The Journey of a Zygote

Thirty-five years ago, in the silent depths of existence, a single spermatozoon met an ovum, and from that union, a tiny zygote was formed. A single cell, carrying the blueprint of life, began its quiet journey.

It did not remain one for long. It divided—first into two, then four. At that moment, Ranjit Tiwari was just a four-celled being, floating in the vast, nurturing darkness of a womb. The divisions continued—eight cells, sixteen, and then thousands. Each cell carried within it tiny engines of life: mitochondria, a nucleus, a Golgi complex.

As the weeks passed, the shapeless cluster of cells began to differentiate. Some transformed into neurons, weaving the intricate circuits of thought. Others became muscle, heart, blood vessels, bone. A body took form, a brain flickered to life. For nine months, this fragile creation depended entirely on the blood of its mother, drawing oxygen, glucose, and warmth from her being.

Then, one day, it emerged—a three-kilogram mass of flesh and bone, gasping for its first breath. It was no longer connected to its mother’s bloodstream. It had entered the world of air and hunger.

The body grew. It consumed the materials of the earth—fruits, grains, water. It breathed oxygen gifted by the trees. From a formless zygote, it had become 55 kilograms of accumulated matter, borrowed from the world.

But something else happened in the process. The neurons encased in its skull began absorbing information from everything around—people, television, society. The world shaped its thoughts, filled it with knowledge, desires, ambitions, and ego. It forgot what it was.

Thirty-five years ago, it was just a zygote. A tiny speck of life that had no ambition, no attachments, no ego. It did not crave success, did not fear failure. But this body, which had grown from food and air, had learned so much nonsense from the world—things passed from one person to another, like a chain of illusions, a cycle of misguided wisdom.

And yet, I know the fate of this body. Fifty years from now—perhaps sixty, if luck allows—this physical mass will dissolve into the soil. The brain, the heart, the muscles, the eyes—all of it will rot and become one with the earth. Bacteria will break it down. It will nourish the roots of plants. Grass will sprout from what was once flesh and bone.

I have sixty years at most—unless an accident, a stroke, or a failing heart takes me sooner. But no matter when, I know what awaits. I will become nothing more than manure for the soil. The grass will drink from me, and life will go on.

And so, what should I do with the years I have?

 The Quest for Awareness and Intelligence

There was a time when I did not possess intellect. I was driven by emotions, shaped partly by genetics and partly by my environment—Hindi movies, the neighborhood, the people around me. I looked at intellectual giants like Baburam Bhattarai and Albert Einstein with awe. They had a deep, intricate understanding of their fields. I often wondered how their neurons were synapsed in their prefrontal cortex, how they could perceive the world in ways beyond my comprehension.

I saw people who acted intelligently even in adverse circumstances, while I struggled to do the same even when conditions were favorable. This contrast fueled my quest for intelligence, for deeper thinking and understanding. Yet another major roadblock in my life was my lack of attention. I had ADHD. My mind was scattered, unable to focus, always jumping from one thought to another.

I saw Osho—an epitome of awareness. He did not take even a single step without mindfulness. Every word he spoke, every bite he ate, every step he took—everything was done with complete awareness. And then there was me: walking unconsciously, eating unconsciously, reading unconsciously, watching unconsciously, and even writing unconsciously. This realization led to my second quest: attention.

Over time, I came to understand that if a person cultivates both total awareness and intelligence, their perspective changes dramatically. The things they once enjoyed lose their appeal because their mind begins analyzing the pros and cons of everything.

For instance, take sexual intercourse—an activity widely regarded as pleasurable. An aware person questions it. "Why am I expending energy on this?" the mind asks. "The neurotransmitters—dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine—that create this pleasure surge, is it worth depleting them? Why make my genitals dirty just to clean them again? What is the real purpose of this act?"

The same applies to food. An aware person cannot eat mindlessly. His brain alerts him: "Your body fat index is already high. Your subcutaneous fat—on your belly, back, thighs, calves, face, and neck—is already more than necessary. Why turn your body into a storehouse of excess fat? Do you not realize that fat cells are breeding grounds for chronic inflammation and insulin resistance? You won’t starve for a month or two, so why hoard unnecessary energy?"

Entertainment, too, loses its grip on an aware mind. Mindless scrolling, watching emotional dramas, reading unproductive content—these things become intolerable. The brain interjects: "Why waste neurotransmitters on this? Why not use this time to learn a skill that can be monetized?" The mind starts rejecting time-wasting activities and instead pushes toward something meaningful.

An aware person also refrains from pointless arguments or commenting on others’ lives. His mind nudges him: "Think of an idea. Make it successful. Why waste your limited time and energy on nonsense?"

The journey toward awareness and intelligence is not an easy one. It dismantles many illusions, strips away pleasures that once seemed essential, and rewires thinking patterns. But in the end, it leads to clarity, efficiency, and a life lived with purpose rather than compulsion.