotion that has inspired centuries of poetry, music, paintings, stories, and wars.

Maybe that is why we had Shakespeare. Maybe that is why literature continues to produce poets generation after generation.

Every sonnet touches a fragment of this feeling, but never captures it entirely. Every writer attempts to describe it, only to discover there is still something left unsaid.

And so the search continues.

More Than Romance

Don’t rush to label it.

Because I am not talking only about romance.

I am talking about that force that makes us forget ourselves.

The same force that gives a soldier courage to cross borders and fight to protect someone they love.

The same force that pushes a person to swim impossible distances, climb dangerous mountains, or break world records.

The same force an athlete might feel when an Olympic gold medal finally hangs around their neck.

The same force a mother experiences when her child takes their first step or speaks their first word.

The examples may seem unrelated.

But look closely.

There is a common thread running through all of them.

An obsession.

A complete surrender of self to something bigger than oneself.

For a brief moment, the boundary between “me” and “my goal” disappears.

There is only the experience.

Only the feeling.

Only the pursuit.

The Spiritual Connection

Many philosophical traditions speak about becoming one with the divine.

Saints, mystics, and spiritual seekers across centuries have described states of complete absorption — moments where the self dissolves and only oneness remains.

Perhaps what they describe is not entirely foreign to us.

Perhaps we catch glimpses of it much earlier in life.

Adolescence offers a curious shortcut.

When hormones are wild and self-control is still under construction, we surrender easily. We drift with emotions the way a leaf drifts on a river.

Effortlessly.

Fearlessly.

Sometimes foolishly.

But undeniably.

And in those moments, we experience a kind of purity — a state where our attention belongs entirely to one person, one dream, one desire.

A tiny glimpse of oneness.

A tiny glimpse of transcendence.

Maybe Love Is Too Small a Word

If you insist on calling it love, then perhaps love is every action that makes us forget ourselves.

Every moment that pulls us completely into another person, another purpose, another dream.

Maybe it is love.

Maybe it is devotion.

Maybe it is obsession.

Maybe it is self-discovery disguised as attachment.

I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that it is addictive.

Beautiful.

Painful.

Transformative.

And almost impossible to escape.

Stories That Never Grow Old

Indian mythology is filled with such emotions.

From the Ramayana to the Mahabharata, from Radha and Krishna to Rukmini and Satyabhama, from Heer-Ranjha to Laila-Majnu — the stories survive because they speak to something timeless inside us.

Even reading these stories can stir emotions we struggle to explain.

Imagine living one.

Imagine feeling what they felt.

Perhaps that is why cinema, visual effects, and virtual reality fascinate us so much. They allow us to borrow another life for a few hours and experience emotions beyond our own reality.

And somewhere deep inside, many of us secretly wish:

What would it feel like to be protagonist of our own story?

Just once.

Just long enough to understand.

Ignorance Is Bliss

Science will continue to explain hormones.

Psychology will continue to explain attachment.

Neuroscience will continue to map dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and all the chemicals involved.

And yet, something about this experience always escapes explanation.

Maybe not everything beautiful needs decoding.

Maybe some feelings are meant to be lived rather than analyzed.

So if even one percent of this resonates with you, dear reader —

Welcome aboard.

You have been there too.

You have felt that inexplicable pull.

That beautiful madness.

That sweet suffering.

That impossible longing.

And perhaps that is what life is all about —

Losing ourselves, only to discover a new version of who we are.

Or maybe not.

Let’s leave a little mystery alive.

After all, ignorance is bliss.

Food began as a necessity — an instinctive response to hunger, survival, and biological need. In the earliest stages of human evolution, eating was not a choice but a compulsion dictated by availability and environment. However, as human societies evolved, so did our relationship with food. Today, food is no longer just about survival; it is about identity, status, culture, and even ideology.

Anthropological research suggests that early humans were opportunistic omnivores, adapting their diets based on geography and climate. The agricultural revolution, around 10,000 years ago, marked a turning point — food became something we could cultivate, store, and trade. This shift laid the foundation for civilizations and, eventually, for culinary traditions. Over time, food became deeply intertwined with culture, rituals, and social structures.

In the modern world, our food choices often extend beyond necessity into the realm of lifestyle and identity. What we eat can signal our values, beliefs, and even socioeconomic status. For instance, dietary patterns such as vegetarianism, veganism, and eggetarianism are not merely nutritional choices but reflections of ethical, environmental, or cultural considerations. According to global dietary trend reports, plant-based diets have seen a significant rise, driven by concerns about sustainability, animal welfare, and health.

Food has also been a silent traveler across borders. Ingredients and dishes have migrated with people, trade, and colonization. The potato, originally domesticated in Peru, is now a staple in cuisines worldwide. Similarly, pizza, once a humble Italian dish, has transformed into a global phenomenon with countless regional adaptations. These examples highlight how food transcends boundaries, making it difficult — if not impossible — to claim absolute ownership over any dish.

In a country like India, food diversity is particularly striking. It is often said that language changes every few kilometers, and so does food. Regional variations in ingredients, cooking methods, and even dietary restrictions create a rich culinary mosaic. Even within the same family, the same recipe can taste remarkably different depending on who prepares it — a reminder that food is as much about personal expression as it is about tradition.

Interestingly, food has also been a source of division. Dietary practices have historically contributed to the formation of social groups and identities. What one eats — or chooses not to eat — can define belonging or exclusion. In some cases, food has even been at the center of cultural and political conflicts, reinforcing its role as more than just sustenance.

The evolution of food is not limited to ingredients or recipes; it extends to the people who create it. The role of the cook has transformed dramatically over time. What was once a functional role has evolved into a celebrated profession. Today, chefs are artists, scientists, and influencers. The rise of fine dining and global recognition systems such as Michelin stars reflects this shift, where culinary expertise is acknowledged with the same prestige as other creative fields.

Moreover, the presentation of food has become as important as its taste. The visual appeal — plating, texture, color — plays a crucial role in the dining experience. Scientific studies even suggest that presentation can influence perceived taste. This has given rise to disciplines like molecular gastronomy, where cooking intersects with chemistry and physics to create innovative textures and forms. Food is no longer confined to solid or liquid states; it can be transformed into foams, gels, and even vapor-like experiences, challenging our sensory perceptions.

The global food industry today is vast and ever-expanding. According to market research, it is valued in trillions of dollars and continues to grow, driven by urbanization, technological advancements, and changing consumer preferences. From street food vendors to high-end restaurants, from traditional recipes to experimental cuisine, the spectrum is immense.

Yet, amid all this evolution, one thing remains constant: food’s ability to connect. It brings people together, tells stories, and preserves history. While history has often been written through the lens of wars and rulers, the story of food offers an equally compelling narrative — one of migration, adaptation, creativity, and shared humanity.

There may come a time when technology allows us to create food in ways we cannot yet imagine. But even then, the essence of food — as a marker of identity, culture, and connection — will likely endure. Because in the end, food is not just something we consume; it is something that defines us.

My fascination with the laws of physics and the forces shaping our world has always stayed with me. This curiosity recently led me to pick up “Reality is not what it seems” by Carlo Rovelli, a recommendation from my mentor Sukalp, author of the Marathi book “Aaple Vishwa”. What followed was not just reading a book it was entering a completely new way of seeing reality.

Rovelli’s writing stands out for its simplicity and depth. Despite dealing with something as complex as quantum physics, the language remains accessible and engaging. There is a popular belief that the more you understand quantum physics, the more confusing it becomes — but this book gently challenges that idea. Instead of overwhelming the reader, it invites you into the confusion, making it meaningful and even beautiful.

One of the most captivating aspects of the book is how it brings science to life through stories. You don’t just learn theories you encounter the scientists behind them, their struggles, their breakthroughs, and their curiosity. This narrative style makes the journey through physics feel deeply human.

The book begins in a time even before physics formally existed, exploring early philosophical ideas about reality. Rovelli introduces a profound concept — that reality may be a network of probabilistic, granular events interconnected through space, time, matter, and energy. From there, the narrative evolves through discussions on Albert Einstein, quantum theory, time, the Big Bang, black holes, and the nature of infinity and mystery.

What stayed with me most is the humility embedded throughout the book. Rovelli reminds us that science does not offer absolute certainty — and perhaps never will, unless we choose blind belief over inquiry. This perspective reshaped my own thinking. I had often believed that quantum physics might hold all the answers, but this book suggests otherwise. True understanding requires the integration of three pillars: general relativity, quantum mechanics, and the theory of heat (statistical mechanics and thermodynamics).

The philosophical depth of the book is equally striking. It connects science with thinkers like Democritus, whose idea that “truth lies in the depths” resonates strongly throughout the narrative. It also reintroduces Aristotle in a refreshing light, highlighting how foundational philosophical ideas continue to shape modern scientific thought. Learning about concepts like Zeno’s paradox and the curvature of space time added further layers to my understanding — and my curiosity.

Equally thought-provoking is his argument that time may not be fundamental. Rather than being a basic building block of the universe, time could emerge from more fundamental physical processes. This idea challenges our everyday experience, where time feels constant and universal, and invites us to rethink whether past, present, and future are truly as concrete as we believe.

Another powerful takeaway from the book is its description of three fundamental features of our world: granularity, indeterminacy, and relationality. These ideas not only define quantum mechanics but also feel deeply aligned with how we experience reality itself.

Rovelli also subtly highlights the importance of collaboration in science. The intellectual relationship between David Hilbert and Albert Einstein is a beautiful example of mutual respect and shared pursuit of knowledge — something the modern world can certainly learn from.

This book is not a quick read. It demands time, reflection, and patience. It is the kind of book you sit with, pause, revisit, and absorb gradually. Personally, I found myself marking pages, revisiting passages, and reflecting deeply on its ideas.

There is so much more I could say about this book, but this is just a glimpse of what inspired me to write this review. I’ll end with a message from Rovelli himself, one that stayed with me long after I finished the book:

“It’s a vast world, with much still to clarify and explore. It’s my fondest dream that someone — one of the younger readers of this book, I hope — will be able to voyage across it and illuminate it better. Beyond the next hill there are worlds still more vast, still to be discovered.”

Yesterday, during a library workshop at my organization, I discovered a collection of children’s books that left a deep impression on me. Growing up in a small town with limited resources, I never had access to such libraries during my childhood. However, my father often gave me books to read mostly autobiographies of freedom fighters. Those stories quietly nurtured my love for reading and shaped my understanding of courage and resilience.

Looking at the colorful illustrations, playful doodles, and imaginative titles of children’s books today felt almost magical. Their stories have a gentle charm they invite you into a dreamlike world, far removed from the rigid boundaries of science and everyday reality. Perhaps that is exactly their beauty. After a long day of work, such stories calm the mind and allow it to wander freely.

Among the many books displayed during the session, one small philosophy book for children caught my attention. It was meant for readers aged seven and above. In its preface, the author wrote something striking: philosophy is not only for adults; it is for children too. The idea resonated deeply with me. Philosophy is often associated with elderly thinkers reflecting on life after retirement, but in truth, curiosity about life begins much earlier.

The author had designed the book in a fascinating way by asking simple yet profound questions connected to our everyday senses: seeing, tasting, hearing, smelling, and touching. Through these familiar experiences, children are gently introduced to curiosity and reflection.

For example, imagine a chair placed in a room. Does it look the same when viewed from the front, from behind, or from a corner? Does it appear the same when seen from far away or up close? Would your friend see the chair exactly the way you do? And if both of you touch it, will it feel identical to each of you?

Or think about eating a mango. Does it taste the same with every bite? Does the flavor change when the mango is freshly cut versus when it has been kept for a few days? What happens when you hear a particular sound does everyone interpret it the same way?

These simple questions amazed me. I must admit, they also made me feel a little envious. Books like these could help children see the world through a richer and more curious lenssomething many of us might have benefited from in our own childhood.

What fascinated me even more was how the same object can carry different meanings depending on who observes it. A chair may be constant in form, but for a craftsman it could be a beautiful creation; for a scientist, it might be an object to study balance and the center of mass; for a writer, it could inspire a story; and for a politician, it might symbolize power. None of these perspectives are wrong they simply arise from different frames of reference.

To explain this idea more scientifically, I remember a lesson from my school days. When we travel in a train or bus, it often feels as if the trees outside are moving backward. But to a person standing outside, it is clear that the vehicle is moving while the trees remain still. The difference lies only in the frame of reference.

Does that make either perspective wrong? Probably not. Yet our stubbornness in proving one view as the absolute truth often leads to unnecessary conflict.

In everyday life, we unknowingly fall into logical traps such as ad hominem arguments, slippery slopes, false dichotomies, or confirmation bias. These patterns narrow our thinking and make us less sensitive to perspectives different from our own. Perhaps philosophy introduced early in life can nurture the habit of questioning, reflecting, and thinking critically.

Many conflicts arise simply because everyone is trying to prove their own point. But what if, in moments of disagreement, we paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and allowed ourselves to listen truly listen to another perspective?

Maybe it is not about proving who is right or wrong. Maybe it is simply about trying a different lens to look at the same world.

And sometimes, that small shift in perspective can be a quiet step toward greater understanding and perhaps even peace……..!!

Dear all, thank you for your thoughtful reviews and comments. Through this series, I am aiming to explore many questions that have emerged during my journey. As a student of both science and philosophy, I am continually learning to view the world through multiple lenses.

Readers may have approached my previous article Fate or karma with diverse perspectives perhaps guided by different theories or frameworks. Yet, when we truly dive deep into the essence of existence, we often arrive at a familiar realization: life is unpredictable and uncertain. This naturally leads to a profound question what is life?

Schrödinger’s inquiry is only a fragment of a much larger philosophical exploration. How do we define life, and who determines its parameters? Is it the domain of science, philosophy, or something beyond both? Can life truly be measured, or is it something that resists definition? Are we living within predetermined boundaries, or is there space for the unknown?

You might trace life back to the evolutionary timeline, suggesting it began roughly 4.5 billion years ago. But could we describe that origin without referencing “years” or “ago”?

Consider, for a moment, the framework of time. Can we imagine life without it? What we call “today” quickly becomes the past as we move into another present. This raises further questions: What is time? Who defines it? How is it formed, measured, and experienced? If time did not exist — if there were no past, present, or future — how would we perceive days, nights, years, or eras? This is not an objection to the concept of time; rather, it is an invitation to reflect on why our lives are so tightly bound to it — often to the extent that we rush forward without noticing the transformations happening within and around us.

We may seek explanations like those Stephen Hawking offered in A Brief History of Time — deeply scientific and undeniably compelling to believe but beyond scientific precision lies a space for reflection, where curiosity matters more than certainty. My intention is far simpler yet perhaps just as unsettling. I want you to take a deep breath and imagine what our lives might look like if time did not exist at all.

This reflection is merely an invitation to think differently about ideas that humanity has universally accepted concepts we follow almost instinctively, rarely stopping to question them. Time governs our routines, shapes our ambitions, and silently frames our understanding of life itself. But what happens when we step outside this framework, even if only in thought?

These questions intrigue me as much as they may intrigue you. Let us attempt to unravel them step by step. Here comes the first surprise: time may be less of an absolute reality and more of a perceived construct. Kindly note, I do not claim Albert Einstein’s authority to explain relativity where greater mass can slow the passage of time I am compelled to ask a simpler question: why do we need time at all? Why is our understanding of life so deeply tied to it? Could life exist before time, or perhaps beyond it?could it simply be a limitation of language — an idea so vast that words themselves struggle to fully capture its essence?

Today, during a conversation with my colleagues, I encountered an interesting perspective: no remarkable journey or discovery begins without an external stimulus. It was a compelling argument but it led me to wonder whether stimulus is ever truly absent. Perhaps it is always present around us; we simply need the courage to notice it or the curiosity to ask the question, regardless of whether they are right or wrong.

After all,
“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” — Carl Sagan

Discovery is not always about grand moments of revelation; sometimes it begins with quiet doubt, with the willingness to challenge what feels obvious.

So this is not an attempt to reject the idea of time, nor to redefine it through physics or philosophy. Instead, it is an effort to awaken curiosity — to encourage reflection on the structures that guide our lives without our awareness. What if questioning the familiar is the very stimulus we seek? What if the act of asking becomes the first step toward discovery?

Perhaps rethinking time could even reshape how we understand ideas like death and suffering but that is a conversation for the next article.

Let this be the starting point of that exploration.

Stay tuned.

I find myself thinking about a child whose father dies before the child is even born. Does that child deserve to grow up without ever knowing a father’s presence or love? Does the mother deserve to carry grief alongside pregnancy, and then navigate life as a single parent from the very beginning? The emotional, physical, and social weight placed on her is immense. Even if life later offers moments of healing or stability, the beginning itself is marked by loss. Before anything else unfolds, the question remains: why must some lives begin with such suffering?

The same question extends to children born in regions affected by war. If we interpret this through the lens of evolution, what kind of “progress” does nature expect from children born amid violence, displacement, and loss? What form of struggle for existence is being normalized and left unchecked?

One might argue that war is man-made, and therefore nature should not be blamed. That is true. Yet the sheer improbability of conception remains striking — the precise union of a particular sperm and ovum, successful implantation, and survival in contexts marked by high infertility, maternal mortality, miscarriage, and infant death. In such settings, survival itself is never certain and is shaped by forces far beyond human control.

If a child survives all of this, it could be interpreted as nature’s selection. Still, when we pause to consider what that survival actually costs, this explanation feels deeply unsettling rather than reassuring.

These realities make me question ideas of karma and rebirth. If suffering is a consequence of past actions, who keeps that record? And if a higher power exists, how does it watch innocent children suffer without intervening? It is difficult for me to accept that pain inflicted on a child could ever be justified by unseen moral accounts from another life or another time.

We know that human development is shaped by genes, environment, and lived experience. If this is true, then no one deserves a beginning that limits their potential or harms their well-being from the start. I write this not as a theory, but as an emotional response to witnessing health inequities across the world. Behind every statistic is a human being — someone just beginning their journey, already burdened by forces they did not choose.

No child deserves to be born into war. No child deserves to grow up without parents, safety, shelter, education, or dignity. No human being should have to struggle for the basic conditions required to survive.

Some argue that imbalance is necessary for balance that suffering and comfort coexist like yin and yang. But even then, who decides who must carry the pain and who gets peace? If this division is truly dictated by fate, then it feels profoundly unjust. And when all of this ends, there may be no witness left only lives that bore suffering without ever having chosen it.