Imperfect Perfection
Based on a true story.
I bought a t-shirt recently. It says "in nature, everything is perfect, and nothing is perfect." What does that mean? I don't know, it's honestly open to interpretation. I was coincidentally wearing the same t-shirt that day.
I almost stayed home. Almost chose the safety of unfinished work over the uncertainty of reconnecting with someone after years. When you were running late, I caught myself wondering if I should have just stayed home, completed those pending tasks, avoided the potential awkwardness of time stretched thin between two people who had almost forgotten each other.
But something made me wait. Maybe it was the knowledge that we don't know when we'll meet again. Maybe it was the hope that some things in life transcend time and distance.
What followed were five hours that reminded me why we're here. Not just to exist in our individual spaces, but to walk alongside each other, to share thoughts and dreams, to discover pieces of ourselves reflected in someone else's eyes.
We got off at the station and walked through Bengaluru with no fixed destination in mind. Just two people talking about everything and nothing. This might need a little more context, that you were very much in love with Delhi while I openly hated it. And in my defence, it is no Switzerland. It is chaotic and messy, noisy without reason, and the unforgiving weather and polluted environment is incredibly depressing. The only thing worth appreciating is probably the metro system, the best in the country.
So what I often think, I love it here in Bengaluru, but you tell me you don't. Somehow throughout this whole conversation, you helped me realise that I don't actually hate Delhi; I hate the idea of Delhi that I've constructed in my mind. For someone who has always loved mountains and nature, Delhi has represented everything opposite to that peace.
But hate, I've learned, is easy. Love is complicated, messy, and requires us to look beyond our preconceptions. Maybe things aren't as bad as I say they are. Guess I'll call it a love-hate story from now on. Thanks for making me rethink it all.
Perhaps we don't love places because they're perfect. We love them because they hold our people, our stories, and our memories.
When it started pouring, we found ourselves agreeing with a kind auto rickshaw driver to take us to a random saree shop en route to where we wanted to go, so he could earn a cut from the sale (such shops often pay them for helping bring in customers, in what works like an offline referral program). In our case, we were helping him earn a gas coupon just by browsing for a few minutes. It was a small but elaborate shop. You found a colour that seemed perfect on you. Always pretty, even more so in pink. As it continued to pour while we were heading towards where we wanted to go, the driver asked us the amount we had spent in that shop. Later, while dropping us off, he told us that our small purchase wouldn't actually help him get what he needed. I felt disappointed in myself for not asking before, for not doing enough, but there was something beautiful in that moment of trying, of spontaneous generosity, of saying yes to his previous request.
Half-soaked but delighted, we wandered through the crowded market, shared a pizza that tasted magical, not because of its toppings, but because of the joy of being present in that moment. We struggled through ice cream we couldn't finish, talking about life's strange perennial exhaustion and the different reasons we all have for wanting to escape sometimes. Talking about cities we love and hate, and why we think we feel the way we do about places that are supposed to be home.
Then came the most spontaneous decision of all. Instead of saying goodbye at the metro station, I decided to accompany you a few stations in the opposite direction without really thinking about it. When I realised we were heading toward Vidhan Soudha, which I had previously mentioned to you about wanting to see it at night, I immediately suggested we stop to see the illuminated building, as the perfect way to end this weirdly beautiful day. You were exhausted but said yes.
But when we got there, the building wasn't lit up. The area was dead empty. Just two friends standing in the drizzle, taking photos of something that looked nothing like what we'd expected. But somehow, it was exactly right.
There is this thing about perfectionism: it promises you excellence but delivers paralysis. It tells you that nothing is worth striving for unless it's utterly flawless, that every moment must be optimised as much as possible, that every experience must be Instagrammable. But today was something different. The pizza wasn't the best I'd ever had. The ice cream was too much. The building wasn't lit up. We got soaked in the rain. Nothing went according to plan. And yet, it was perfect in its imperfection. The delays, the confusion, the spontaneous decisions, these weren't faults in our plan. They were the plan.
We live in a world obsessed with hyper-perfection, of curated feeds that show only the highlight reel, images filtered beyond recognition, lives that appear aesthetic yet effortless. Every image is morphed from reality, every moment is glorified for attention, every flaw is hidden like it never existed. We seem to have turned into performance artists of our own lives, constantly measuring ourselves against impossible standards that don't exist. We've commercialised authenticity itself, turning "realness" into another brand to perfect and polish. The irony just laughs in a corner.
This isn't about romanticising mediocrity or pretending that standards don't matter. Most days will be ordinary. Most conversations will be forgettable. Most plans will fall through. Most of what we create won't be groundbreaking. But we should also take a moment to pause in our busy lives and embrace this strange, beautiful, messy experience of being human while we're here. The perfect moment will never come. The perfect plan will never be ready. The perfect words will never be written. But this moment, this precious, unrepeatable, imperfect moment, it is happening right now and now only.
As I sat on the train back home, still wearing that t-shirt with its cryptic message, I finally understood what it meant. Everything about that day was imperfect. The rain, the failed attempt to help a kind man, the unfinished ice cream, the building that wasn't illuminated. But it was also perfect in its imperfection.
Perfection doesn't exist. What are you chasing? Maybe you should be chasing imperfect perfection instead. Because that's what makes it all beautiful, the wandering, the unexpected trips and detours, the moments when nothing goes as planned but everything actually goes exactly as it should.
That's what we're here for. Not the "perfect" moments, but the perfectly imperfect ones. The ones that remind us that in nature, everything is perfect, and nothing is perfect. And somehow, that's exactly enough.
P.S. Here's a gentle reminder to text that old friend. Talk about everything and nothing. Buy the ice cream you can't finish. Stand in the rain looking at buildings that aren't what you expected. Post the imperfect post. Have the conversation you're not fully prepared for. And when you do reach out, send them this post, maybe they need to hear it too.