I’ve always believed philosophy in life is unnecessary.

Why waste hours thinking about the meaning of life when you can scroll through reels of people living it better than you? That’s what I thought  until I found myself in Goa, being convinced by my friends to do something that tested both my lungs and my faith in humanity, a trek to Butterfly Beach.

Now, when I say “trek,” don’t imagine snow-capped mountains or scenic trails. Picture a wet, muddy slip-n-slide that smells vaguely of frog retirement homes. It had rained the previous night, and the trail looked like nature’s attempt at teaching us humility. Six of us  armed with one bottle of water and zero sense of direction  decided to “conquer” it.

At the entry point, there was a jeep service that could’ve saved our souls (and chappals). But destiny, in the form of a man in a blue T-shirt, said, “Six people? Not possible.” Apparently, our combined existence was too heavy for the suspension system. So, like philosophers after being rejected by funding agencies, we decided to walk.

Ten minutes in, we stopped laughing. Fifteen minutes in, we stopped talking. By the twentieth, I was ready to renounce material life and become a monk which, ironically, is probably the closest I’ve ever been to practicing philosophy.

The trail was less of a path and more of a personality test. Every few meters, one of us would slip, curse, or question life choices. The rain had transformed the ground into a brown smoothie of despair. Flip flops were swallowed whole. Our clothes clung to us like guilt.

I began to see how this was less of a “trek” and more of a philosophical experiment  except none of us volunteered. Somewhere between the third and fourth near-death slips, my friend shouted, “Bro, why do people do this for fun?” A profound question, possibly echoing every existential philosopher since the dawn of humanity.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here we were, six self-proclaimed rational beings, walking through mud for no measurable benefit, just because someone on Google reviews said, “Totally worth it.” It was like being stuck in Plato’s cave, except instead of shadows, we had mosquitoes.
Somewhere along the trail we saw a kid, couldn’t have been more than five walking barefoot through the same mud that we were dramatically trying to survive. She wasn’t complaining, wasn’t even bothered. There was a strange confidence in her little steps, as if she knew the mud could be washed away, but not the memory of walking through it. That curiousness, that simple understanding of a child  to walk fearlessly, knowing the dirt isn’t permanent  that’s what we lacked.

I guess that’s what happens when we grow up. We get too careful. Too calculating. We forget that the bads in life can be washed away, and the good moments can be framed, stored, and smiled at later. The kid didn’t care about life she just lived it, bare feet and all.

Halfway through, just when the collective hope of humanity began to fade, a jeep rolled past us. It was the same model that had earlier refused us. Inside were eight people  dry, smug, and clearly unburdened by philosophical growth. They waved. We waved back, but in the universal language of silent suffering.
In that moment, I realised something crucial, life is just this, the constant attempt to find meaning in a world that keeps driving past you, waving cheerfully from its air-conditioned ignorance.

One of my friends muttered, “If we ever get back, I’m buying that jeep.” Another replied, “Or enlightenment, whichever is cheaper.”

By now, the forest had fully embraced us. The sound of crickets felt like mockery. My flip flops made noises resembling existential sighs. At one point, I tried to distract myself by thinking about something intellectual  like “Phones are the only things that never ask a question but still is answered” or the price of alcohol in Goa but the only thing my brain produced was, “Why is this beach not on Google Maps with a warning label?”

Yet somewhere between complaining and collapsing, something shifted. The walk became rhythmic. The mind, once loud, went quiet. There was nothing to think about except the next step. It wasn’t peace exactly, but it was something like awareness the kind that sneaks up on you when your body gives up before your mind does.

Maybe that’s what life actually is, not thinking about it from an armchair, but understanding it when you’re knee-deep in its mud.

And then, just as the sarcasm reached saturation, the trees opened up. There it was  Butterfly Beach. A golden half-moon of sand hugged by turquoise water. It was absurdly beautiful, like the universe had been holding out a punchline.

We stood there in silence, dripping, panting, and suddenly… grateful. The sea looked infinite, the breeze forgiving. It hit me again, life isn’t about asking “Why?”, it’s about realising “Ah, that’s why.”

I saw that same kid at the beach again. She was running toward the waves, laughing, her feet splashing as the water touched the shore and rolled back. Her excitement mirrored ours six grown men suddenly acting like children again, throwing ourselves into the sea. And that’s when I realised, new experiences are exciting no matter the age. You don’t need a burnout, a crisis, or a breakup to deserve joy. All that matters is your intention  to reach new places, to try new things, to live a little outside your comfort zone.

I hated the idea of treks. Still do, to be honest. But that day, somewhere between the mud and the sea, the hatred softened  maybe I still hate them, but now I’m a little more willing to go on another one.

As we sat on the beach, someone said, “Bro, this was worth it.” Another replied, “Shut up.” But even he smiled. I looked at the waves dissolving our footprints and thought, maybe this is what philosophy tries to do, remind us that life’s mess is what makes the view meaningful.

So yes, philosophy in life is unnecessary.
Until you’re stuck in Goa’s mud, out of breath, and realising that every stupid, slippery step somehow led you to the sea.

On our way back from the sea, we had to go through the trek again, the same muddy, slippery, and irritating trail with the sound of crickets still mocking us. But somehow, this time it felt easier. Not because we had mastered the path or accepted its misery, but because we knew that even if one of us slipped, there were five others who would first laugh, and then pick us up, check for bruises, and carry on together. Sometimes, you don’t need to meet new people in life, you just need to truly understand the ones who’ve been beside you all along. The one who’ll run out of breath just so you don’t miss a train. The one who somehow manages to get everyone ready from stay to transport. The one who hides care behind constant teasing. The one who doesn’t know half of what’s going on but is ready to argue with a shopkeeper just because he saw him raise his voice at you. And the one who creates chaos and still always knows how to fix it. Life really is a trek to a beautiful beach, and sometimes, when you aren’t interested in walking it alone, He gives you a bunch of SAINTS who’ll stumble, slip, and laugh their way through it with you.

In the end, life isn’t about avoiding the mud, it’s about finding beauty even when you’re covered in it. As someone once said, “Existence may be absurd, but it’s ours to make beautiful.”