📝 Blog: The Journey Within and Beyond

Welcome to the written soul of Explore Ikigai —
A sacred space where words become bridges between pain and peace, purpose and presence.

This blog is not just a collection of wellness tips or travel tales.
It is a living manuscript — born from a life touched by deep love, profound loss, and a relentless search for meaning beyond success.

Having lost my beloved son to the silent battle of bipolar disorder, and chosen to live on with grace, this space is my offering —
to those walking with grief, to seekers of stillness, and to anyone who wants to grow wiser with time, not just older.

Each blog is a love letter — to your future self, to the soul of humanity, to the courage of continuing.

📚 The Ikigai Blog Library

Soul Scripts for a Meaningful Life

“Words are not just language — they are medicine.”

This is the beating heart of Explore Ikigai —
where wisdom walks hand in hand with wonder, and where your longing for a soulful, purposeful, and long life finds a companion.

These blogs are shaped by tears, moments of silence, and slow awakenings.
They are chapters of a personal and collective human journey.

💠 What You’ll Discover Here

Each blog is:

• Handcrafted with heart, not just skill

• Rooted in lived experience — from fasting to forgiveness

• An invitation to reflect, not rush

You’ll find:

• 🌿 Ancient longevity secrets simplified for modern living

• 🌏 Travel stories that heal the traveler, not just describe the destination

• 💓 Emotional recovery tools drawn from real-life pain

• 🔥 Productivity hacks that serve your purpose, not just performance

• 🧘‍♂️ Meditation and fasting journeys that sanctify struggle

• 🪶 Memoirs from the frontlines of love, loss, and life after loss

🕯️ For Whom Are These Words?

This blog library is a shelter for those who:

• Have lost someone and vowed to live more fully

• Are tired of noise and crave clarity

• Want to build a legacy, not just a lifestyle

• Believe the world needs soulful humans, not just “successful” ones

  ✨ Featured Categories

🌏 Life Vision & Ikigai

Timeless wisdom for a purpose-driven life — even beyond 100.

• “Designing a Hundred-Year Life”

• “Why Dying Young Is Not a Plan: Embracing Longevity with Courage”

• “From Survival to Serenity: My Journey Into Ikigai”

🧘 Wellness & Healing

Ancient rituals and modern practices for body, mind, and soul.

• “Olive Oil & Fermented Water: My Morning Longevity Ritual”

• “Fasting Like a Monk: A 72-Hour Transformation”

• “Healing Trauma with Breath and Stillness”

📿 Grief & Grace

Stories of loss turned into light.

• “A Letter to My Son in the Sky”

• “How We Chose to Travel Instead of Celebrate Dashain”

• “Grief as a Gateway to Awakening”

🌄 Pilgrimage & Purpose

Spiritual reflections from sacred journeys across Nepal, India, and beyond.

• “Walking the Footsteps of the Buddha”

• “In the Silence of Rara Lake, I Heard My Soul”

• “To Ogami Island, Where Ikigai Was Born”

💡 Legacy & Longevity

Wisdom for those building meaning after 50 — and serving humanity till 100.

• “My Life Timeline: Serving Humanity Until 100”

• “Designing a Family-Free, Festival-Free Path with Purpose”

• “When Age Becomes a Gift, Not a Burden”

🌿 Our Writing Philosophy

• Long-form, soulful reflections meant to be printed and read offline

• Literary, emotional, yet simple — for a global reader

• Inspired by real life, not curated perfection

• Designed for depth, not just clicks

✍️ If a Post Touches You...

· Share it with someone who may be silently searching

· Write to us — your story matters too

· Let these words guide, not just inform

💌 Submit Your Story

Have you walked through fire and found flowers?
Found peace after 50? Turned grief into growth?

Have you chosen love after loss?
Found your true calling after 50?
Turned pain into purpose?

We welcome guest stories from:

• Caregivers

• Pilgrims

• Peacebuilders

• Seekers who walk slow but deep

📧 Email us: contact@exploreikigai.com

🌍 Why This Blog Matters in Today’s World

In an age of constant noise and shallow scrolling, we believe in returning to the sacred slowness of reflection.
These pages are not just content — they are companions.
They walk beside the caregiver who just lost a spouse.
They sit with the seeker meditating in the mountains of Nepal.
They whisper hope to the parent who wakes up crying.
They remind you that healing takes time, and meaning is found in the pauses between breaths.

🕊️ From My Life to Yours: A Quiet Offering

As the founder of Explore Ikigai, my journey has been shaped by deep contrasts:

• The radiant joy of fatherhood

• The unfathomable grief of losing my son

• The still strength found in solitude, simplicity, and spiritual service

I didn’t create this space to become known.
I created it so you don’t feel alone — wherever you are, whatever your story.

🌐 Be Part of This Living Library

This isn’t just my story.
It is our collective journey toward peace, purpose, and presence.

📬 If a blog moves you, tell us how.
🖋️ If you have a story to share, write to us.
🤝 If you want to co-create a world filled with meaning, let’s walk together.

📧 Email: exploreikigai@gmail.com

You are not late.
You are right on time — for the life your soul has been patiently waiting for.

In the stillness of suffering, may you find your sacred strength.
In the pages of this blog, may you feel seen.

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: Sacred Rest – Fasting as a Spiritual Gateway

Sometimes life forces us to stop. Moments of losing everything, of breaking, of shattering — those are the times that jolt us from within and make the soul speak.

That moment came in my life when everything turned silent — dreams, purpose, smiles — suddenly became emptiness.

Yet within that very emptiness I found a deep presence. In that silence the soul called to me — “Listen, now you must know yourself.”

My journey afterward was toward silence. Toward the union of body, mind, and spirit. And that journey began — with fasting.

For me, fasting was never just about not eating; it was an ancient doorway — a way to quiet the false voices of the body and hear the voice of the soul.

The first time I did a 24-hour fast, before my stomach growled, my mind was already screaming — “Why are you doing this?” “Won’t you become weak?” “Why invite so much suffering?”

But I simply did one thing — I listened. I paid attention. And I went inside myself.

I arrived where I had never looked before. The restless field inside my mind, clouds of doubt and insecurity, and every painful memory were being revealed.

Yet the deeper I went, the lighter I began to feel. Fasting began purifying not only my body but my soul as well.

My pulse calmed. My sleep deepened. My vision cleared. And I realised one thing — we are always trying to fill ourselves with external things, but true fulfillment lies in inner silence.

I began practising different kinds of fasts — dry fasting, water fasting, and fasts with life-giving elements like kanji and tulsi water. What once felt like a huge mountain — a 24-hour fast — became effortless, and later 36-hour dry fasts followed by another 36 hours of only pure water, kanji, and moringa water, and when I detoxed each morning with an enema — wow, the body felt like a heap of flowers. Fasting became a habit, a new chapter — and right in the middle of it, sitting in solitude and silence, sometimes shedding tears of forgiveness, sometimes overwhelmed with gratitude, sometimes lost in deep meditation, sometimes simply counting breaths with eyes closed in silence.

And after every fast, I felt as if I were giving myself a new life.

Fasting gave me a new perspective on life. Now food is no longer just fuel for the stomach — it became an opportunity for love, gratitude, and self-remembrance.

I saw that when the body becomes light, the mind becomes light. When the mind becomes light, the heart begins to speak. And when the heart speaks, that voice is the music of the soul.

This blog is my personal journey — of rebirth from pain, of understanding the sanctity of silence, and of accepting fasting as a spiritual gateway to life.

If you ever feel exhausted from the inside, if you are sitting without answers — pause once. Do not feed the body — nourish the soul.

Fast — not just for the body, but for the soul. Through it you will find a new path — of peace, introspection, and true purpose.

That sacred rest can be yours too — the one that opens new doors in life.

Blog 3: Filling the Void – Nourishing the Forgotten Stomach

Most people turn to food when they are grieving — but my grief stole even my appetite.

After my beloved son cruelly left us and this world, food became a burden rather than taste. The aroma of cooking tore at my heart, and an empty plate screamed his absence even louder. Yet with time I began to understand — my body was speaking.

The emptiness was not only emotional; my gut — my second brain — was also in pain. We usually focus on the soul and the mind, but we forget the centre of the body — the gut. I started studying — the billions of bacteria living in the stomach that control our mood, memory, decision-making power, even our emotions.

And grief, stress, indigestion all devastate that inner world. I decided — if I am to fill my void, I must start with the body.

Thus began my inner dietary journey. I started drinking kanji — ancient fermented liquid made from carrot, beetroot, cumin, asafoetida, and black salt left in the sun for three days.

With every sip I felt life. I changed my food — probiotic- and fibre-rich meals that can revive the gut. I ate in silence — offering reverence to every chew, expressing gratitude.

I realised the mind also affects the gut. So I began meditation, breathwork, and routines that bring balance. The amazing thing was — when my gut began to heal, my mind also began to settle.

And when the mind settled, grief stopped breaking me and started refining me.

Now every morning I honour my gut — warm lemon water, kanji, light yoga, and abundant gratitude to start the day. Sometimes emptiness in life feels enormous. But that emptiness can also be the path to fullness.

If you ever feel tired, heavy, or directionless, perhaps your gut is trying to speak. Listen to what it wants to say. Love it. Nourish it. Because when the deep inner void is filled — that is where new life begins to bloom.

Blog 4: Love Beyond Borders – When a Daughter Marries into a New World

Every parent reaches a moment when we lose our grip on our children — not because our love has lessened, but because it has grown even greater. That moment came for me on a sweet afternoon — wrapped not in tears but in the quiet ache of blessing. That day my daughter, my first-born, bound herself in marriage not only to one man but to an entirely different world from ours.

She fell in love with someone from across the oceans — from a land of skyscrapers, winter snow, and freedom. He spoke a different language, ate different food, and worshipped different gods. Yet when I saw the sparkle in her eyes beside him, I understood — she had found her own sky.

It was not easy. If I said it was, I would be lying.

There was immense fear — of losing her, of being forgotten, of our culture, language, and values fading like old ink in the sun. Many nights I sat by the window gazing far away, wondering — does she still remember the fairy tales her mother and I told her when she was little?

But slowly something sacred unfolded.

From continents away she called us every morning. On Dashain she applied red tika with tears in her eyes and her hand on her heart. When her daughter — my granddaughter — was born, she gave her a name that blended both cultures: half Nepali, half American, yet wholly love.

Through her I saw — home is not confined to one country. It is a feeling that travels with us.

Love, ultimately, needs no visa. It does not wait for permission. It leaps, it trusts, it expands. And when it is real, it finds a way to honour every root — not by clinging, but by blooming wider.

I watched my daughter become not less Nepali but more human. She cooks tacos alongside daal-bhaat. She teaches her daughter “Namaste” in the same breath. She carries our traditions not as chains but as wings.

And I? I grew too. I learned — the world is divided by flags alone; stories unite it. A parent’s role does not end at the wedding mandap — it transforms. We raise children not to keep them as our own but to set them free — because in their happiness we are born again.

Now, when I see them together — my daughter and her life partner — I no longer see difference but harmony. Not farewell but arrival. And in her child I see the birth of a new earth — where the heart has no borders.

Yes, love took my daughter far away. But it also brought her closer than ever. And in that, I found peace — a peace that whispers across oceans: she is happy. She is still in our hearts, still in our home.

Blog 5: Rediscovered Joy – Searching Again for the Child Within

When was the last time you danced — without reason, without rhythm, just because you felt like it? When was the last time you laughed until your stomach hurt, tears streaming, like a child?

I look back at my past and see a little boy whose eyes shone with wonder. Who preferred swimming in the Narayani River to sitting on school benches, whose thighs thick with mud were a proud garment, and whose chocolate-stained cheeks were his medal of honour.

That boy grew up with the smell of hay and fields, and had the courage to walk to the neighbour’s house in the dark to study under a lantern.

The youngest of five brothers, yet the first to receive formal education — that was his first victory in life.

But the older I grew, the farther I drifted from that boy. Life’s voices — “Behave properly”, “Be serious”, “Speak less”, “Earn something”, “Work, don’t play” — one by one silenced his laughter.

Studying and struggling on foreign soil, becoming the invisible pillar of my wife’s political journey, taking my children all the way to America for a secure future — I locked life inside a wooden box labelled “responsibility”.

Then life struck an invisible blow — the very foundation of my life shook. Just when he was about to marry, at the age of 27 my son — my pride, my dream, my laughter — was lost in the silent storm of bipolar disorder. In that moment all my plans, my discipline, my walls of “success” collapsed.

Then that silent boy, who had not spoken to me for years, whispered in my ear — “I am still here. I still want you to play, laugh, and feel joy.”

So I turned inward again. I began dancing — not outwardly, but inside. I started painting — not only on canvas but in dreams, words, and actions. I picked up the harmonium — I had never learned, yet the moment I touched the keys my heart began to play. I started singing songs and bhajans — eyes welling up, completely immersed in emotion.

The moment I gave that child space in my life, miraculously the world began opening its arms to me. Creativity returned, the roots of laughter sprouted, and that old friend ease came back.

Now I still take responsibility — but with childlike curiosity. I still serve — but with a touch of playfulness. I still live — but fully present.

If you have ever felt tired, empty, or merely “alive” but not truly living — that is the child inside you knocking at the door. Open that door. Dance. Laugh. Play the colourful game of life again.

It is never too late — that child is still there, waiting to welcome you, exactly as he welcomed me at the darkest turn of my life and held me steady once more.

Blog 6: The Quest for Stillness – Meditation for a Restless Mind

The day I first sat to meditate is still vivid before my eyes. Soft sunlight filtered through the window, everything around was quiet, but inside me? Like countless ripples on a pond when rain falls on stone after stone — wave upon wave in my mind. The more I tried to sit still, the louder the inner voices became — “What will happen tomorrow?” “What path will my son and daughter take?” “What will be the political future of my life partner — etc., etc.”

After losing my son the restlessness deepened. The moment I closed my eyes his face flashed vividly — our trekking memories in Ghorepani and Tatopani when it was just the two of us, taking photos at sunrise on Lovely Hill in Pokhara, his laughter, his seriousness sometimes, and the silence of his final day.

Meditation became not peace for me but a direct confrontation with pain. I was afraid — what if closing my eyes reopened that wound?

But the years spent in Japan taught me one lesson — peace of mind never comes by force; it must be invited. One day in Sapporo, Hokkaido, an elderly man I met told me, “Meditation is not about chasing thoughts away; it is about welcoming them, offering them tea, and then saying goodbye.”

That day I told myself — “Fine, even if you are restless today, I will not blame you. Run and shout as much as you want; I will sit and listen with patience.”

In that moment something strange happened. Amid the crowd of thoughts a small emptiness opened — I named it the ‘Stillpoint’. There was no sound, no story, no pain — only the rhythm of my inhalation and retention.

I began travelling with the breath — 4 seconds in, 4 seconds hold, 4 seconds out. The journey I started that way has now easily reached 16-16-16; it is no longer hard labour but feels like a rhythm. At first I found peace for a few seconds, then it slowly turned into minutes and hours. Now it is not only my indispensable morning practice — it has become the very foundation of my life.

When the mind is restless, I close my eyes and look at the inner sky — where clouds move constantly, yet the sky itself remains still. Meditation has made me that sky — vast, silent, unchanging.

If your mind is restless, it is not a fault; it is an invitation. Leave everything for a moment, rest, take a deep breath, and find the Stillpoint within. That is where new life begins — peace born even from pain.

Blog 7: The Gift of Emptiness – The Art of Embracing Void

Some time after returning from America, one morning I was sitting quietly in my own garden. The gentle warmth of the sun touched my face, garden birds were singing softly, leaves swayed slowly in the whisper of the breeze.

But inside my mind? No plan, no desire, no enthusiasm — only a deep emptiness.

Earlier, whenever such a state came I used to be afraid. Questions arose — “Am I depressed?” “Have I lost the purpose of life?” “Am I slowly disappearing?”

Only after losing my son did I begin to understand — sometimes life empties us so we can build a new path, plant new seeds, look at a new sky.

That morning I decided — today I will do nothing. No book, no phone, no work. Only a cup of hot water and the silence of the garden.

In that silence I felt — I am not only one role. I am a son, a father, a husband, an elder brother, a younger brother, a friend. But beyond all these, I am a soul — and even the soul needs rest.

Emptiness is not something to run from. Emptiness is time to listen to the soul. That day silence taught me to speak — sometimes through tears, sometimes through memories, sometimes only through breath.

In that silent moment I saw — we spend our whole life seeking “fullness”, yet the soul sometimes wants to be “empty” so it can be filled with new life again.

Now, when life feels meaningless, I am no longer afraid. I embrace that emptiness. I sit in it, listen, and wait. Because I know — the voice inside that silence is my greatest guide.

So when emptiness comes to you, do not run from it — embrace it. Because in that very silence, in that empty moment — our soul speaks and opens the door to new life.

Through such continuous practice, continuous patience, and friendship with silence, I have finally found — Ikigai, the profound meaning of living. And today, making that very Ikigai my life’s guiding light, I move forward.

Blog 8: Silent Celebration – Life Beyond Festivals

Many years ago, festivals were a golden dream of my life — a colourful canvas where every hue sang of love, joy, and togetherness. Dashain tika covering the entire forehead with red rice, the tender glow of oil lamps in the courtyard during Tihar, the sky painted with Holi colours — all of these brought an eternal wave of celebration to my heart.

The joy of stitching new clothes, decorating the house with flowers and garlands, sitting surrounded by the laughter of a big joint family and eating sweets — those moments celebrating festivals with my wife, daughter, and son were the priceless treasure of my life. In our little family world, festivals were not mere dates but a living temple of love and memory.

But this beautiful story of life was suddenly shattered by a harsh reality. My 27-year-old son, who had been battling bipolar disorder, was taken from this world by a cruel brain stroke. In that moment my heart was torn — as if a storm from the sky had devastated my entire garden of happiness. He was my light, my dream, the life force flowing in my every breath. The son I had lifted from poverty, struggle, and sacrifice to higher education in America suddenly left in silence. My wife, who was fighting in Nepal’s political arena for women’s and the oppressed’s rights, and I — we both broke like an old tree branch falling away from its trunk. Drowning in this ocean of sorrow we wondered: will our life now only be an empty tale of memories?

After that, festivals became a painful wound for us. When Dashain came the forehead felt not empty but soaked in blood — as if his absence stung with every breath. Lighting lamps on Tihar brought not light but darkness surrounding us. The sweet kitchen aromas carried the echo of our son’s laughter, and every bite brought an ocean of tears.

For a long time we simply could not bear those days. The merriment that came in the name of celebration felt like a cruel joke — an empty bell ringing only silence. The song of joy of our small family stopped, and only quiet grief filled the house.

Yet sorrow showed us a new path — like the first ray of sun rising from the depth of night. We made a courageous decision: we will no longer celebrate traditional festivals. This is not running away — this is a new birth. We gave those days a new form — a journey of solitude, service, and introspection.

Now on festival days we walk to mountain peaks, where the wind carries our son’s memory and consoles our souls. We visit orphanages and distribute food to innocent children whose smiles give us the taste of new life. Sometimes we sit in deep silence — in profound meditation where words cease and feelings speak, turning sorrow into gratitude.

Some friends and relatives ask: “Have you completely abandoned your culture?” No, dear friends and family. We have let go of the outer shell of rituals and embraced the deeper soul of those traditions. The true essence of festivals is love, family, and remembrance — it is not limited to dates or rituals alone. That soul lives in every moment, like a river that flows forever, no matter the season.

This journey of my life — rising from a poor farming family, becoming a doctor through education and scholarships, studying in Japan and America, returning to the motherland after my son’s departure to begin service —

has taught me this. My Ikigai, this Japanese philosophy that gives life meaning, is exactly this: turning sorrow into strength and illuminating others’ lives through service. I led the construction of a new building, concrete walls, and playground for my childhood school, and adorned it with a bus bought with my own blood and sweat.

And now I am committed for 41 years — to meditation centres, improving pilgrimage sites, old-age homes, and community hospitals. All of this in my son’s memory, in gratitude for life.

Today we have turned life itself into a living celebration. Every morning watching the rising sun, its golden rays sow new seeds of hope in our hearts — like a new birth. Every smile we share feels like a flower blooming, brightening the surrounding darkness. Every revived hope feels like a bird’s free and joyful flight.

Even in silence our hearts hum a sweet song — the tender melody of love, the emotional voice of memory, and the enthusiastic rhythm of rebirth. This song teaches us: life is deeper than festivals; it is an eternal journey where every step has meaning, every breath has love.

We now live — a profound, meaningful life that contains the shadow of sorrow yet is pierced by rays of light. And this silent celebration, this peaceful joy, continues every day, every moment — like a river that forever carries the mystery of life.

If you too wish to join this journey, remember: flowers bloom from sorrow, and true celebration is born from silence.