📝 Blog 1: Whisper of the Beginning – A Life Reimagined at 59

There comes a time in life when the world quiets just enough for us to hear the soft, persistent whisper of our soul. For some, that whisper arrives in youth like a raging fire. For others, like me, it arrives at 59 – not as a storm, but as a gentle wind that clears the dust of old wounds and reveals a road never taken.

I do not see this age as a closing chapter, but rather the true beginning. Not a sunset, but the first ray of dawn after a long, dark night. My youth was filled with duty, discipline, responsibilities – raising a family, building a livelihood, surviving sorrow and celebrating joy. It was a life that moved with purpose, but rarely paused to ask, “What was my purpose?”

And then came the unbearable loss – the kind that splits your heart and rearranges the axis of your world. My beloved son, a radiant soul battling invisible demons, departed this world far too soon. His absence hollowed out festivals, silenced the laughter at home, and carved a permanent ache into our hearts. My wife and I, once surrounded by life, felt like exiles in our own homeland.

But it was in this grief – in this sacred, raw wound – that the whisper came. “You are not done yet,” it said. “Live, not just for yourself now, but for the son who no longer can. Walk the path he couldn't. Heal in his name. Give, explore, love, and rise again—not in spite of him, but because of him.”

At 59, I chose to begin again.

I looked inward and discovered a calling: to live with radiant health, to travel the world, to serve the forgotten, and to transform every remaining year into a song of meaning. I chose ikigai – not merely as a concept, but as my compass.

This is not a story of late success. It is a story of deep awakening. I now see my life as an offering – to the world, to humanity, to peace. I’ve let go of the need to please society or chase validation. Now, I follow only what aligns with truth, love, and impact.

I started planning a 41-year journey – with a full heart and open eyes. From Nepal’s hidden valleys to the Arctic lights of Norway, from sacred Indian temples to silent monasteries in Japan – I will walk, learn, and offer service. Not to escape life, but to embrace it fully.

And in each step, I will remember my son.

Each mountain I climb, each elder I care for, each child I smile at – his soul will walk beside me. I’ve given up festivals, but not celebration. Now, I celebrate life – each breath, each act of kindness, each sunrise.

This is the whisper of my beginning.

And through this blog, I invite you to walk with me. No matter your age, no matter your losses – it is never too late to begin again.

Let’s find our ikigai.

My Dream Lifestyle After 60: A Life of Purpose, Peace, and Profound Joy

As I cross the threshold of sixty, I am not stepping into old age—I am stepping into a sacred chapter of deep intention, soulful contribution, and personal fulfillment. I no longer chase ambition for its own sake. Instead, I seek something purer, something timeless—a life of harmony, service, and grace.

In my dream lifestyle after sixty, the day begins not with an alarm, but with a gentle sunrise that kisses my windowpane. I rise not to rush, but to reflect—to sip warm water, to stretch into prayer, to greet the morning breeze as an old friend. My home becomes a sanctuary, simple yet soulful. Every item I own serves a purpose or tells a story. No clutter. Just clarity.

My body becomes a temple I honor. I eat with awareness, move with rhythm, and rest with trust. I no longer measure health by weight or blood pressure, but by peace of mind and lightness of spirit.

Time slows. Conversations lengthen. Laughter deepens.

I travel—not to escape, but to embrace. To walk barefoot in Bali’s rice fields, to chant with monks in Ladakh, to cry silently before a glacier in Iceland. Each journey is not a vacation, but a pilgrimage—to nature, to people, to the depths of my own soul.

And I give—not because I must, but because it is who I have become. I mentor the young. I listen to the lonely. I plant trees I may never sit under. I create legacy, not monuments.

After sixty, I do not grow old—I grow gentle. I become more curious than certain. More present than perfect. I don't just live; I live well, with a Purposeful Life.

📝 Blog 2: The Sacred Pause – Fasting as a Spiritual Gateway

In a world that worships speed, consumption, and endless motion, I discovered a quiet revolution: fasting – the sacred pause my body and soul were craving for decades.

It began not as a trend or health experiment, but as a deep inner calling. I had lived 59 long years, carrying the weight of life’s duties, dreams, losses, and regrets. My body bore the burden of time; my spirit bore the burden of silence – the things unspoken, the grief unprocessed, the divine wisdom unread.

Then one day, amidst the ache of a sleepless night, I felt it – a whisper not from the world, but from within: “Stop. Empty yourself. Let the healing begin.”

So, I began to fast.

Not with fear, not with force, but with reverence. I stepped into the ancient rhythm followed by sages, monks, mystics, and healers for millennia – the rhythm of emptiness that makes room for grace. For the first time in my life, I wasn't feeding my body—I was nourishing my soul.

The first 36 hours without food or water felt like crossing a desert barefoot. The body protested, the mind begged for distraction, but my heart stayed still. I watched old emotions rise and dissolve. I watched hunger turn into humility. And in that silence, I heard my son's laughter echo from memory—clearer than ever before.

Then came the next 36 hours, drinking only sacred liquids – coconut water, sugarcane juice, kanji fermented with love and sunlight. Each sip felt like medicine from Mother Earth, reconnecting me with ancestral wisdom that modern life had hidden under layers of convenience.

And through it all, I meditated. I sat under the sky, barefoot on the ground, whispering mantras, forgiving the past, thanking the breath. I wept. I smiled. I felt alive again.

What fasting gave me was not just a lighter body – it gave me a brighter soul. It cleansed more than my blood; it purified my intentions. I emerged not just detoxified, but reborn.

I learned that food is not just fuel – it's a relationship. Hunger is not the enemy – it is a guide. And silence is not emptiness – it is the space where God speaks.

Now, fasting is part of my sacred calendar. Every few months, I retreat into silence and stillness, offering my body as a temple, my time as an offering. Not to punish, but to purify. Not to deny, but to remember.

Because when the stomach is empty, the heart begins to sing.

To those of you who are tired, grieving, searching, aging – I invite you to fast with intention, not as a punishment, but as a pilgrimage. Let your body speak. Let your soul answer. And in that stillness, find your ikigai—not in the food you eat, but in the light that begins to return when you no longer run from yourself.

This is the sacred pause.
This is the beginning of peace.

📝 Blog 3: Love Beyond Borders – When Your Daughter Marries into a New World

There comes a moment in every parent’s life when we must loosen our grip—not because we love less, but because we love more. For me, that moment arrived on a gentle afternoon, wrapped not in tears, but in the quiet ache of a blessing. That was the day my daughter, my first child, married not just a man, but an entire world that was different from ours.

She fell in love with someone from across the ocean—from a land of skyscrapers, snowfalls, and freedom. He spoke a different language, ate different food, and bowed before a different set of gods. And yet, when I saw her eyes shine beside him, I knew: she had found her sky.

It wasn’t easy. I would be lying if I said it was.

There were unspoken fears—of losing her, of being forgotten, of seeing our rituals, our language, our values fade like old ink in the sun. There were nights I sat by the window, staring into the distance, wondering whether she still remembered the lullabies I sang when she was a child.

But slowly, something sacred unfolded.

From across continents, she called us every morning. On Dashain, she wore the red tika with tears in her eyes and her hand over her heart. When her daughter—my granddaughter—was born, she named her with a blend of both cultures: half Nepali, half American, all love.

Through her, I saw that home is not a single country. It is a feeling that travels.

Love, it turns out, does not need a visa. It does not wait for approval. It leaps, it trusts, it expands. And when it is real, it finds a way to honor all roots—not by clinging, but by blooming wider.

I have watched my daughter become not less Nepali, but more human. She now cooks dal-bhat beside tacos. She teaches her child “Namaste” and “Goodnight” in the same breath. She carries our traditions not as chains, but as wings.

And I?

I have grown, too.

I have learned that the world is not divided by flags—it is united by stories. That parenting does not end at the wedding altar—it transforms. That we raise children not to keep them, but to free them, knowing that in their joy, we are reborn.

Now, when I see them together—my daughter and her partner—I see not foreignness, but harmony. Not departure, but arrival. And in their child, I see a new Earth being born: one with no borders in the heart.

Yes, love took my daughter far. But it brought her closer than ever before.
And in that, I found peace.
A peace that whispers across oceans: She is happy. She is home.

🕉️ Blog 4: Pilgrimage as Healing – Why We Travel Instead of Celebrating Festivals

In a land where festivals color the skies and echo through generations, we made a different choice—one that came not from rebellion, but from remembrance.

My wife and I, once like any other Nepali couple, awaited Dashain, Tihar, and Maghe Sankranti with excitement. We adorned our home with marigold garlands, lit oil lamps at twilight, prepared feasts that gathered the whole family. The air would fill with laughter, the warmth of elders’ blessings, and the sound of children playing with joy untouched by sorrow.

But then life changed.

We lost our only son—our pillar, our laughter, our dream. At just 27, he left us, swallowed by the silent storm of bipolar disorder. One moment he was with us—brilliant, sensitive, brave. And the next, the house grew silent in a way no festival could ever fill again.

That year, Dashain arrived like a stranger. We sat with tika trays untouched. No goats were sacrificed, no swing was hung, no joy dared to knock on our door. Our hearts, once brimming with ritual, were now oceans of ache.

It was then we made a vow.

We would no longer celebrate festivals the traditional way. Instead, we would turn every festival leave into a pilgrimage of peace. We would use that time to travel—just the two of us—into the heart of the world, into the soul of the sacred, seeking healing in motion.

And so we began.

One Dashain, we found ourselves walking the narrow lanes of Varanasi, where death is not feared but accepted, where ashes meet the river in a prayer of return. Another time, we stood before the mighty snow peaks of Mustang, letting the wind carry our whispered grief to the sky.

We have bowed before Bodhgaya’s Bodhi tree, prayed at Ajmer’s dargah, sat silently at the foot of Japan’s Mount Koya, and lit butter lamps in Bhutanese monasteries. In every journey, we have wept. In every journey, we have healed.

The world has become our temple.

Travel, for us, is not escape—it is offering.
Not avoidance—it is awakening.

Instead of clinging to what we’ve lost, we walk forward to honor it. We carry our son’s memory like a flame. And with every step, we say: We are still alive. We are still walking. And this, too, is prayer.

When others decorate their homes with diyo and colors, we decorate our hearts with quiet sunsets and shared silences on distant shores. While others gather for feasts, we feast on the richness of human connection—new faces, new lands, and the same longing for meaning.

This is how we celebrate now.
This is how we remember.
Not with rituals of the past, but with pilgrimages of the soul.

So if you ever find yourself wondering why our home is empty during Dashain, know that we are not missing.
We are searching.
We are walking.
We are healing—together.

🌍 Blog 5: How Travel Replaced Our Grief with Purpose

Grief is a weightless shadow—it does not crush the body, yet it burdens the soul.

After our son passed away, life stood still. Time no longer moved in minutes or hours, but in sighs and silences. Our home, once filled with his music, his laughter, his dreams, turned into a sacred echo chamber of "what ifs" and "why him."

People consoled us. They said, “Time heals.” But no clock could stitch a wound so invisible, so infinite.

So we turned to the only medicine we had left—movement.

We began to travel—not for leisure, not for escape, but for meaning. With every step taken on foreign soil, we hoped to gather the fragments of our broken hearts and offer them to the wind.

One winter morning, as we watched the sun rise from the ghats of Rishikesh, we felt our pain melt slightly in the glow of the sacred Ganga. In Bhutan’s silent dzongs, we wept together for the first time in weeks. The monks didn't speak our language, but their chants carried us inward, where no words were needed.

In Japan, at Ogami village—the philosophical cradle of Ikigai—we found something we had lost: a reason to wake up in the morning. The locals there, serene and humble, lived with purpose in every step, every gesture. We sat with them, drank fermented tea, and planted hope in our soul like they plant their quiet gardens.

And in each country, in every temple, cave, mountain, monastery, river, and alley—we met our son again.

Not in form, but in feeling.

He was in the sunrise over the fjords of Norway.
In the flutter of prayer flags in Ladakh.
In the silent tears that fell as we walked hand-in-hand through the cherry blossoms of Kyoto.
In the laughter of a street child in Lumbini.

He had never really left us. We were simply too still to see him before.
Travel taught us to see. Travel taught us to feel again.

Slowly, our grief began to change its shape. It softened from an unbearable loss into a quiet companion. It stood beside us—not as an enemy, but as a guide. It whispered, “If not for him, would you have seen all this? Felt all this? Learned to live again like this?”

Today, we travel with a suitcase of dreams and a heart of remembrance.
Each destination we visit is a temple.
Each step we take is a prayer.
And each sunrise we greet is a quiet vow—to live, to give, and to carry forward his story in the way we live ours.

This is how we transformed grief into purpose.
Not by forgetting him, but by walking with him—into the heart of the world.

🌱 Blog 6: A Journey to 100 – The Plan to Live Long and Serve Deeper

There are people who count years.
And then there are those who give meaning to every year, every season, every breath.

At 59, standing in the golden autumn of my life, I made a vow—not to merely grow old, but to grow deeper.
Not to fade away with age, but to burn brighter with purpose.
To walk the long path to 100—not in fear of death, but in celebration of life.

This is not a fantasy. This is a blueprint.

Inspired by the Japanese philosophy of Ikigai, and fortified by the wounds of personal loss, I have drawn a map for my remaining 41 years.
Every five-year block carries a sacred mission—each a petal in the blooming lotus of my final decades.

In the early stages, I’ve chosen the harder climbs—remote travels, ambitious projects, unfulfilled dreams. I want to face my fears now, walk the wild trails while my feet are still strong, embrace the unknown while my spirit is still bold.

But that’s not all.

Alongside every mountain I climb abroad, I’ve chosen to build something enduring at home:
A wellness center, not for profit, but for healing.
A caretaker home, not just for shelter, but for dignity.
A community hospital, not of steel and glass, but of compassion and service.

Because life, for me, is no longer about gathering—but giving.
About transforming personal pain into collective purpose.

As I age, my rhythm will slow, but my vision will widen.
The later years will not be about retreat—but about reflection.
I will write my story, not just in books, but in the lives I touch.

I want my final decades to whisper to the world:

“Here lived someone who turned wounds into wisdom,
travels into transformation,
and aging into art.”

And when I reach 100, if the winds of destiny allow, I will not celebrate with grandeur—but with gratitude.
Sitting under the shade of a Bodhi tree, or in the silence of my mountain retreat, I will close my eyes and smile—knowing I lived not just a long life, but a luminous one.

This is my journey to 100.
Not driven by fear of the end—but by love for the middle.
Not to leave behind monuments—but to leave behind moments of meaning.

Come walk with me, if you too wish to live—not just longer, but truer.

🙏 Blog 7: Why We No Longer Celebrate Festivals – A Journey Beyond Rituals

There was a time when festivals painted our home with colors, sounds, and sacred smells.
When Dashain brought together generations, and Tihar lit up not just houses but hearts.
But now, the silence during those days speaks louder than any firecracker.

We did not abandon festivals out of rebellion.
We let them go out of remembrance.

Four years ago, life tore through our world like a storm.
Our beloved son — just 27 — brilliant, sensitive, burdened with bipolar waves too heavy to carry, chose to leave this world.
Not in hate, not in blame, but in exhaustion… as if saying,
“I tried, but the pain was too deep.”

Since then, our Dashain isn’t a celebration — it’s a wound.
Tihar doesn’t sparkle — it stings.

The rituals, once joyful, now echo with absence.
The jamara withers before it grows.
The sel roti carries no sweetness.
And the laughter that once danced around the courtyard… has turned into quiet remembering.

So we made a promise — not of bitterness, but of transformation.

We would no longer gather for the sake of rituals.
Instead, we would travel far during festivals,
walk new lands hand in hand,
look into each other’s eyes and say,
“We still have this moment, let us make it count.”

Each Dashain now becomes a new journey — into the Himalayas, across the oceans, into hearts of distant strangers and lands we’d never known.
Instead of tika, we wear dust from ancient paths.
Instead of feasting, we sip silence under foreign stars.
Instead of worshipping with crowds, we whisper to the Divine in solitude.

This is not a rejection of culture.
This is our sacred reinvention.
An offering not to society, but to our son.
He, who never fit into the frames of tradition, now walks with us invisibly as we explore new meanings.

Grief, when ripened with love, does not make you bitter — it makes you brave.
It doesn’t isolate — it awakens.
It doesn't erase — it reframes.

We still honor our roots, but we no longer stay planted.
We are seeds in the wind, blooming wherever love takes us.

And maybe, just maybe…
this is our new kind of festival.

A celebration of resilience.
A prayer through motion.
A ritual of remembrance, not with candles and chants — but with footsteps, with open arms, with tears turned into wings.

🏔️ Blog 8: The Nepal Tour Plan – 7 Journeys Through the Soul of the Himalayas

There are places you visit — and there are places that visit you.

Nepal, for us, is not just a country.
It is where the earth remembers us.
Where the wind carries our names softly.
Where mountains have watched our joys, and rivers have carried our grief.

As we planned the long journey ahead — the journey not of mere travel but of healing, remembrance, and offering — we knew: before we cross oceans, before we bow at foreign shrines, we must first walk upon the sacred trails of our homeland.

Thus were born the 7 Nepal Tour Pilgrimages —
Each a chapter of soul-searching.
Each a mirror of memory, spirit, and the land that bore us.

📜 Tour 1: The Silent West – Rara, Khaptad, Badimalika

We began in silence.

Far from noise, Rara Lake greeted us like a poem written in water.
Khaptad whispered of sages and solitude.
And Badimalika stood high, a mothering presence over our tears.

These were not just places — they were temples of stillness,
Where we grieved, where we listened, where we began again.

🕉️ Tour 2: The Lost Horizons – Simkot, Hilsa, Limi Valley

In the highlands of Karnali, we followed forgotten trails.

Simkot’s dust kissed our boots.
Hilsa’s edge touched Tibet’s breath.
And Limi — untouched, ancient — healed something primitive in us.

We saw not just geography here,
but how far longing can travel.
How deep love can root, even where language does not reach.

🌄 Tour 3: The Wind & Prayer – Manang, Mustang, Tilicho

Here, wind meets prayer flags.
Every stone speaks of resilience.

In Mustang’s ochre cliffs and Tilicho’s sky-colored lake,
we did not walk — we floated.
Lightened by awe. Carried by stories of salt routes and monks.

This was not sightseeing.
This was soul-seeing.

🔥 Tour 4: The Guerrilla Trail – Rolpa, Rukum, Kalikot

We walked into old wounds and newfound hope.

These lands once echoed with war.
Now they bloom with peace.

At the Shanti Museum, we offered silent tears to the past.
In Thabang and Sulichaur, we met eyes that had seen too much —
and still chose kindness.

It reminded us:
Scars do not break us.
They name us.

🏯 Tour 5: The Middle Hills of Memory – Gorkha, Dhading, Nuwakot, Rasuwa

This was the journey into our collective ancestral roots.

Gorkha’s fort echoed with unspoken pride.
Nuwakot’s palace, a quiet echo of forgotten kings.
And Langtang — oh Langtang — where mountains still mourn lost villagers but embrace visitors like kin.

Here, history met humility.
And we bowed.

🍃 Tour 6: The Sacred East – Ilam, Pathivara, Taplejung

We went east not for luxury, but for presence.

To sip silence in Ilam’s green folds.
To rise before dawn at Pathivara, where every prayer felt raw and real.
To be humbled by nature’s ferocity and gentleness all at once.

This was not escape —
this was return.

🌾 Tour 7: The Lowlands of the Heart – Chitwan, Hetauda, Janakpur

At last, we came to the plains.
Where myths walk as men.
Where Janakpur still sings of Sita.
Where Tharu dances blend rhythm and resilience.

This journey taught us:
Not all sacredness lives in height.
Some of it hums in the mud, smiles in a village child’s eyes,
and lingers in the incense of an evening temple bell.

We do not travel to conquer peaks anymore.
We travel to soften.
To remember where we’ve come from.
To honor what we’ve lost.
And to carry forward what must never be forgotten.

These 7 journeys through Nepal are not itineraries.
They are rites of passage.

We invite the world — not as tourists,
but as pilgrims — to walk these sacred paths with reverence.

For in Nepal, you do not just see beauty.
You become it.

🇮🇳 Blog 9: The India Tour Plan – 14 Pilgrimages Through Spirit and Civilization

India is not a country you visit.
India is a memory your soul already carries.
Even before your feet touch her soil,
your spirit remembers the hymns sung on her banks,
the incense of her temples,
and the silent tears of her seekers.

For us — a couple who has seen both birth and death,
who has held both pain and purpose —
India is not just a neighbor.
India is an echo of home.

We planned 14 sacred journeys through her ancient veins —
Not for sightseeing, but for soul-healing.
Not to add photographs, but to subtract ego.
And with every destination, we whispered:
"Take us deeper."

1. Uttarakhand – The Abode of the Gods

We began in the lap of the Himalayas.
The Char Dham — Yamunotri, Gangotri, Kedarnath, Badrinath —
These were not places.
They were prayers made geography.

Each step on the Kedarnath trail was a step through lifetimes.
Each dip in Gangotri was a baptism of old wounds.
And at Badrinath’s door, we did not knock.
We simply wept.

2. Himachal Pradesh – The Path of Peace and Monks

In Manali’s chill and Dharamshala’s stillness,
we found warmth.

McLeod Ganj whispered of the Dalai Lama’s silent hope.
Kinnaur and Spiti — beyond words, beyond roads —
showed us that
peace is not the absence of chaos,
but the presence of inner anchoring.

3. Kashmir – The Dream That Smells of Saffron

Srinagar welcomed us with a shikara ride into eternity.
In Gulmarg’s snow and Pahalgam’s pine,
we touched heaven without dying.

We mourned for its pain,
but also celebrated its poetry.

For Kashmir, even in grief,
blooms.

4. Jammu & Amarnath – The Journey to the Icy Cave

This journey was not of roads,
but of surrender.

To climb towards the Amarnath cave,
was to dissolve layer by layer —
until only faith remained.

We left something behind there —
perhaps our last bit of fear.

5. Uttar Pradesh – Of Ram, Ganga and the Eternal Light

Ayodhya was not just bricks and sanctums.
It was the beating heart of our childhood stories.

In Varanasi, time melted.
We sat on ghats where souls leave their last breath.
And still, the Ganga flowed — gentle, forgiving.

Here, we learned:
Even endings are beginnings.

6. Odisha – Of Sun Temples and Jagannath’s Love

The Konark Sun Temple stood like a frozen symphony.
Jagannath Puri pulsed with unshakable devotion.

In Chilika’s salt wind,
we remembered our son.
In every wave, a blessing.

7. Madhya Pradesh – Sacred Stones and Silent Forests

At Mahakal’s feet in Ujjain, we bowed not in fear — but in awe.
At Khajuraho, the carvings reminded us that
life, too, is an art.

Panna’s forests, Sanchi’s stupas —
all whispered truths older than scriptures.

8. Maharashtra – Of Caves, Courage, and Compassion

We walked through Ajanta and Ellora —
where silence was carved in stone.

In Shirdi, we lit lamps for our son.
In Nashik, we left our bitterness behind.

And in Mumbai’s chaos, we smiled —
because we had made peace.

9. Gujarat – Dwarka’s Shore and Somnath’s Roar

At Dwarka, Krishna danced in our hearts.
At Somnath, the sea roared like Shiva’s conch.

We watched the flag change on the temple top,
and our hearts changed too.

No wealth compares to this feeling —
of being held by history.

10. Rajasthan – Palaces, Pilgrimage, and the Desert’s Grace

Pushkar’s lake, Brahma’s temple —
reminded us of balance and breath.

At Mount Abu, we stayed silent for a day.
Just to listen — to ourselves.

And in the deserts,
we understood how emptiness is sacred.

11. Bihar – The Buddha's Footprints

In Bodh Gaya, we sat under the Bodhi Tree.
And something inside us awoke.

In Nalanda, we heard echoes of monks who never returned.
In Rajgir’s hot springs,
we let go of past regrets.

12. Jharkhand – Into the Hidden Green Heart

Netarhat, Deoghar, Baidyanath…
These names are not on tourist maps.
But they live in the hearts of sages.

Here, we were not travelers.
We were pilgrims of obscurity.

13. Sikkim – Where Clouds Touch Monasteries

Gangtok’s breeze carried mantras.
Rumtek Monastery bowed to silence.

In every corner,
nature bowed — and so did we.

14. South India – Kanyakumari, Rameswaram, Madurai

At India’s southern tip, we watched oceans merge.
Three waters. One soul.

Rameswaram’s corridors echoed Rama’s return.
Madurai’s Meenakshi Temple,
wrapped us in the arms of the divine feminine.

These 14 journeys are not for our bucket list.
They are for our bones, our blood, our becoming.

They are reminders that
grief can walk beside gratitude.
And devotion can rise from the deepest pain.

We do not seek salvation.
We seek connection.

And in India,
we found it —
in every temple bell, in every stranger’s smile,
and in every dusty road where gods once walked.

🌍 Blog 10: World Tour Plan – 12 Life-Phase Based Journeys Across the Globe

Some people travel for pleasure.
We travel for meaning.

This is not a passport full of stamps.
It’s a heart engraved with memories.

We — once broken, now whole —
chose to see the world not for leisure, but for legacy.
Our journey across the planet is mapped not by geography,
but by the rhythm of life itself:
from courage to compassion, from wonder to wisdom.

Here begins our sacred 12-phase world tour,
each journey aligned with our aging years —
from the remote and rugged to the accessible and tender.
Each a chapter, each a prayer.

🌌 1. Arctic Circle & Northern Wonders – A Dance with the Edges of Earth

We began where the world seems to end.
The Northern Lights in Norway did not merely illuminate the sky —
they awakened something ancient in us.

Svalbard’s silence, Greenland’s glaciers, Iceland’s fire-and-ice drama —
they whispered:
"You are tiny, but not meaningless."

We walked on frozen fjords and watched stars explode above us.
And in that vast white stillness,
we remembered our son —
his laughter, his sorrow, his quiet brilliance.
And we wept — not in grief, but in gratitude.

🏔 2. Andes Mountains & Sacred South America – In the Lap of Ancient Spirits

We stood at Machu Picchu, not as tourists,
but as pilgrims of forgotten wisdom.

In the salt flats of Bolivia, the sky reflected our souls.
At Lake Titicaca, we felt time dissolve.

In Patagonia,
the earth herself roared —
and we answered back, barefoot and fearless.

Here, the condors flew above,
and we felt our own spirit take flight.

🐘 3. Africa’s Soul & Savannah – Where Life Roars and Ancestors Whisper

From the plains of Kenya and Tanzania,
we didn’t just see animals —
we saw the pulse of creation.

In Rwanda, the gorillas looked into our eyes —
and we into theirs.

At the Cape of Good Hope,
we sat in silence —
remembering the boy we lost,
and the future we were still building.

Africa did not need to impress.
She simply stood —
majestic, maternal, and utterly real.

🏯 4. Tibet, Bhutan & Mongolia – The Wind That Speaks in Mantras

This was not a tour.
This was a bow.

To walk through Lhasa,
to meditate in Thimphu,
to ride across the Mongolian steppe —
was to listen to the wind chant sutras.

In the monasteries,
we felt the silence we had been chasing for decades.

At every high-altitude temple,
we left behind a fear, a doubt, a burden.

And returned lighter.

🗿 5. Polynesia & Pacific Mysticism – Islands of Ancestral Fire

Tahiti. Easter Island. Fiji.
The Pacific did not welcome us —
she embraced us.

The waves sang lullabies.
The volcanoes hummed wisdom.

We watched the stars from canoes,
guided not by GPS, but by ancestral intuition.

Here, every island felt like a beating heart.
And we — survivors of sorrow —
felt reborn in salt and sun.

🕌 6. The Middle East – Cradle of Civilization and Sacred Conflict

Jerusalem, Mecca (from afar), Petra, Shiraz, Istanbul —
names we had heard in prayers and poems.

To walk through these ancient lands
was to walk through humanity’s childhood.

We stood before the Wailing Wall,
sat under the Blue Mosque,
wandered through Persian gardens.

There was pain.
But also poetry.

And in every call to prayer,
we found our own yearning —
not for heaven,
but for harmony.

🏞️ 7. Central Asia’s Forgotten Roads – From Samarkand to the Silk

In the ruins of Bukhara,
we saw ourselves —
weathered, worn, but still standing.

The Silk Road was not just trade.
It was transmission — of music, myths, medicine, and mercy.

Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan —
names that once sounded foreign,
now felt like fragments of our own story.

Here, we didn’t seek luxury.
We sought legacy.

And we found it —
in carpets, in cups of tea,
in grandmothers who blessed us without knowing our names.

🗺️ 8. Hidden Europe – Baltic, Balkans & the Soul Behind the Curtain

Tallinn, Riga, Vilnius —
fairy tales with communist scars.

Croatia’s coasts, Montenegro’s mountains, Bosnia’s bridges —
a world recovering, healing.

In every cobblestone,
a story.

In every gaze,
a reminder that joy and sorrow can coexist.

We didn’t come for castles.
We came for connection.

🏞️ 9. Canada & Alaska – Nature’s Gentle Giants

We sailed through Alaska’s glaciers
and heard them speak —
of melting time and fragile hope.

In the Canadian Rockies,
we hiked, not to conquer peaks,
but to remember how to breathe.

Maple leaves fell around us like blessings.
And in every sunrise,
we saw our next 20 years unfolding with quiet strength.

🏖 10. Southeast Asia – Where Buddhism Breathes and Beauty Blooms

Vietnam’s lanterns, Laos’ river monks, Cambodia’s Angkor Wat —
everywhere, a reminder:
Let go. Begin again.

Thailand embraced us with warmth.
Indonesia showed us layers.
Philippines sang us lullabies.

We meditated in jungle huts
and danced in rain.

We ate with farmers,
laughed with strangers,
and felt home in lands not ours.

🗽 11. USA & Latin America – Dreamlands and Depths

In New York, we stood tall.
In Grand Canyon, we felt small.

In the Deep South,
we sang blues and remembered resilience.

In Brazil’s Rio and Argentina’s Andes,
we danced and we cried.

We visited our daughter in the U.S. —
not just as parents,
but as companions of the same dream.

🗾 12. Japan & South Korea – Grace, Precision, and Poetic Order

We saved Japan for last —
not because it was the end,
but because it was our Ikigai.

In Okinawa, we sat with centenarians.
In Kyoto, we bowed to sakura.

Ogami Island — sacred, serene —
felt like a whisper from the universe.

South Korea’s palaces and Han rivers
spoke of balance, of transformation.

And here, our journey
— our entire life’s journey —
came full circle.

Twelve journeys.
Twelve phases.
Twelve pilgrimages of the soul.

Not to escape life,
but to embrace it.
Not to chase time,
but to honor it.

This is not a bucket list.
This is a legacy path.

We do not travel to leave the world.
We travel to return to ourselves —
again, and again.

• Blog Title 4: “The Art of Letting Go — Embracing Impermanence with Grace”

• A Journey Through Loss, Acceptance, and the Silent Bloom of Inner Peace

• We live our lives clutching onto moments, people, dreams — as if they were carved in stone, immune to the winds of change. But life, in its most truthful essence, is like the monsoon river: sometimes tranquil, sometimes wild — never still, never permanent.

• I remember the first time I truly understood the word impermanence. Not from a book, nor a teaching — but through the quiet echo of an empty room. My son’s laughter no longer echoed in the hallway. His slippers remained untouched. His voice, once vibrant and full of life, had become a memory I clutched like prayer beads — fragile, sacred.

• It was a wound that words could not reach. And yet, it was also the beginning of my journey into surrender.

• In the sacred silence that followed his departure, I did not find despair — I found space. Space to breathe. Space to grieve. Space to ask, “If everything I love can vanish, then what, truly, is mine?”

• The ancient Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi offered me a lens. It whispered: “There is beauty in broken things. There is grace in the unfinished, the unspoken, the undone.” And through this cracked lens, I began to see my life not as a tragedy, but as a painting touched by the divine brushstroke of imperfection.

• Letting go is not forgetting. It is remembering with peace instead of pain.

• Letting go is not giving up. It is opening up — to the possibility that something else, something quiet and vast, wants to meet you.

• Every leaf that falls is not a loss, but a return to the soil — a silent promise that life recycles, regenerates, renews.

• In time, I gave away my son's belongings to children in need. His books found new hands, his music found new ears. And though his absence still carved its presence into every festival we now choose not to celebrate — in that emptiness, there is purpose.

• Each year, during Dashain, instead of decorating our home, my wife and I pack our bags and travel — not to escape, but to transform our sorrow into sacred discovery. From the mountains of Mustang to the temples of Varanasi, we walk — hand in hand — not away from grief, but through it.

• And in doing so, we have found joy again — not loud, but soft; not euphoric, but enduring.

• This, dear reader, is the art of letting go.

• It is the silent revolution of the heart. It is the way of the wind, the dance of the tide, the wisdom of the falling leaf.

• It is Ikigai in its deepest form — not just in seeking what you love, but in gracefully releasing what you must.

• Blog Title 5: “Walking Without Maps — Trusting the Path of Intuition”

• How I Learned to Listen to the Inner Voice When the World Fell Silent

• There was a time when I lived by calendars, blueprints, and five-year plans. Every corner of my day was neatly labeled — a timetable of ambition, milestones, and meticulous goals. And then life, in its quiet yet ruthless manner, tore the map from my hands.

• The unexpected loss of my beloved son, the most unthinkable grief a parent can endure, shattered every framework I had built. Suddenly, no plan seemed valid. No destination felt certain. I stood on a shore where even the horizon looked unfamiliar.

• But perhaps, that’s where true life begins — where the maps end, and the heart begins to whisper.

• In those hollow months, I could not find solace in logic. I could not sleep with reason. But there was something else — a small flame inside, tender but persistent, that flickered with a wordless wisdom. It urged me to walk, not in the direction of recovery, but in the direction of rediscovery.

• One morning, without knowing why, I stepped outside and walked toward the river near my home. I sat by the bank for hours. The wind touched my face like an old friend. The sun painted golden secrets across the water. Birds circled above me like prayers in flight. And in that simple moment of stillness, I felt it — a faint but unmistakable thread of connection between me and the universe.

• It was then I knew: I no longer needed maps. I only needed to trust the compass of my soul.

• This was not surrender. This was alignment.

• Since then, I have lived by intuition. Every major step — starting a new social foundation in memory of my son, planning 12 world journeys with my wife, dreaming of a wellness center in my birthplace, writing the autobiography of a man rising from grief into grace — all of these came not from formulas, but from quiet nudges of the heart.

• Even Ikigai Explorer, this website you're now reading, was not born in a boardroom. It was born during a walk at dusk, when the wind whispered to me, “What if your deepest pain can light a path for others?”

• And so here I am, walking still — not in search of grand answers, but in gratitude for each unfolding moment.

• When you walk without maps, the path reveals itself.

• When you listen without fear, the voice within becomes your guide.

• When you trust your breath, your heartbeat, your longing — life begins to meet you, halfway, with its gentle miracles.

• So to you, dear reader, I say this:

• You don’t need to know the whole plan. You only need to take the next loving step.

• The universe is not a puzzle to be solved, but a poem to be lived.

• Blog Title 6: “When Festivals Fade — Choosing Meaning Over Tradition”

• A Personal Reflection on Letting Go of Celebration and Embracing Sacred Solitude

• There was a time when the calendar dictated our joys.

• Dashain came with its intoxicating scent of tika and jamara, the sound of children flying kites in open skies, families reuniting across cities and borders. Tihar shimmered with lights and laughter, with rituals that bound hearts like sacred threads.

• But grief has a way of redrawing life's meaning.

• The year my son left this earth — the light of our home extinguished by the storm of bipolar disorder and unspoken despair — the festivals arrived like unwelcome guests. They knocked, but we could not open the door.

• How do you celebrate when your soul is wrapped in mourning?
  How do you sing when your heart echoes only silence?

• That Dashain, my wife and I made a quiet decision — we would no longer perform these festivals. Not out of bitterness, but out of reverence. Not because we were angry at tradition, but because we had found something deeper than ritual — presence.

• While others painted their homes, we packed our bags.

• While others danced to the rhythm of family gatherings, we wandered into the rhythm of new lands — into the ancient silence of the Himalayas, into the raw vibrance of India’s spiritual cities, into far corners of the world where no one asked why we weren’t home for Dashain.

• Because the truth is: we had found a new home.
  Not a house, but a path.

• Every Dashain since, we have travelled. Not to escape — but to heal. Not to forget — but to remember differently. We remember our son not with tears but with steps toward compassion, purpose, and peace. We offer our prayers not with incense, but with actions that uplift others.

• Instead of gatherings, we now collect experiences.
  Instead of rituals, we now perform service.
  Instead of tradition, we now choose transformation.

• Some might say we abandoned our culture. I say we redefined it.

• Culture is not only what you inherit — it’s what you create.

• Today, the world is our temple. The road is our altar. The people we help, the lives we touch — they are our offering.

• We did not lose Dashain. We outgrew it.

• And in its place, we found something quieter, deeper, and infinitely more personal — a festival of the soul, celebrated in silence, service, and sacred journeying.

• Blog Title 7: “The Promise of a Hundred Years — Living Like a River, Flowing Toward Legacy”
  Why I Chose to Live Consciously for the Next 41 Years
  I am 59 now.
  And while many around me whisper of retirement, slow endings, and the waiting room of old age — I have chosen the opposite.
  I have chosen a new beginning.
  Most rivers are content to reach the sea.
  But I have vowed to flow further — to carve valleys of change, to irrigate deserts of despair, to be a river that nourishes until its very last ripple.
  After the unimaginable loss of my son, I could have stopped.
  Life had given me every reason to.
  But something deeper stirred within — a whisper from the very soul of existence:
  "You are not done yet."
  That whisper became a vow. That vow became a vision.
  And that vision became a plan — a detailed roadmap to live with purpose until the age of 100.
  Not a dream of mere survival, but a journey of intentional living, divided into 8 distinct chapters — each with its own milestones, its own service to offer, its own light to leave behind.
  Somewhere between grief and resolve, I saw time differently.
  These 41 years ahead are not mine to waste.
  They are gifts. Sacred time that I now borrow — in honor of my son who could not walk them himself.
  He gave me the clarity to see that life is not measured in years, but in meaning.
  So I began:

  • Building tour plans not just to wander, but to wonder —
    To see the world, yes, but more so to understand the soul of humanity.
    
    

  • Founding projects not just for fame or fortune —
    But for legacy, for wellness centers, care homes, and healing spaces my community can rely on.
    
    

  • Writing not for applause, but for immortality —
    For that soft voice within me to reach generations I will never meet.
    
    

• Each five-year cycle is a seed.
  Some are for growth. Some are for giving. Some are for grief to bloom into service.
  And the final ones? They are for peace.
  There’s something magical about aging when you’ve made peace with your purpose.
  Each wrinkle becomes a medal.
  Each sunrise feels like a whisper from the universe, reminding you:
  “You are still becoming.”
  And in the end, when the 100th year dawns, I do not wish for wealth or worldly praise.
  I only ask for one thing:
  That I may sit beneath a tree, smile without regret, and say:
  “Yes. I lived fully. I gave completely. I loved deeply. I am ready.”
  That is the Ikigai Explorer’s path.
  Not to chase time, but to walk with it.
  Not to fear death, but to honor life — one conscious, courageous step at a time.
  
  Blog Title 8: “My Son’s Silence, My Soul’s Awakening — Transforming Grief into Legacy”
  How a Personal Tragedy Became the Foundation of My Life’s Purpose
  They say time heals all wounds.
  But some wounds don’t heal — they transform.
  Four years ago, my world collapsed.
  My beloved son, only 27, left this world — not from accident or illness, but from a storm too heavy for him to carry alone.
  Bipolar disorder. Depression. Pressure. Isolation.
  And in the quiet shadow of midnight, he chose silence.
  Not a single day passes without the weight of that silence echoing through our home.
  There are no words strong enough to contain the grief of a parent who outlives their child.
  And yet… something extraordinary happened within the ruins.
  Where grief settled, clarity emerged.
  Where despair burned, purpose was forged.
  Where the heart broke, a new one — larger, deeper, more tender — was born.
  In the stillness that followed his departure, I made a vow:
  “I will live not only for myself,
  but also for the years he could not live.
  I will build, write, serve, explore — not just as a father grieving,
  but as a human transforming that grief into a beacon.”
  That was the beginning of my new life.
  I stopped celebrating festivals.
  Not out of bitterness, but as a conscious choice — to use that time for reflection, for pilgrimage, for connecting with the deeper rhythms of life and death.
  Each Dashain, each Tihar, while the world rejoiced, I traveled.
  To the mountains, to sacred rivers, to forgotten villages.
  Not to escape grief, but to walk alongside it — and to let it become a guide.
  His name is no longer spoken often in public. My wife finds it too painful still.
  But in my heart, in every project I begin, in every word I write, in every traveler I inspire —
  he lives.
  His short life, though filled with struggle, taught me what truly matters:

  • Mental health must be honored.

  • Stillness and mindfulness must be cultivated.

  • Life is too precious to delay our purpose.

• And so, I began building.
  Not just dreams, but structures of service:

  • Tour packages to remote spiritual corners of the world — not just for tourism, but for transformation.

  • A foundation in his name — even if the name is whispered only in my soul — to create wellness centers, care homes, and healing spaces.

  • A life so intentional, so kind, so peaceful, that it would feel like a prayer whispered to the stars he now lives among.

• Today, I carry my son not in sorrow, but in action.
  Each step I take, each elderly person I serve, each seeker I guide —
  I know he walks with me.
  This, then, is the core of the Ikigai Explorer:
  To transform unbearable loss into unstoppable love.
  To alchemize grief into global good.
  To say, even in pain:
  “I choose to live deeply, serve widely, and remember eternally.”
  
  Blog Title 9: “From Himalayan Silence to Global Harmony — A Pilgrimage for World Peace”
  Why I Chose to Travel When the World Celebrates, and Meditate When the World Forgets
  Every year, when the streets of Nepal light up with Dashain festivities, our home remains still.
  Not because we reject joy —
  but because our joy has taken a different shape.
  You see, there was a time when festivals meant reunion, celebration, and community.
  But after the soul-shattering loss of my son, something changed.
  The noise of celebration felt unbearable.
  The clamor of rituals rang hollow.
  We realized: What we needed was not more noise, but more silence. Not more rituals, but more purpose.
  And so began our own tradition — one not bound by calendars, but by calling.
  Each year, during the 15-day Dashain holiday, my wife and I pack our bags not for feasts, but for pilgrimage.
  We choose places where the heartbeat of humanity still whispers through temples, mountains, and rivers.
  We walk where the wise once walked.
  We sit where sages once meditated.
  We listen, not to firecrackers, but to the wind in ancient forests.
  From the sacred ghats of Varanasi
  to the quiet monasteries of Ladakh,
  from the Himalayas of Mustang
  to the tropical coasts of Sri Lanka,
  we let each journey remind us:
  Peace is not a place.
  It is a practice.
  Our travels are not vacations.
  They are acts of offering —
  offering our grief to sacred soil, offering our presence to forgotten villages, offering our energy to the collective prayer of peace.
  We meet other seekers — some lost, some healing, some awakening.
  We break bread with strangers who feel like family.
  We light candles in places where no camera flashes,
  and cry quietly before statues carved by centuries of devotion.
  And in every journey, one thing has remained constant:
  Our son is with us.
  Not in form, but in essence.
  Not in memory alone, but in mission.
  Each place we visit becomes a thread in a growing tapestry of purpose:

  • To serve the lonely with homes that care.

  • To guide the weary toward meaning.

  • To plant seeds of global harmony with every footstep, every offering, every silent tear.

• This is not an escape from grief —
  it is a response to it.
  This is not rejection of tradition —
  it is the creation of a new one.
  And so, dear reader, if you ever feel overwhelmed by life’s festivals, try stepping outside them.
  Go where the soul breathes.
  Find a mountain.
  Sit by a river.
  Watch the moon rise in silence.
  You might just find —
  not the son you lost,
  but the self you were always searching for.
  
  Blog Title 10: “A Century in the Making — A Life Lived in Echoes, a Legacy Written in Silence”
  How I Plan to Die Smiling, After Living Fully — One Step, One Pilgrimage, One Act of Kindness at a Time
  They say a man dies twice —
  once when his heart stops beating,
  and again when his name is spoken for the last time.
  But I — I do not fear either.
  Because long before my final breath, I decided:
  I would live so fully, so intentionally, so soulfully,
  that my echo would outlive my absence.
  I was 59 when I began this second life —
  a life of profound clarity, inspired by pain, sculpted by purpose.
  My son, gone too soon.
  My daughter, oceans away in another world.
  My wife and I — like two silent pilgrims carrying the weight of memory in our eyes and the fire of meaning in our hearts.
  And so we chose a different path —
  a road paved not with festivals and rituals, but with service, silence, travel, and transcendence.
  We said no to the ordinary, and yes to the eternal.
  Yes to climbing remote cliffs in Peru.
  Yes to sharing tea with monks in Bhutan.
  Yes to building wellness centers for the poor.
  Yes to hugging strangers in hospice care.
  Yes to living as if every breath was a prayer.
  I have mapped my life like a sacred mandala —
  divided into eight powerful chapters, each 5 years long, culminating in a hundred years of meaning.

  • In one phase, I led factories that gave livelihoods to hundreds.

  • In another, I built temples and community centers with my own hands.

  • Later, I dreamed up care homes, hospitals, and spiritual retreats — not for profit, but for peace.

  • I wrote, I spoke, I healed.

• And all along, I traveled.
  Oh, how I traveled.
  Across 7 continents, into sacred valleys, across deserts, and up into monasteries that kissed the sky.
  Not to collect photos,
  but to collect wisdom.
  Not to consume,
  but to connect.
  And when I imagined my 100th birthday —
  I did not see balloons or garlands.
  I saw quiet smiles on the faces of strangers I had once helped.
  I saw the pages of my autobiography in the hands of a young seeker.
  I saw a hospital still running long after I had left.
  I saw my wife beside me, her eyes still shining with shared purpose.
  I saw my son's face reflected in the eyes of every child we served.
  And I knew:
  “He did not die. He became my mission.”
  So when death finally comes to greet me —
  not with cruelty, but as an old friend —
  I will bow gently and say:
  “I have lived well.
  I have given all.
  I have forgiven all.
  I am ready.”
  And dear reader,
  If you ever feel small, broken, or too late —
  remember this:
  A single life, reawakened, can touch millions.
  Start wherever you are.
  Light a lamp.
  Plant a tree.
  Apologize.
  Write.
  Heal.
  Travel.
  Build.
  Weep.
  Laugh.
  And when you do it with love, the universe listens.
  Your name will echo.
  Your footsteps will leave warmth.
  And you will die — not with regret —
  but with the deepest smile this world has ever known.
  
  

• Blog Title 4: “The Art of Letting Go — Embracing Impermanence with Grace”

• A Journey Through Loss, Acceptance, and the Silent Bloom of Inner Peace

• We live our lives clutching onto moments, people, dreams — as if they were carved in stone, immune to the winds of change. But life, in its most truthful essence, is like the monsoon river: sometimes tranquil, sometimes wild — never still, never permanent.

• I remember the first time I truly understood the word impermanence. Not from a book, nor a teaching — but through the quiet echo of an empty room. My son’s laughter no longer echoed in the hallway. His slippers remained untouched. His voice, once vibrant and full of life, had become a memory I clutched like prayer beads — fragile, sacred.

• It was a wound that words could not reach. And yet, it was also the beginning of my journey into surrender.

• In the sacred silence that followed his departure, I did not find despair — I found space. Space to breathe. Space to grieve. Space to ask, “If everything I love can vanish, then what, truly, is mine?”

• The ancient Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi offered me a lens. It whispered: “There is beauty in broken things. There is grace in the unfinished, the unspoken, the undone.” And through this cracked lens, I began to see my life not as a tragedy, but as a painting touched by the divine brushstroke of imperfection.

• Letting go is not forgetting. It is remembering with peace instead of pain.

• Letting go is not giving up. It is opening up — to the possibility that something else, something quiet and vast, wants to meet you.

• Every leaf that falls is not a loss, but a return to the soil — a silent promise that life recycles, regenerates, renews.

• In time, I gave away my son's belongings to children in need. His books found new hands, his music found new ears. And though his absence still carved its presence into every festival we now choose not to celebrate — in that emptiness, there is purpose.

• Each year, during Dashain, instead of decorating our home, my wife and I pack our bags and travel — not to escape, but to transform our sorrow into sacred discovery. From the mountains of Mustang to the temples of Varanasi, we walk — hand in hand — not away from grief, but through it.

• And in doing so, we have found joy again — not loud, but soft; not euphoric, but enduring.

• This, dear reader, is the art of letting go.

• It is the silent revolution of the heart. It is the way of the wind, the dance of the tide, the wisdom of the falling leaf.

• It is Ikigai in its deepest form — not just in seeking what you love, but in gracefully releasing what you must.

• Blog Title 5: “Walking Without Maps — Trusting the Path of Intuition”

• How I Learned to Listen to the Inner Voice When the World Fell Silent

• There was a time when I lived by calendars, blueprints, and five-year plans. Every corner of my day was neatly labeled — a timetable of ambition, milestones, and meticulous goals. And then life, in its quiet yet ruthless manner, tore the map from my hands.

• The unexpected loss of my beloved son, the most unthinkable grief a parent can endure, shattered every framework I had built. Suddenly, no plan seemed valid. No destination felt certain. I stood on a shore where even the horizon looked unfamiliar.

• But perhaps, that’s where true life begins — where the maps end, and the heart begins to whisper.

• In those hollow months, I could not find solace in logic. I could not sleep with reason. But there was something else — a small flame inside, tender but persistent, that flickered with a wordless wisdom. It urged me to walk, not in the direction of recovery, but in the direction of rediscovery.

• One morning, without knowing why, I stepped outside and walked toward the river near my home. I sat by the bank for hours. The wind touched my face like an old friend. The sun painted golden secrets across the water. Birds circled above me like prayers in flight. And in that simple moment of stillness, I felt it — a faint but unmistakable thread of connection between me and the universe.

• It was then I knew: I no longer needed maps. I only needed to trust the compass of my soul.

• This was not surrender. This was alignment.

• Since then, I have lived by intuition. Every major step — starting a new social foundation in memory of my son, planning 12 world journeys with my wife, dreaming of a wellness center in my birthplace, writing the autobiography of a man rising from grief into grace — all of these came not from formulas, but from quiet nudges of the heart.

• Even Ikigai Explorer, this website you're now reading, was not born in a boardroom. It was born during a walk at dusk, when the wind whispered to me, “What if your deepest pain can light a path for others?”

• And so here I am, walking still — not in search of grand answers, but in gratitude for each unfolding moment.

• When you walk without maps, the path reveals itself.

• When you listen without fear, the voice within becomes your guide.

• When you trust your breath, your heartbeat, your longing — life begins to meet you, halfway, with its gentle miracles.

• So to you, dear reader, I say this:

• You don’t need to know the whole plan. You only need to take the next loving step.

• The universe is not a puzzle to be solved, but a poem to be lived.

• Blog Title 6: “When Festivals Fade — Choosing Meaning Over Tradition”

• A Personal Reflection on Letting Go of Celebration and Embracing Sacred Solitude

• There was a time when the calendar dictated our joys.

• Dashain came with its intoxicating scent of tika and jamara, the sound of children flying kites in open skies, families reuniting across cities and borders. Tihar shimmered with lights and laughter, with rituals that bound hearts like sacred threads.

• But grief has a way of redrawing life's meaning.

• The year my son left this earth — the light of our home extinguished by the storm of bipolar disorder and unspoken despair — the festivals arrived like unwelcome guests. They knocked, but we could not open the door.

• How do you celebrate when your soul is wrapped in mourning?
  How do you sing when your heart echoes only silence?

• That Dashain, my wife and I made a quiet decision — we would no longer perform these festivals. Not out of bitterness, but out of reverence. Not because we were angry at tradition, but because we had found something deeper than ritual — presence.

• While others painted their homes, we packed our bags.

• While others danced to the rhythm of family gatherings, we wandered into the rhythm of new lands — into the ancient silence of the Himalayas, into the raw vibrance of India’s spiritual cities, into far corners of the world where no one asked why we weren’t home for Dashain.

• Because the truth is: we had found a new home.
  Not a house, but a path.

• Every Dashain since, we have travelled. Not to escape — but to heal. Not to forget — but to remember differently. We remember our son not with tears but with steps toward compassion, purpose, and peace. We offer our prayers not with incense, but with actions that uplift others.

• Instead of gatherings, we now collect experiences.
  Instead of rituals, we now perform service.
  Instead of tradition, we now choose transformation.

• Some might say we abandoned our culture. I say we redefined it.

• Culture is not only what you inherit — it’s what you create.

• Today, the world is our temple. The road is our altar. The people we help, the lives we touch — they are our offering.

• We did not lose Dashain. We outgrew it.

• And in its place, we found something quieter, deeper, and infinitely more personal — a festival of the soul, celebrated in silence, service, and sacred journeying.

• Blog Title 7: “The Promise of a Hundred Years — Living Like a River, Flowing Toward Legacy”
  Why I Chose to Live Consciously for the Next 41 Years
  I am 59 now.
  And while many around me whisper of retirement, slow endings, and the waiting room of old age — I have chosen the opposite.
  I have chosen a new beginning.
  Most rivers are content to reach the sea.
  But I have vowed to flow further — to carve valleys of change, to irrigate deserts of despair, to be a river that nourishes until its very last ripple.
  After the unimaginable loss of my son, I could have stopped.
  Life had given me every reason to.
  But something deeper stirred within — a whisper from the very soul of existence:
  "You are not done yet."
  That whisper became a vow. That vow became a vision.
  And that vision became a plan — a detailed roadmap to live with purpose until the age of 100.
  Not a dream of mere survival, but a journey of intentional living, divided into 8 distinct chapters — each with its own milestones, its own service to offer, its own light to leave behind.
  Somewhere between grief and resolve, I saw time differently.
  These 41 years ahead are not mine to waste.
  They are gifts. Sacred time that I now borrow — in honor of my son who could not walk them himself.
  He gave me the clarity to see that life is not measured in years, but in meaning.
  So I began:

  • Building tour plans not just to wander, but to wonder —
    To see the world, yes, but more so to understand the soul of humanity.
    
    

  • Founding projects not just for fame or fortune —
    But for legacy, for wellness centers, care homes, and healing spaces my community can rely on.
    
    

  • Writing not for applause, but for immortality —
    For that soft voice within me to reach generations I will never meet.
    
    

• Each five-year cycle is a seed.
  Some are for growth. Some are for giving. Some are for grief to bloom into service.
  And the final ones? They are for peace.
  There’s something magical about aging when you’ve made peace with your purpose.
  Each wrinkle becomes a medal.
  Each sunrise feels like a whisper from the universe, reminding you:
  “You are still becoming.”
  And in the end, when the 100th year dawns, I do not wish for wealth or worldly praise.
  I only ask for one thing:
  That I may sit beneath a tree, smile without regret, and say:
  “Yes. I lived fully. I gave completely. I loved deeply. I am ready.”
  That is the Ikigai Explorer’s path.
  Not to chase time, but to walk with it.
  Not to fear death, but to honor life — one conscious, courageous step at a time.
  
  Blog Title 8: “My Son’s Silence, My Soul’s Awakening — Transforming Grief into Legacy”
  How a Personal Tragedy Became the Foundation of My Life’s Purpose
  They say time heals all wounds.
  But some wounds don’t heal — they transform.
  Four years ago, my world collapsed.
  My beloved son, only 27, left this world — not from accident or illness, but from a storm too heavy for him to carry alone.
  Bipolar disorder. Depression. Pressure. Isolation.
  And in the quiet shadow of midnight, he chose silence.
  Not a single day passes without the weight of that silence echoing through our home.
  There are no words strong enough to contain the grief of a parent who outlives their child.
  And yet… something extraordinary happened within the ruins.
  Where grief settled, clarity emerged.
  Where despair burned, purpose was forged.
  Where the heart broke, a new one — larger, deeper, more tender — was born.
  In the stillness that followed his departure, I made a vow:
  “I will live not only for myself,
  but also for the years he could not live.
  I will build, write, serve, explore — not just as a father grieving,
  but as a human transforming that grief into a beacon.”
  That was the beginning of my new life.
  I stopped celebrating festivals.
  Not out of bitterness, but as a conscious choice — to use that time for reflection, for pilgrimage, for connecting with the deeper rhythms of life and death.
  Each Dashain, each Tihar, while the world rejoiced, I traveled.
  To the mountains, to sacred rivers, to forgotten villages.
  Not to escape grief, but to walk alongside it — and to let it become a guide.
  His name is no longer spoken often in public. My wife finds it too painful still.
  But in my heart, in every project I begin, in every word I write, in every traveler I inspire —
  he lives.
  His short life, though filled with struggle, taught me what truly matters:

  • Mental health must be honored.

  • Stillness and mindfulness must be cultivated.

  • Life is too precious to delay our purpose.

• And so, I began building.
  Not just dreams, but structures of service:

  • Tour packages to remote spiritual corners of the world — not just for tourism, but for transformation.

  • A foundation in his name — even if the name is whispered only in my soul — to create wellness centers, care homes, and healing spaces.

  • A life so intentional, so kind, so peaceful, that it would feel like a prayer whispered to the stars he now lives among.

• Today, I carry my son not in sorrow, but in action.
  Each step I take, each elderly person I serve, each seeker I guide —
  I know he walks with me.
  This, then, is the core of the Ikigai Explorer:
  To transform unbearable loss into unstoppable love.
  To alchemize grief into global good.
  To say, even in pain:
  “I choose to live deeply, serve widely, and remember eternally.”
  
  Blog Title 9: “From Himalayan Silence to Global Harmony — A Pilgrimage for World Peace”
  Why I Chose to Travel When the World Celebrates, and Meditate When the World Forgets
  Every year, when the streets of Nepal light up with Dashain festivities, our home remains still.
  Not because we reject joy —
  but because our joy has taken a different shape.
  You see, there was a time when festivals meant reunion, celebration, and community.
  But after the soul-shattering loss of my son, something changed.
  The noise of celebration felt unbearable.
  The clamor of rituals rang hollow.
  We realized: What we needed was not more noise, but more silence. Not more rituals, but more purpose.
  And so began our own tradition — one not bound by calendars, but by calling.
  Each year, during the 15-day Dashain holiday, my wife and I pack our bags not for feasts, but for pilgrimage.
  We choose places where the heartbeat of humanity still whispers through temples, mountains, and rivers.
  We walk where the wise once walked.
  We sit where sages once meditated.
  We listen, not to firecrackers, but to the wind in ancient forests.
  From the sacred ghats of Varanasi
  to the quiet monasteries of Ladakh,
  from the Himalayas of Mustang
  to the tropical coasts of Sri Lanka,
  we let each journey remind us:
  Peace is not a place.
  It is a practice.
  Our travels are not vacations.
  They are acts of offering —
  offering our grief to sacred soil, offering our presence to forgotten villages, offering our energy to the collective prayer of peace.
  We meet other seekers — some lost, some healing, some awakening.
  We break bread with strangers who feel like family.
  We light candles in places where no camera flashes,
  and cry quietly before statues carved by centuries of devotion.
  And in every journey, one thing has remained constant:
  Our son is with us.
  Not in form, but in essence.
  Not in memory alone, but in mission.
  Each place we visit becomes a thread in a growing tapestry of purpose:

  • To serve the lonely with homes that care.

  • To guide the weary toward meaning.

  • To plant seeds of global harmony with every footstep, every offering, every silent tear.

• This is not an escape from grief —
  it is a response to it.
  This is not rejection of tradition —
  it is the creation of a new one.
  And so, dear reader, if you ever feel overwhelmed by life’s festivals, try stepping outside them.
  Go where the soul breathes.
  Find a mountain.
  Sit by a river.
  Watch the moon rise in silence.
  You might just find —
  not the son you lost,
  but the self you were always searching for.
  
  Blog Title 10: “A Century in the Making — A Life Lived in Echoes, a Legacy Written in Silence”
  How I Plan to Die Smiling, After Living Fully — One Step, One Pilgrimage, One Act of Kindness at a Time
  They say a man dies twice —
  once when his heart stops beating,
  and again when his name is spoken for the last time.
  But I — I do not fear either.
  Because long before my final breath, I decided:
  I would live so fully, so intentionally, so soulfully,
  that my echo would outlive my absence.
  I was 59 when I began this second life —
  a life of profound clarity, inspired by pain, sculpted by purpose.
  My son, gone too soon.
  My daughter, oceans away in another world.
  My wife and I — like two silent pilgrims carrying the weight of memory in our eyes and the fire of meaning in our hearts.
  And so we chose a different path —
  a road paved not with festivals and rituals, but with service, silence, travel, and transcendence.
  We said no to the ordinary, and yes to the eternal.
  Yes to climbing remote cliffs in Peru.
  Yes to sharing tea with monks in Bhutan.
  Yes to building wellness centers for the poor.
  Yes to hugging strangers in hospice care.
  Yes to living as if every breath was a prayer.
  I have mapped my life like a sacred mandala —
  divided into eight powerful chapters, each 5 years long, culminating in a hundred years of meaning.

  • In one phase, I led factories that gave livelihoods to hundreds.

  • In another, I built temples and community centers with my own hands.

  • Later, I dreamed up care homes, hospitals, and spiritual retreats — not for profit, but for peace.

  • I wrote, I spoke, I healed.

• And all along, I traveled.
  Oh, how I traveled.
  Across 7 continents, into sacred valleys, across deserts, and up into monasteries that kissed the sky.
  Not to collect photos,
  but to collect wisdom.
  Not to consume,
  but to connect.
  And when I imagined my 100th birthday —
  I did not see balloons or garlands.
  I saw quiet smiles on the faces of strangers I had once helped.
  I saw the pages of my autobiography in the hands of a young seeker.
  I saw a hospital still running long after I had left.
  I saw my wife beside me, her eyes still shining with shared purpose.
  I saw my son's face reflected in the eyes of every child we served.
  And I knew:
  “He did not die. He became my mission.”
  So when death finally comes to greet me —
  not with cruelty, but as an old friend —
  I will bow gently and say:
  “I have lived well.
  I have given all.
  I have forgiven all.
  I am ready.”
  And dear reader,
  If you ever feel small, broken, or too late —
  remember this:
  A single life, reawakened, can touch millions.
  Start wherever you are.
  Light a lamp.
  Plant a tree.
  Apologize.
  Write.
  Heal.
  Travel.
  Build.
  Weep.
  Laugh.
  And when you do it with love, the universe listens.
  Your name will echo.
  Your footsteps will leave warmth.
  And you will die — not with regret —
  but with the deepest smile this world has ever known.