Bliss in the Smallest Moments

Bliss in the Smallest Moments

A life lived in fragments taught me where real joy hides.

By: Hamza Yaqoob

I used to think that happiness would arrive all at once. Like an acceptance letter, a graduation cap, or a single yes that could change everything. But life didn’t work that way for me. Not when you’re born in a dusty corner of the world where even sunlight has to fight its way in through broken windows.

Real joy, I learned, hides in the smallest cracks—the in-between moments. And sometimes, it walks in quietly, barefoot.

The First Time I Felt Bliss

I didn’t know the word then. I just remember the feeling. It was a rare day when my father came home early. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t drink that night. He bought me a sweet from the market—a small, dry gulab jamun in a crumpled foil wrapper.

It was warm in my hands. I sat on the rooftop with my younger brother, the city glowing like a bruise beneath the dusk. We split it in half and ate in silence, the air thick with the scent of wet soil and tired dreams. For a moment, nothing hurt.

That was bliss. I just didn’t know how rare it would be.

The Quiet in the Clinic

Years later, as a medical student doing rotations in a rural clinic, I found myself overwhelmed by sickness—not mine, but everyone else’s. Tuberculosis. Malnutrition. Forgotten people with forgotten pain.

One day, a little girl came in with a fever and held onto my finger tightly. Her mother told me they had walked for miles. I examined her, listened to her lungs, gave her medicine.

As they left, the girl turned around and smiled—not just with her mouth, but with her whole face. That smile held no English, no science, no diagnosis. Just gratitude.

In that tiny smile, I felt a surge of something bigger than success. Bliss isn’t loud. It doesn’t throw parties. It stands quietly in a dusty hallway, holding your hand.

Broken Shoes and Borrowed Books

During my first year in medical school, I couldn’t afford new shoes. Mine had cracks so deep the rain would kiss my socks. I would borrow books, photocopy chapters, and return them with pages marked like they were holy scriptures.

One evening, I sat under a streetlight near the hostel, going through physiology notes. A boy walked past, then stopped.

“You’re in med school?” he asked. I nodded.

He sat beside me. “I want to be a doctor too. But I’m in Class 9.”

I handed him the notes. “Start reading now. Don’t wait.”

His eyes lit up like Eid lanterns. That moment? Bliss.

The Student Who Called Me "Bhai"

When I started tutoring online to support my studies, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Students from across the country, from different towns and cities, began showing up in my Zoom classes.

One day, a student messaged me after class: "Thank you, Bhai. I don’t feel scared about biology anymore."

He didn’t know my story. He didn’t know that just an hour before class, I had skipped dinner to save money. But in that moment, his trust filled something inside me that no money ever could.

Bliss is being needed. Being seen. Being someone’s safe place.

Midnight Tea

There’s a spot near the hospital where I get tea. It’s cheap, watery, and always served in cracked glasses. But at midnight, when the wards are quiet and the night shifts are long, it tastes like gold.

One winter night, I stood there sipping tea with a nurse, a janitor, and another intern. No hierarchy. No pretensions. Just tired souls warming their hands on the same fire.

We laughed about nothing. We talked about everything. That tea? Bliss.

Not What I Dreamed, But Everything I Needed

I used to dream of Europe, scholarships, big hospitals, luxury. And maybe one day, I’ll have those things. But that’s not what I’m chasing anymore.

Because here’s the truth no one tells you: bliss lives in what you already have. The way your mother looks at you when you come home safe. The way a child calls you "doctor" when you’re still in scrubs. The sound of your name being remembered. The softness in your own voice when you forgive yourself.

You, Reading This

If you’re still searching for happiness in big things, I get it. But maybe, just maybe, you already passed it on your way to something else.

Maybe it was in the story your grandmother told you while peeling vegetables. Maybe it was in the song that made you cry. Or in the friend who stayed silent but didn’t leave.

Collect those. Write them down. Count them like treasures. Because one day, when life slows down, you'll realize it wasn’t the destination. It was those small, forgotten stops along the way.

That’s where bliss lives.

And it’s been waiting for you all along.

Author’s Note:

From a medical student who learned more about life in the cracks than in the textbooks. Bliss doesn’t arrive in applause. It sits quietly with you, when you think you have nothing left. Hold on. It’s closer than you think.