Before I Heard Minimalism, I Lived It.

I didn’t wake up one day and realise I’m a minimalist.
Five years ago, a Netflix documentary gave a name to what I’d already been doing: minimalism.

And I remember thinking — wait, I’ve been like this all along.
Maybe every second middle-class Indian is a minimalist.

But not in a “declutter your closet” kind of way.
More like: I just don’t like noise.

As a kid, all I needed was a cricket bat and two tennis balls.
That was enough to turn a lazy afternoon into a tournament.

My parents gave us a lot — but what stuck wasn’t abundance.
It was efficiency.

Use what you have.
Stretch every resource.
Make it work.

We didn’t call it minimalism.
We called it jugaad.

Even today, I’d rather repair than replace.
Squeeze more from less.
Get creative before buying new.

Empty rooms don’t bother me. They calm me.
Maybe it’s the introvert in me.
Maybe it’s the years of moving — cities, jobs, seasons.

Each time I packed up, I left more behind.
Each time I unpacked, I asked: Why did I carry this again?

Now, I carry less.

I don’t just want fewer things.
I want fewer obligations.
Fewer “catch-ups.”
Fewer noise-making distractions.

More space to do nothing — or everything — on my own terms.
Time that’s unscheduled is time that’s mine.

It’s Not for Everyone. And That’s Fine.

This way of living is too close to me.
My kids don’t get it.
My spouse doesn’t relate.
And that’s okay.

Minimalism, to me, is a saint-like mindset —
"Kam mein khush rehna.
No addictive expectations. No show-and-tell."

I don’t count my things.
I don’t make reels about decluttering.

I just choose what gives me peace —
And remove what doesn’t.

No defense.
No justification.

Just silence, space, and the freedom to move.