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I have come to believe that everything happens for a reason. Some events arise from conscious effort – the choices we make, the risks we take, and the work we put into our lives. Others emerge quietly from forces we do not fully understand – chance, timing, instinct, circumstance, or the unconscious movements of the mind.

When I am delayed, I sometimes wonder whether the delay has altered something – a meeting, an encounter, or an event that might otherwise have unfolded differently. The reason may lead to something good, or it may protect me from something difficult. I may never know. Yet the possibility reminds me that life is shaped not only by what I intend, but also by what lies beyond my awareness.

The same is true of winning and losing. A victory may encourage us, but it may also test our humility. A loss may disappoint us, yet redirect us toward a path we would never have considered. What appears unfortunate in one moment may reveal its meaning only much later.

Believing that events have a reason does not mean surrendering responsibility or refusing to act. We must still make decisions, work sincerely, and accept the consequences of our choices. But we must also recognise that our control is limited. We influence life; we do not command it.

Perhaps “wisdom” lies in holding both truths together – to act with intention, yet remain open to uncertainty; to pursue what we believe is right, yet accept that life may lead us elsewhere.

We like to imagine that we control the journey, but often we understand the road only after we have travelled it.

The best purchase I ever made was not a house, a car, or an expensive piece of technology. It was a bicycle.

At first, it was simply a practical object—a convenient way to commute, exercise, and move through familiar surroundings. Yet over time, it became much more than a machine made of steel, rubber, and gears. It became a source of freedom, discovery, and pure joy. More importantly, it changed the way I travelled and, in many ways, the way I understood life.

A bicycle asks very little of us. It does not require fuel, elaborate preparation, or a carefully planned destination. It waits quietly until we are ready to move. Once the wheels begin to turn, however, the world changes. Distances become personal. Hills are no longer lines on a map but physical challenges felt in the legs and lungs. Wind becomes either a companion or an adversary. Rain, heat, dust, and silence become part of the journey rather than inconveniences to be avoided.

My bicycle eventually carried me far beyond the routines of everyday commuting. It became my companion as I travelled along the coast of India. Those journeys were not hurried attempts to reach one destination after another. They were slow, deliberate passages through landscapes, villages, towns, rivers, beaches, temples, churches, mosques, fishing harbours, and forgotten roads.

Travelling by bicycle allowed the coast to reveal itself gradually.

In a car or train, landscapes often disappear before we have had time to notice them. A village becomes a blur. A river is crossed in seconds. A hill is conquered without effort. The traveller remains separated from the world by glass, speed, and comfort.

On a bicycle, there is no such separation.

The smell of the sea arrives before the coastline becomes visible. The air changes as one approaches a river or an estuary. The road rises slowly, and every incline announces itself through effort. One hears conversations from roadside shops, the bells of temples, the calls of fishermen, the laughter of children, and the distant sound of waves. Travel becomes not an act of passing through a place but of entering it.

The slowness of cycling also creates opportunities for human connection. People notice a cyclist in ways they rarely notice someone inside a vehicle. They stop to ask where you have come from and where you are going. Some offer water, tea, food, directions, or simply a few words of encouragement. These encounters are often brief, but they remain in memory because they are unplanned and sincere.

A bicycle makes the traveller vulnerable. There is no metal enclosure offering protection from the weather, fatigue, uncertainty, or the occasional fall. Yet that vulnerability also creates openness. One becomes more dependent on the kindness of strangers, more attentive to the environment, and more aware of one’s own limits.The journey therefore becomes meaningful not despite its discomforts, but partly because of them.

There were days when the sun was unforgiving, when the road seemed endless, when the wind resisted every movement, and when the body wished to stop. Yet each difficult stretch eventually gave way to another landscape, another village, another evening, and another small sense of achievement. Cycling taught me that progress does not always have to be dramatic. Sometimes it is simply the willingness to continue turning the pedals.The bicycle also introduced me to a different idea of wealth.

Modern life often persuades us that joy depends on acquiring more—more comfort, more speed, more possessions, and more status. Yet some of my happiest moments came while carrying very little: a few clothes, some water, essential tools, and whatever could fit into the bags attached to the bicycle.

The road stripped life down to its essentials.

Food tasted better after a long ride. Shade became a luxury. A clean room at the end of the day felt like abundance. A kind word from a stranger could change the mood of an entire journey. The bicycle did not give me more possessions. It taught me how little was required to feel alive.

Perhaps that is why it remains the best purchase I ever made. It was not merely something I owned. It became a doorway into experience.

It gave me movement without haste, solitude without loneliness, effort without competition, and travel without detachment. It allowed me to see the coast of India not as a line on a map but as a living world of people, histories, landscapes, faiths, hardships, and beauty.

A bicycle appears simple, but the life it can open is vast.It can take us to work, around a neighbourhood, across a state, or along the edge of a country. Yet its greatest gift may not be the distance it covers. Its greatest gift is the attention it demands.

On a bicycle, we do not merely arrive.

We notice.

We listen.

We struggle.

We meet.

And slowly, kilometre by kilometre, we become part of the road we travel.

This can also be made more lyrical and memoir-like, with specific memories from your journeys along the Kerala and Tamil Nadu coasts.

Consumerism is becoming increasingly visible around us, so much so that it is beginning to resemble hedonism. We consume not merely to meet our needs, but to distract ourselves, display success, and chase brief sensations of happiness, often at the expense of nature.

In this pursuit, we seem to be forgetting that life is meant to be lived, not accumulated. Material things may offer temporary comfort and artificial excitement, but when we become dependent on them for happiness, they often leave behind emptiness, anxiety, environmental destruction, and long-term grief.

Perhaps a meaningful life lies not in possessing more, but in needing less, and in learning again to find joy in experience, relationships, nature, and inner peace.