Listen to this in my voice:
After ten days of peace and reflection in the hinterland of Goa, heading to the airport felt bittersweet. I started missing that sense of warmth and belonging I’d grown used to.
My driver, Anand, arrived to pick me, displaying the same spirited personality I remembered from past visits. He drove as if the car were an extension of himself—expertly weaving around traffic, juggling two phones, and assigning pick-ups and drop-offs for other drivers with ease. Every so often, he’d lean out the window to greet a friend, then return to our conversation without skipping a beat. It was the fourth time he’d driven me in as many years, and his casual confidence never failed to impress me.
As we approached the airport, I got ready to pay him via UPI. The payment went smoothly, and I held up my phone to show him the confirmation. In a swift motion, he brushed my hand aside. “That’s okay,” he said. “Money doesn’t matter—it comes and it goes.” I paused, surprised by how naturally he said what I knew was a profound statement, then offered a slight smile while nodding in agreement.
He went on, “Money’s not important. We’re born, we do what we need to do, and then we die. All I care about is having a good day, being nice to people, being happy, and moving on.” At that point, insisting on him verifying the payment felt almost rude. His words had a calming mix of acceptance and detachment that reminded me of a kind of optimistic nihilism—a way of seeing life’s emptiness not as a burden, but as a release.
We soon pulled into the airport during a lazy afternoon lull. It was unexpectedly quiet, making the experience feel almost surreal. Stepping out of the car, I let his perspective sink in as I shook his hand goodbye. Although he never used any formal philosophical terms, he perfectly expressed a worldview I’ve always related to: acknowledging life’s inherent meaninglessness yet refusing to let that lead to despair. It’s rare to find someone who puts it so simply and sincerely, and I felt oddly comforted by his offhand wisdom.
Suffice it to say, a month later, it’s still on my mind.