Walking Through Shadows

It was the onset of winter in Delhi. One quiet evening, I wandered through the park in front of my house—a familiar refuge where I have walked for years, where even the trees feel like old acquaintances. That night, the shadows stretched across branches as if the day was reluctantly surrendering to darkness. Alone in the silence, I found myself listening not to the returning birds, but to my own thoughts. 

A question struck me: How much time do I really have left on this earth? I am sixty. Few cross a hundred. The average age hovers around eighty. That leaves, perhaps, twenty years. Two decades—once vast, now fragile, like sand slipping through my fingers. Most of life has already been spent; what remains is precious, but undeniably little. 

The thought quickened my pace. My mind turned inward. What have I achieved? Have I done anything truly meaningful, lasting, or impactful? What footprints will I leave once I am gone? Like most, I have chased dreams—some ill‑conceived, some vague, many dictated by circumstance. My days have been filled with anxiety and worry, punctuated by moments of joy, but rarely contentment. Achievements? Degrees, positions, social status, bank balance, responsibilities, family cared for. Yet in the grand scheme, do they matter? Or are they milestones on a road that vanishes into dust? 

So, another question emerged: What should I do with the years that remain? Should I chase happiness or seek satisfaction? Learn contentment or strive for more? Turn inward, embrace spirituality, and step into Vanaprastha—the ancient stage of reflection and preparation for life’s final journey?

People say one must stay busy. I already am—professionally, socially, otherwise. But busyness alone feels hollow. What nourishes the soul? What fills the hours with meaning rather than noise? 

Time is the most democratic of forces. It grants everyone twenty-four hours, yet it distributes years unevenly. Some lives are long, others are brief. The real question is not how much time remains, but how that time is lived. At sixty, the reality of mortality sharpens the arithmetic of life. The body reminds us of its limits; the mind begins to measure. Yet, this measurement can be liberating. Recognizing that time is finite compels us to ask: What truly matters?

I find myself torn between happiness and satisfaction. Happiness is fleeting, like winter sunlight. Satisfaction is steadier, like a lamp glowing in the night. Happiness depends on circumstance; satisfaction comes from alignment—when actions match values, when life resonates with inner truth. Perhaps the years ahead should be spent cultivating satisfaction. Happiness visits like a guest; satisfaction can be a companion. 

Achievements fade. Titles vanish, possessions scatter, memories dissolve. What endures is impact—the ripple of kindness, wisdom, courage. The question is not what did I achieve, but what did I contribute. Did I make someone’s life better? Did I leave behind something that uplifts? These are the footprints that last, even when names are forgotten. 

At sixty, the call of Vanaprastha grows louder. It is not abandonment, but re‑orientation. A shift from ambition to wisdom, accumulation to detachment, noise to silence. Being busy is not enough. One can be busy and still empty. The true occupation is of the soul—reading, writing, mentoring, serving, meditating. These are not tasks, but pathways. They keep the spirit awake. Perhaps the balance of years should be spent not in chasing more, but in deepening what already exists. Not in expanding outward, but in growing inward. 

The question of what to do with the remaining years is not a burden, but a gift—an invitation to live consciously, to choose wisely, to walk deliberately. If the first sixty years were spent chasing, perhaps the next twenty can be spent embracing. If the past was filled with anxiety, perhaps the future can be filled with acceptance. If achievements were the focus, perhaps contributions can now take center stage.  In the end, life is not measured by years, but by footprints. Not by how long we lived, but by how deeply we touched.

Twenty years is not small. It is enough to plant trees, write words, mentor minds, love deeply, serve quietly. Enough to leave footprints that may not be carved in stone but will endure in spirit. And perhaps, that is all that truly matters. 

As these thoughts swirled, the neighborhood was engulfed in darkness. A power cut. The air carried a shiver; the sky above was vast and star‑studded. The universe seemed to whisper: Your time is small, but your choices are infinite. That evening, as I returned home under the star‑lit sky, I carried not despair but quiet resolve. The darkness was not frightening; it was instructive. It reminded me that life is finite, but meaning infinite. 

MANOJ MITTAL- NOVEMBER 26,2025|NOIDA

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