When the Temple Was a Walk Away

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A five-minute walk required so little thought. I could simply step out. In Malleswaram, a friend turning up at our house in the evening usually meant we were going for a walk. A couple of friends from school or college would come over, and we would head to the nearby Hanuman temple. Afterward, we would stop at the railway station to watch the trains go by, talking, pulling each other’s legs, and figuring out where to get our next plate of bhel or masala puri. Uncomplicated. Even on days when nobody came, I would take the walk to the temple. There would inevitably be a few familiar faces to greet. Then I would lay out a plan with Hanuman so that he could help me figure out whatever was worrying me. A lab exam, a semester exam, a job interview. There was usually something coming up that required his attention. It was comforting to put everything before him. I could tell him what was on ...
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The Paralysis of Choice

A desk overflowing with choices — the perfect metaphor for a modern mind.

I’ve always wondered why stepping outside my comfort zone feels harder than it should. With so many ways to spend time, I keep circling the same question: am I choosing what matters, or am I just numbing myself with options? Choice overload might be the defining anxiety of our era.

One moment I’m browsing an AI course on Coursera, convincing myself I’ll finally finish it. The next, I’m tempted to restart my Sanskrit lessons. And somewhere in that mental whirlpool, a random LLM video on YouTube quietly steals an hour I never intended to give away. It isn’t learning — it’s drifting.

I think back to my first iPhone 4. One model. One color. No storage decisions. Apple had already stripped away the noise. Life felt simpler when constraints were built in.

Today everything comes in infinite flavors — phones, courses, ideas, careers, spiritual paths, entertainment platforms. Abundance looks empowering, but it corrodes something essential. When everything is possible, nothing feels necessary. Too many choices fracture focus, weaken discipline, and blur identity.

And here’s the part I avoided admitting for years:
I’m not overwhelmed by choices. I’m avoiding commitment.

Choosing one path means surrendering the illusion that I can master every bucket — AI, Sanskrit, Vedanta, technical learning, creative writing. I want a slice of all of them. I know that’s impossible. So I stay frozen, pretending indecision is something noble.

That pattern cost me years. I spent fifteen years telling myself I would publish an “outstanding book.” A decade and a half later, I didn’t even have a draft. Perfection didn’t raise the bar; it muzzled me.

The only antidote I’ve found is constraint. A schedule forces me to choose. So I write during my kids’ music sessions; while they practice their ragas, I type my way out of excuses. I’m learning to give each bucket a defined place instead of letting them brawl inside my head.

Because in the end, life doesn’t reward the person with the most options.
It rewards the one who stops browsing and starts building.

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