The Art of Living Moment to Moment

The Art of Living Moment to Moment

February 8, 2026: On the Tirunelveli–Chennai Egmore (Train No. 20666) Vande Bharat Express, my wife (65) and I (73) boarded at Tiruchirappalli at 9:50 a.m. Coach C-9, Seats 15 and 16.

At 1:45 p.m., the train dropped us at Tambaram and sped away. For a few moments, my wife and I stood watching it glide off beautifully at high speed.

From Tiruchirappalli to Tambaram, it takes exactly three and a half hours. The entire train is air-conditioned. No shaking, no discomfort. You can recline your seat and sleep peacefully. If sleep doesn’t come, there’s always your mobile or laptop—watch a movie, a video, or even finish office work.

The fare for the two of us was ₹2,136.30. Normally, we wouldn’t spend that much on travel. But my wife had undergone knee surgery just a month ago for pain she had endured for ten years in both knees. The doctor had advised her to practice walking and climbing steps. Since other trains or buses would mean sitting for longer hours, we chose this comfortable train.

The journey felt heavenly. But we never imagined that once we got down at Tambaram, heaven would turn into a kind of hell.

To reach the west exit at Tambaram, one has to climb stairs. My wife could not manage so many steps. The escalator and elevator were closed with a notice saying they were not working. Battery cars were rushing back and forth carrying two passengers at a time. We waited patiently.

Seeing my wife struggling with her walking stick, a porter asked,

“Madam, shall I bring a wheelchair?”

“How much will it cost?” she asked.

“Five hundred rupees, madam.”

“We’ve already spent so much on the train… and this extra?”

A battery car approached. My wife innocently asked the porter,

“If we go in this car, will they drop us outside?”

“Go, go… they’ll drop you only till the staircase. After that, you have to climb and go out yourself,” he said sarcastically.

Muttering, “Let’s move from here,” we got into the battery car with our luggage on our laps. Only passengers were allowed; what about the luggage?

The battery car dropped us near the stairs at the far end of the platform and demanded ₹20 per head—₹40 total. In some places, they even ask ₹30 or ₹50 per person.

“Sir, she had knee surgery… we got into your vehicle because she can’t climb much. Couldn’t you drop us outside?” I asked.

“Sir, we can go only till here. See, they’re going… follow them and you’ll reach outside,” he replied.

The afternoon sun blazed down. After sitting in AC for four hours, even that felt tolerable.

My wife, leaning on her stick, squinted at the distant railway tracks ahead. I stood with two bags on my shoulder and one in my hand, looking at her helplessly. I too had body pain, but inside, a strange laughter bubbled up. Just moments ago she had been sitting grandly in AC comfort! In one second, life had changed—just like our lives often do.

Of course, I couldn’t show that laughter. So I said solemnly,

“What can we do, madam? Only if a helicopter lands vertically here and takes us away! That privilege is only for those in high positions. Not for ordinary people like us.”

She sighed, “What else to do? I’ll walk… It looks like half a kilometer… So many railway tracks in between… what if a train comes across?”

Carrying heavy luggage, I couldn’t leave her alone and rush ahead. Nor could I carry everything first and return to help her. She had knee pain; I had luggage pain. Bearing both, we walked together slowly, step by step. Isn’t that the meaning of married life?

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This wasn’t our first experience. Many times, when arriving at Chennai Egmore, the train halts at the 7th or 8th platform. It’s disheartening.

Once, we paid ₹500 for a wheelchair and came out. Another time, unwilling to yield to porter dominance, I tried to get a wheelchair officially by depositing my Aadhaar card with the station master. That was the procedure. But the responsible officer wasn’t there. We waited half an hour. But porters always seemed magically available.

Finally, swallowing my pride, I asked the porter again. Within five minutes, he brought the wheelchair, seated my wife, and took her outside. I handed him ₹500. He disappeared quickly.

I wondered: Has the railway administration become permanently dependent on porters? Yet the truth struck me—no white-clad officer could have done what that porter did so efficiently. He safely transported my 80-kg wife outside. For that, what is ₹500? Even ₹5 lakhs would not equal the relief.

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But yesterday at Tambaram, something else gripped me—humiliation. It felt as if everyone around was clapping and laughing at us: the train driver, station officials, porters, administrators, even ministers.

Many elderly people were similarly struggling across five railway tracks. My wife advanced like someone fulfilling a temple vow—tiny steps, slowly.

A man offered to seat her on an iron trolley for ₹200. She refused.

If railway management truly addressed this issue, battery cars could take passengers outside properly—even if they charged ₹100. Instead, unofficial transactions flourish without accountability.

After half an hour of painful walking, we reached outside and hired a car home. I tried dissolving the humiliation through humor.

Those with cars go door to door in comfort. They don’t understand the struggles of ordinary people.

From there, my reflections expanded—to inequality in governance, education by commercialization, political power, youth chasing comfort, artificial intelligence overshadowing natural wisdom, the loss of self-respect, and the erosion of equality.

Where is the common man?

Yet here is the turning point:

For us, the real pain was not the physical walking—it was the sense of humiliation. But my wife and I follow a life principle: Whatever comes to us in each moment, we accept it fully.

That painful half hour became the best physiotherapy session for her. We did not grow angry or hateful. By accepting the moment, we transformed suffering into insight.

Later, we even felt gratitude—to the railway staff, porters, administrators—because through that experience, we gained wisdom.

This is possible for anyone who learns the art of living in the present moment.

How?

At Tambaram station, while my wife walked slowly, I even recorded her on my phone and hummed an old Tamil film song softly:

“Is this a walk, or is it a drama unfolding…”

I imagined:

Jesus walking with the cross.

Guru Nanak leaving home in divine realization.

Mahavira in his ascetic stride.

Prophet Muhammad living practical wisdom.

Krishna teaching Arjuna attentiveness.

Buddha walking after enlightenment.

That half hour strengthened our patience and endurance. 

If we had rushed out in five minutes, would we have gained that wisdom?

If someone asks:

“What if you get a heart attack walking like this?”

Is that not a peaceful end—accepting life fully in the moment?

Modern medicine itself says heart disease often strikes those who live in constant comfort. Pain accepted becomes strength; resisted pain becomes shock.

Complaining about leaders or systems drains our energy. Every person in power is part of a larger system—like Mulla Nasruddin riding a stubborn donkey. The donkey goes where it wishes. Instead of fighting it, he learned to go along and complete his tasks.

So too with life’s systems. 

Young people always want to keep their bodies immersed in comfort. No one wishes to endure physical hardship in the search for truth. As a result, the body’s immune system is weakened, and they are struck by unspeakable illnesses. Fast food seems intent on rapidly stealing away their lifespan. In the future, it will not be only the elderly who wander the streets, abandoned; each person will drift about in confusion, lacking inner harmony and integration, alienated from themselves and having lost their sense of self.

Robots produced by artificial intelligence may have to treat them.

There is only one solution for them to regain their lost lives.

What is it?

Wherever the common person suffers distress and hardship, one must stand with them, live alongside them, and work to relieve their pain.

Here is an example:

Ten young people should go to Tambaram railway station and spend the entire day serving the elderly. Using their own money, they should buy a wheelchair and, like my wife who once stood helpless and distressed, seat those who are struggling in it, push them, and help them out of the station. That alone would be enough.

Likewise, if they use their physical strength to labor for the welfare of the poor, their natural intelligence will flourish and their minds will grow stronger.

They must stop the habit of constantly complaining to the authorities about every shortcoming. For appealing to an administration trapped in its own systems has never yet produced a permanent solution.

If this model of service continues, the frenzy among youth to secure government jobs will gradually diminish. The desire to earn through physical labor will increase. Tradition and culture will flourish again. Creativity will be renewed. 

Among young people, a culture will slowly grow that refuses to respect those who do not use their positions and authority to serve the common people. They will begin to value poverty and embrace simple living. They will come to realize that simplicity and humility alone are what truly strengthen a human being.

Fighting endlessly drains us. True freedom comes when we step down from the “donkey” of past and future, and live in the present moment.

When we react to others’ actions, we live for them. When we refuse to react, we live our own life.

Those who seek recommendations and influence to easily obtain what they need do not receive this inner nourishment (strength).

For example, suppose when my wife and I book train tickets, we are placed on the waiting list. On the day of travel, it may get converted to RAC (Reservation Against Cancellation), and the two of us would be allotted only one berth.

If it remains on the waiting list, we would cancel the ticket and simply stay home without traveling. But once it becomes RAC, we can board the reserved coach and sit on that single berth. If the ticket examiner allots another berth before midnight, well and good; otherwise, one of us must sit through the journey.

I have seen some people pay money to the official and obtain a berth through a “give and take” arrangement. We have never followed that method. Likewise, those who have connections within the railway administration often secure immediate bookings through the goodwill of officials.

If we do not pursue any of these methods, travel often remains difficult in many ways. But when I accept that difficulty with mental maturity and endure the discomfort of the night, I have felt that it turns into strength for my body.

When I see those who take shortcuts, I feel only pity. Similarly, when one person hits another, the other immediately strikes back and feels satisfaction in doing so. But if a person experiences being struck without retaliating, without feeling hurt by it, and firmly resolves not to strike back—then what sorrow can remain in life? Everything becomes blissful.

Many compete intensely for government jobs, writing numerous examinations and pushing aside thousands of others to secure a position. Even more than that, young people long to enter the railway sector or central government services. What does this show?

It shows that people do not wish to strain their bodies with hard work in life. They prefer easier work, yet want to earn a lot of money. They also seek permanent employment. The moment they secure such a job, their mind tells them, “Now that your life is permanently settled, you need not struggle or make further effort.” As a result, their enthusiasm to explore new dimensions of life and to learn new things gradually fades. They accumulate money and deposit it in the bank, and their lives pass by merely checking whether it is safe there. Poor souls!

Today’s leaders teach us only how to avoid death, charging our whole life in the process. But Saints taught us the art of dying—ego dying, expectation dying. This is not suicide. It is the art of dying to fear, ego, and resistance. One who learns that art lives forever in freedom.

Let us make artificial intelligence our servant and return to natural wisdom. Let us step down from the donkey of systems and walk freely as simple human beings.

If we are ready to die each moment, we are also ready to be born each moment.

That is the art of living moment to moment.

— S.Kulandaisamy 

For contact:

kulandhaisamy.gpf@gmail.com