THODA LESS , JYADA MORE

Thoda Less, Jyada More

Written by : Sanjay Shharma

I once believed happiness lay in more—more success, more possessions, more achievements. I reveled in the heady scent of new beginnings: the crisp aroma of fresh paint as I transformed a bare structure into a home, the gleam of polished floors echoing with every confident step, and the satisfying click of a door unlocking a future brimming with promise. Every achievement burst forth like an explosion of color and sound—the vibrant applause at a launch, the deep rumble of excitement as I drove my dream car off the showroom floor, and the cool, proud caress of my name embossed on an office door. In those moments, pride and hope flowed through me like a fine, intoxicating wine.

I’ve felt that elation too. The Mercedes on my 25th anniversary was not merely a car; it was an experience etched in my senses. I still recall the soft hum of its engine, the luxurious leather that embraced my hands as I gripped the steering wheel, and the bright reflections dancing off its flawless body beneath the afternoon sun. Congratulatory messages enveloped me like warm embraces, and that first long drive—each turn accompanied by the gentle vibration of success—filled me with a profound joy. For a time, the luxury, the success, and the sheer sense of having "made it" were more than enough.

But then, something shifted. The initial euphoria began to fade, replaced by a stark, almost sterile reality. The house, once alive with dreams, slowly became nothing more than walls and furniture echoing with emptiness. The car, once a symbol of endless possibilities, turned into just another vehicle parked among many, its engine’s hum reduced to a mere background note in a bustling city. The roaring applause that had once affirmed my triumphs dwindled into distant echoes, and what once felt like everything gradually settled into just something—a hollow accumulation devoid of the warmth and vitality it once promised.

And then you begin to notice everything else gathered along the way—closets overflowing with clothes long forgotten, crockery sets reserved for “special” occasions that never arrived, and fancy gadgets that once sparked excitement but now merely occupy space. The watches, the handbags, the luxury pens—each acquired in a burst of enthusiasm now lies neglected, gathering dust like relics of a bygone era.

It wasn’t merely about material things. I had also hoarded social obligations, unnecessary relationships, and unrealistic expectations. I hosted grand parties for friends who were practically strangers, and attended countless weddings, battling gridlocked traffic while meticulously calculating how much to put in an envelope—always fretting over the unspoken social balance sheet—"They invited us, so we must go. If we don’t, how will it look?" Yet, many of these connections proved nothing more than burdens weighing down my spirit.

Perhaps thoda less of these meaningless obligations would leave us with zyada joy.

I remember my childhood friend—back when all he possessed were dreams in his pockets. We would sit on the rooftop, gazing at the stars, planning a future that seemed infinite. Years later, I visited him in his high-rise apartment—polished floors, expensive furniture, and shelves laden with awards. But in that moment, I saw a man whose laughter had been replaced by tired sighs, whose vibrant stories had dwindled to complaints about time slipping away. The view from his balcony remained breathtaking, yet his eyes no longer sought the stars.

Thoda less chasing, zyada aaram.

Not long ago, while clearing out an old cupboard, I discovered a shoebox filled with birthday cards, letters, and photographs—treasures of a time when happiness was a handwritten note, not a fleeting digital ping. I traced the faded ink of a letter from my father, his careful strokes a testament to a life unburdened by delay. He always donned his best kurta on an ordinary Sunday, savored dessert before dinner ended, and never once postponed joy with a tentative, "Let’s do this some other day."

A friend of mine lost his father last year. As he sifted through his belongings, he uncovered an entire drawer filled with brand-new shirts, untouched and still in their pristine packaging. His father had been saving them for a special occasion that, sadly, never came.

What are we waiting for?
Thoda less postponing, zyada jeene ka mazaa.

At a recent wedding, I found myself stuck in a seemingly endless queue at the gift counter. The heavy scent of marigolds mingled with the heady perfume of overdressed guests as I fumbled with an envelope—₹2100 in hand, because ₹1100 felt insufficient and ₹5100 overwhelmingly extravagant. 

In that moment, I wondered: Why was I there? Was it merely obligation—"They invited us, so we must go"—or was I missing something deeper, something more authentic?

Thoda less obligation, zyada sukoon.

We hold on to ego as if it were a prized trophy, convinced we are winning, when in truth we are losing the people we love. 

I once witnessed a bitter argument between two old friends at a wedding. One stormed off, declaring, "Ab dobara baat mat karna." They never reconciled. Years later, I saw that same friend, his eyes heavy with unspoken regret, standing silently at his other friend’s funeral—a stark reminder of what stubborn pride can cost us.

I love food. I cherish the art of choosing meals, the delicious anticipation of every bite. Sometimes, I even request something special from my wife. When she prepares it, I savor every flavor, every moment of indulgence. Yet, for days afterward, she avoids serving it again, saying, “Abhi toh khai thi.”
I never understood this. Why deny something that brought joy? If I love a dish, why ration it as though happiness has an expiry date? I live every meal as a celebration, while she values variety by spacing out indulgences. To her, it’s about moderation; to me, it’s about living fully and never postponing pleasure.

Thoda less restraint, zyada anand.

My wife has a philosophy of her own. She adores sunglasses, collecting them like cherished treasures—each time we pass by a store, her eyes light up as though she were a child in a candy shop. Jaipur shopping is her haven, a world of fabrics, bangles, and  jewellry that sparks joy in the hunt, even if she may never wear them all. And when she remarks, “It’s just a few years till I can drive,” it isn’t about holding back; it’s her playful way of celebrating life’s little moments, even as she comfortably rides the Delhi Metro.

We all do this, don’t we? We buy things we don’t need, delay what we truly desire, and cling to dreams while hesitating to live them. Perhaps the real trick isn’t in waiting for the right time but in realizing the right time is now.

Just last week, I was at a roadside dhaba with some friends. The food was steaming hot, the conversation flowed effortlessly, and we laughed like we were teenagers again. The hiss of the tandoor, the clatter of steel plates, the rich aroma of butter melting on hot parathas—it was real, unfiltered joy.

And then there are children. They don’t wait to wear their favorite clothes or save their best moments for later. If they love a story, they’ll ask for it to be read again and again—over and over, with wide, eager eyes that insist on repetition. If they love an ice cream, they’ll keep asking, their joyful voices echoing until they secure that extra scoop.
“Par abhi toh khai thi?” That question simply doesn’t exist for them.

They know something we’ve forgotten—when something makes you happy, why would you ever keep it waiting?

Thoda less hesitation, zyada masti.

A few days ago, I received a call from an old friend—the one celebrated with awards and residing in a high-rise.
"Let’s catch up soon," he said.
I smiled and replied, "Aaj chalein?"
He hesitated. "Aaj? But it’s sudden. Let’s plan for next week."
I didn’t argue, for I knew well that next week might morph into next month, and someday, one of us might no longer be there to answer the call.

Thoda less waiting, zyada abhi.

I also recall the poignant ritual of an elderly man at his favorite chai shop. Every week, without fail, he would be there—sitting alone, stirring his chai slowly, his eyes reflecting a quiet hope. I later learned that his son had left him—wounded by a long-held pride and stubbornness that ego had kept from reconciliation. His son never returned, and yet, every week, the old man would come back to that same corner, clinging to the simple comfort of routine—a silent reminder that even in profound loss, one can choose to live with less bitterness and more grace.

Thoda less ego, zyada pyaar.

One day, all of this will be gone. The phone calls, the dinners, the chai with friends. The celebrations, the voices calling your name, the laughter over nothing. The things you chased will fade. The things you postponed will remain undone. The clothes you saved for later will still hang, unworn. The crockery you kept will gather dust. The parties attended out of obligation will blur together, and the acquaintances maintained for appearances will vanish from memory.

And in that moment, will you look back and wish you had done more—more rushing, more accumulating, more proving?

Or will you long for less—less waiting, less hesitation, less fear?

Because in the end, we don’t measure life in what we owned; we measure it in what we felt—the stories we created, the time spent with those who truly mattered, the small moments of warmth, laughter, and togetherness that often go unnoticed in our quest for something bigger.

We don’t need to earn joy. We just need to make room for it.

So, let’s try.

Thoda less overthinking, zyada jeene ka mazaa.
Thoda less waiting, zyada aaj ka sukoon.
Thoda less ‘someday,’ zyada aaj.

Because in the end, no one remembers how much you owned.
They remember how much you lived.

Try it—just for a week.
Thoda less of something.
Less waiting. Less hesitation. Less saving for later.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find that joy was never missing. It was patiently waiting for you to notice.
Thoda Less, Jyada More.

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About the Author:
A reflective storyteller rooted in the vibrant tapestry of India, Sanjay Shharma finds beauty in the everyday and seeks to inspire others to embrace life’s simple joys over the endless pursuit of more. Through personal anecdotes and cultural insights, Sanjay Shharma challenges us to live fully—with less hesitation and more heart.