When I need motivation, I’ll
start thinking of all the
good things I’ve heard in life –
things I adamantly vouch for,
and things that get me out
of the deep void I find
myself in at times. 
        But no line stayed with me as long as something a lawyer once told me, he told me “we must always keep in mind the single most encompassing maxim in life: 
       The show must go on.”
       It struck me then as something cheesy, an irrelevant side actor would say in a movie. But as I started thinking about it, 
all of a sudden, it struck me like lightning. This is it! This is all that life is about. It’s all a show, a display, a farce, a put-on. 
And it just goes on, no matter what. 
Who’s the audience then? 
In some of my grateful
moments I think it’s God. But
who am I kidding? Most probably
there’s no one. We live, putting
on a show with no audience.
I like to believe, if there was
someone at the start, at some
point he got up & got the hell
out of the theatre. Maybe he
was bored, was disgusted. Maybe he felt how petty people can be and that broke his heart.
I was thinking on similar lines
as the bus slowly approached my company, while we & the guys around me were discussing what they would miss the most in the approaching five months. All the while, I spaced out of the convo and was almost convinced of my ideas about life. It’s all a farce buddy. 
It’s all maya. 
Then someone from the back shouted “Panipuri!” 
That’s when I snapped back to reality. O God! To think I almost bought into my delusions! To think I almost thought that it's all an illusion and nothing matters. Nahi yaar! It can’t get anymore real than this! 
Maybe that’s the point.
Not the show. Not the audience. Not even the meaning.
Maybe life isn’t a performance at all—maybe it’s interruption.
You’re knee-deep in big thoughts, ready to crown yourself the lone philosopher on a moving bus, and reality taps you on the shoulder with greasy fingers and says, eat.
Panipuri doesn’t care about your existential crisis.
The bus doesn’t pause for your theories.
People don’t stop living just because you’re busy overthinking.
And that’s the mercy of it.
The show must go on—not because it’s profound, but because it’s happening. Whether you’re ready or not. Whether anyone’s watching or not. Whether it makes sense or not.
You can call it a farce.
You can call it maya.
You can call it meaningless.
But the taste is real.
The laughter is real.
The moment snaps you back, grabs you by the collar, and says: this is it—right here.
Maybe the meaning isn’t hidden behind the curtain.
Maybe it’s in the noise.
In the interruption.
In the guy yelling “Panipuri!” while you’re trying to solve life.
And maybe that’s enough.
No grand finale.
No audience applause.
Just the next scene rolling in—
and you, still on the bus, still here, still alive, still hungry.
So yeah.
The show must go on.
Not because it’s important—
but because stopping was never an option.