What Is the Secret of Life?

The first time Arman asked the question, he was eight years old, seated on his grandfather's porch in a village painted with rust-colored soil and the scent of mango trees.

“Dada,” he asked, peering up at the old man who was gently rocking in a creaky wooden chair, “What is the secret of life?”

His grandfather chuckled, a deep, rolling sound. “You’ll find out when your shoes wear thin and your hair turns grey,” he replied.

Arman thought that meant it was something grown-ups knew—something that came with age. So he waited.

By seventeen, Arman was buried in textbooks and entrance exams, running after a future that was drawn for him by the hopes of his parents. Still, the question gnawed at him, especially in the quiet hours of the night when dreams danced just out of reach.

His best friend Zoya, always the more thoughtful of the two, once caught him staring at the stars after school.

“What are you thinking about?”

He hesitated before answering. “Do you think there’s a point to all this? School, careers, growing up?”

Zoya smiled and said, “Maybe the point is the asking.”

But Arman wasn’t satisfied with asking. He wanted answers.

At twenty-five, Arman was in the heart of the city, surrounded by success. A well-paying job in tech, a modern apartment, and a closet full of tailored suits. Yet, something always felt... off.

He was at a party, people laughing, glasses clinking, music thumping in the background, when he found himself outside on the balcony. The city lights below shimmered like fireflies caught in concrete.

Beside him stood an older colleague named Rafiq, whose laugh lines suggested he smiled more than he spoke.

“Rafiq,” Arman asked impulsively, “What do you think is the secret of life?”

Rafiq thought for a long time, then said, “Balance, maybe. Between work and family. Between chasing and being still.”

Arman nodded politely, but his soul felt no closer to an answer.

Years passed.

Zoya got married and moved to Canada. His parents aged. His work became routine, then monotonous, then heavy.

One day, while walking back from the grocery store, Arman saw an old woman sitting on a bench feeding pigeons. She was humming an old tune, one he vaguely remembered from his childhood.

He sat down beside her and said without preamble, “What’s the secret of life?”

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t pause. She said, “Joy in small things. And the courage to love, even when it hurts.”

He looked at her, surprised.

“Is that enough?” he asked.

“It has to be,” she replied, tossing another crumb to the birds.

At forty-five, Arman’s world was quieter. He had moved back to the village after his father passed, deciding that peace was more important than pace.

His days were filled with slow mornings, teaching local children part-time, and writing a journal he never showed anyone.

One evening, a curious boy named Sameer—one of his students—asked him the very question he had asked his grandfather decades ago:

“Sir, what is the secret of life?”

Arman smiled. Not because he knew the answer—but because he understood the question now carried a different weight.

He looked at Sameer and said, “The secret is this: life is a collection of moments. Some are heavy, some are light, but all of them matter. And the real secret? It’s to live each one like it means something.”

Years later, when Arman was gone, Sameer would repeat those words to his own son. He’d write them in his journal. He’d pass them to students when they felt lost.

And so, the secret kept moving—not as an answer to be solved but a truth to be lived.

🌿 Final Thought:

The secret of life isn’t found in a single sentence, a holy book, or a grand epiphany. It lives in a thousand small things:

The hand you hold when no one else is watching.

The courage to start again after you’ve failed.

The smell of earth after the first rain.

The forgiveness you offer to yourself.

The laugh that echoes in an empty room.

The questions you keep asking—even when no one gives an answer.

And maybe—just maybe—the secret isn’t something we find.

Maybe it's something we become.