The Alchemy of my mornings.

 At 36, life did not send a formal appraisal note. Instead, it unfolded slowly beneath the weight of routine and responsibilities, with reshuffled priorities and a questioned sense of purpose, eventually leaving me standing at an unsettling crossroads. The kind HR professionals would recognize as more than just a midlife phase. It felt like one of those appraisal cycles where everything on paper looks perfectly stable. Role unchanged, designation untouched, but deep inside, the “employee of the year” energy had silently resigned without even serving notice.

That was the moment I began to walk, not as a symbol of change, but simply as movement, one step at a time, in the real world.

One hour every morning through the narrow, winding streets of Muttrah, a place where time seems to pause just long enough for you to notice what you usually ignore.

At 6:30 a.m., the city is not asleep. It has already lived a full chapter.

The first people I encounter are the civic workers. Brooms in hand, backs slightly bent, eyes lowered to shield themselves from the already harsh morning sun. They have already started their day before most alarms have even rung. No applause follows them. No “good morning.” Not even the courtesy of an eye contact, sometimes. Yet, like invisible custodians of the dawn, they continue their work with a silent dignity that asks for nothing (but deserves everything).

And there I am. Walking past them in cushioned shoes, wireless earbuds humming my favorite playlist, sipping on the luxury of my “me time.”

Meanwhile, these men (it has been always only MEN so far ) have probably completed half a lifetime before my first cup of coffee.

It is hard not to notice the contrast.

A few steps ahead, I see groups of migrant workers standing along the pavements in faded uniforms, waiting quietly for buses that will carry them to another demanding day. There is a stillness in the way they stand, as if life has trained them to occupy as little space as possible. Soon, buses will arrive to take them to construction sites, mountains, roads, to places where the sun is unforgiving and their work even more so.

They don’t complain. Yet, if you pause long enough to truly look at them, every face carries a story.

A sister’s wedding waiting to be funded.
A younger brother’s education depending on remittances.
An ailing mother whose medicines cannot wait.
An absent or irresponsible father whose silence has become a burden.
A wife back home, holding together a fragile world with hope and prayer.
Children who measure love through video calls and missed birthdays.

No one asks them how their day will be.
No one waits to hear how their yesterday went.

They simply board their buses, not just to work, but to endure, to provide, to survive.

And then a few meters on, almost poetically, the scene shifts.

From a tiny alley, so narrow you would never imagine life could fit inside it, emerges a mother holding her child’s hand. These are streets where homes appear as if they have grown out of necessity rather than design. Modest, worn, but undeniably alive.

I see a few mothers step out of their homes (it has been ONLY the Mother’s so far). She adjusts the child’s uniform, carries the school bag. Sometimes she even walks faster than her own fatigue would allow, because school buses don’t wait, and neither does life.

A few yards further, I pass an elderly security guard outside a warehouse. His eyes fight sleep, not out of choice but out of duty. He may not have slept all night. Yet there he is, guarding someone else’s property while his own body begs for rest.

It is in these moments that my own worries, those “ten thousand things” that seemed so overwhelming when I woke up begin to shrink.

Not disappear, of course. Life is not that generous .

But they shrink.

Perspective has a strange way of doing that. It quietly resizes problems without needing a motivational podcast, a LinkedIn quote from a CEO who wakes up at 4 a.m., or a ₹4,999 “Transform Your Life” webinar.

Back home in India, I grew up with certain assumptions about struggle. But living in Muscat, in a foreign land, you begin to see a different texture of resilience. You realize that hardship does not always shout. Sometimes, it quietly shows up at 6:30 a.m., picks up a broom, boards a bus, or walks a child to school.

Friends have warned me about these walks.

“Those areas are isolated.”
“Don’t go alone so early.”
“Be careful.”

I understand their concern. But over time, I have come to believe something deeply human.

The faces I encounter every morning are not faces of danger. They are faces of purpose. Faces moved by something far stronger than fear. It is responsibility, love, sacrifice, and above all, survival.

And honestly, I feel much safer among them than I do in spaces where appearances are deceptive. Where polished masks often conceal hollow intentions.

There is  a quote I often think about during these walks:

“Sometimes the nicest people you meet smoke and drink, and sometimes the most evil people go to church/mosque/temple on Sundays.”

And perhaps that is why Martin Luther King Jr.’s timeless words feel even more relevant to me now:

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

Life has a funny way of challenging our assumptions. The more I walk through these streets, the more I understand to be less judgemental.

Kindness does not wear a particular uniform.

Integrity does not arrive with social status or polished appearance.

And goodness often walks quietly among ordinary people, unnoticed by the world rushing past them.

These morning walks have become more than just a fitness routine. They have turned into a classroom without walls. Every passerby is a teacher.

It reminds me deeply of my favourite book, The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. There is a beautiful idea in that book that nothing in life is random. Every person you meet, every path you cross, every detour you take, it all carries a lesson. But only if YOU are willing to see it.

In my case, Muttrah has become my desert, and these walks have become my journey. I may not be chasing a hidden treasure, but I am discovering something equally valuable: perspective.

And above that it is “Gratitude”.

There is a strange humility that creeps in when you realize how much you have been given without asking.

A body that can walk; A mind that can reflect.

Parents who shaped you; A family that supports you.

Children who give your life meaning.

“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others”- Marcus Tullius Cicero.

So now, every morning, as I step into those narrow streets, I carry less judgment and more awareness.

Less complaint and more curiosity.

Less entitlement and more gratitude.

And occasionally, a smile. Because maybe someone has not received one yet today.

Life is not just happening to you. It is happening around you. And sometimes, the lessons you need most are walking right past you at 6:30 in the morning.

You just have to notice.

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