The Garden of Simple Joys
A lesson in Epicureanism
This is a story I wish I had read when I was younger, filled with the wisdom I wish I had learned sooner.
Co-authored with Claude. I hope you’ll enjoy it.
Chapter 1: The Restless Student
Amir’s phone buzzed for the third time in as many minutes. He glanced down at the screen, his thumb already moving to refresh Instagram. Forty-seven likes on his latest post. Not bad, but Jason had gotten seventy-two on his. Amir frowned and pocketed the phone, trying to focus on the textbook in front of him.
The air conditioning at the tutoring center hummed steadily, but Amir felt hot and restless. Around him, other students bent over their desks, highlighters in hand, preparing for the upcoming exams. Through the window, Kuala Lumpur sprawled in the late afternoon haze, the twin towers barely visible through the humidity.
“Amir? You’re doing Additional Mathematics next, right?” his tutor called out.
“Yes, Miss.”
He opened his notebook, already filled with neat equations and color-coded notes. Everything was organized, everything was planned. He had a schedule that mapped out every hour of his week: school, tutoring, extra tutoring for the subjects where he wasn’t top of the class, study sessions, debate club. Even his leisure time was scheduled. Thirty minutes for social media before bed, one hour for gaming on Saturday afternoons only.
His parents were proud. His teachers praised him. He had won three academic awards last year and was aiming for five this year. His Instagram showed a carefully curated life of success: photos at debate competitions, screenshots of his test scores with humble-brag captions, pictures of him with the expensive sneakers he’d saved up for months to buy.
Yet somewhere in his chest, there was a constant tightness. A feeling like he was running on a treadmill that kept speeding up. Every achievement felt good for maybe a day, sometimes just an hour, before the anxiety crept back in. What’s next? Who’s ahead? What if I slip?
The tutoring session ended at seven. Amir packed his bag methodically, checking off the session in his planner app. Tuesday evening tutoring: complete. He had one hour before he needed to be home for dinner, which meant he had one hour to study at a café and post a photo to show he was still grinding. #HustleMode #FutureDoctor #NoRestForTheAmbitious
He walked down the narrow streets of Taman Tun Dr Ismail, past the usual row of shops. His phone buzzed again. A message from his mother asking him to pick up some eggs on the way home. Amir sighed. That would take time he hadn’t scheduled.
He took a shortcut through an alley he’d never noticed before, squeezed between a row of old shophouses. The buildings here were older, their paint faded, their five-foot ways cluttered with potted plants and plastic stools. The sounds of the main road faded slightly.
That’s when he saw it: a small garden tucked behind a kopitiam, barely visible from the street. Green leaves spilled over a low wall, and he could make out tomato plants, some herbs, and a small tree he couldn’t identify. In the middle of it all, an old Chinese man sat on a wooden stool, carefully tending to a row of seedlings.
The man looked up and caught Amir staring. He had the kind of face that held a lot of years, his hair completely white, his skin weathered but his eyes sharp and bright.
“Looking for something, young man?”
Amir shook his head quickly. “No, Uncle. Sorry for disturbing.”
“No disturbance. Just surprised to see a student around here at this hour. Most young people are at the mall or the tuition centers.” The old man gestured around. “You lost?”
“Just taking a shortcut.” Amir adjusted his backpack. “I need to get to the market before it closes.”
“Ah. Always rushing, you young people.” The man returned his attention to his seedlings, his movements slow and deliberate. “This garden has been here for thirty years. Not many people notice it anymore.”
Amir didn’t know why he lingered. He had things to do, a schedule to keep. But something about the quietness of the space made him pause. The garden was small, maybe the size of two parking spaces, but it felt like a different world from the rush of KL just meters away.
“You’re a student?” the old man asked without looking up.
“Yes, Uncle. Form Five.”
“Studying hard for SPM, I suppose?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“And after that? University?”
“Medicine, hopefully. If I get good enough grades.”
The old man nodded slowly. “Medicine is a good path. Important work.” He stood up with a slight grunt, brushing dirt from his hands. “I’m Lim. I used to teach philosophy at a university. Retired now.”
“Philosophy?” Amir had heard the word but had never really thought about it. It wasn’t tested in SPM.
“Yes. The study of how to think, how to live, what makes life worthwhile.” Uncle Lim smiled slightly. “Not very popular anymore. Everyone wants engineering, medicine, law. Practical things.”
“Well... those are good careers, Uncle.”
“Of course, of course. I’m not saying they’re not.” Uncle Lim walked over to a small table where a thermos sat. “But I wonder sometimes if young people know why they want these things. Is it because they truly desire them, or because they think they should?”
Amir felt oddly defensive. “I want to help people. That’s why medicine.”
“Do you?” Uncle Lim poured some tea into a small cup. “Or do you want people to respect you? Want your parents to be proud? Want to post your acceptance letter online?”
The words hit closer than Amir wanted to admit. His face grew hot. “I should go. The market...”
“Of course. Don’t let an old man keep you.” Uncle Lim sipped his tea. “But if you’re ever tired of rushing, the garden is here. Sometimes it’s good to sit somewhere quiet and think about what you’re really running toward.”
Amir mumbled a goodbye and hurried out of the alley. His heart was beating fast, though he wasn’t sure why. The old man’s questions rattled in his head as he walked to the market, bought the eggs, and headed home.
That night, he lay in bed scrolling through his phone. His post from the café had gotten sixty-three likes. Better than earlier, but still not as many as Jason’s. He felt the familiar tightness in his chest.
Why did he feel so tired all the time? Why was it that even when he succeeded, it never felt like enough?
He thought about the garden, that small pocket of stillness behind the kopitiam. Uncle Lim’s face, calm and unhurried. The careful way he’d handled the seedlings, like each one mattered.
Amir turned off his phone and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow was Wednesday. More tutoring, more studying, more of the same.
But maybe, if he had time, he’d walk past that alley again.
Chapter 2: Not All Pleasures Are Equal
The week that followed was particularly brutal. Three major tests, a debate competition, and a group project that somehow fell entirely on Amir’s shoulders because nobody else seemed to care about getting an A. By Thursday evening, Amir felt like a rubber band stretched too tight.
He’d scored 87 on his Chemistry test. Eighty-seven. It was a good score by any reasonable measure, but Marcus had gotten 92, and now Marcus was ahead of him in the class ranking. The number felt like a weight pressing down on his chest.
After his last tutoring session, Amir found himself walking toward that alley again. He told himself it was just another shortcut, but his feet carried him straight to the garden wall.
Uncle Lim was there, as if he’d been expecting him. The old man was watering his plants with a battered green watering can, humming something under his breath.
“Ah, the medical student returns,” Uncle Lim said without turning around. “Come in, come in. Don’t stand there like a stranger.”
Amir hesitated, then pushed open the small gate. Up close, the garden was even more remarkable. Every available space held something growing: herbs in old biscuit tins, flowering plants in repurposed paint buckets, vegetables in proper pots. It was chaotic but somehow peaceful.
“Sit.” Uncle Lim gestured to a plastic stool near the small table. “You look like you need tea.”
“I’m fine, Uncle.”
“Nobody who says they’re fine actually is.” Uncle Lim disappeared into the back of the kopitiam and returned with a tray holding a teapot, two cups, and a plate of kuih. Simple ones, the kind Amir’s grandmother used to make. Kuih keria and some onde-onde.
Uncle Lim poured the tea with steady hands. “Drink. This is chrysanthemum tea. Very cooling. Good for stress.”
Amir took the cup and sipped. It was slightly sweet, floral, soothing. He hadn’t realized how tense his shoulders were until they started to relax.
“So,” Uncle Lim said, settling onto his own stool. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Just a busy week.”
“Busy doing what? Running after grades? Likes on your phone?”
Amir flushed. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” Uncle Lim bit into a kuih keria, chewing thoughtfully. “You know, I taught philosophy for thirty-five years. One philosopher I always came back to was Epicurus. Ancient Greek fellow, lived over two thousand years ago.”
“I’ve heard the name.” Amir had vague memories from a History lesson. “Wasn’t he about... pleasure?”
“Ah, everyone thinks that.” Uncle Lim smiled. “They hear ‘Epicurus’ and think of feasting, indulgence, excess. But that’s not what he taught at all. In fact, he lived quite simply. Garden, friends, simple food. Much like this.” He gestured around them.
Amir took one of the onde-onde, the green rice flour ball sticky in his fingers. He bit into it, and the gula melaka oozed out, sweet and rich. It was delicious in a way that the expensive cakes from trendy cafés somehow never were.
“Epicurus taught that we all pursue pleasure and avoid pain,” Uncle Lim continued. “This is natural, basic human nature. But here’s the important part: not all pleasures are equal.”
“What do you mean?”
“He divided pleasures into categories. Some are necessary, some are unnecessary. Some are natural, some are empty.” Uncle Lim refilled Amir’s cup. “A necessary pleasure is something like food when you’re hungry, or rest when you’re tired. It satisfies a real need. An unnecessary pleasure is something you want but don’t actually need.”
Amir thought about his sneakers. The ones he’d saved three months to buy. He’d wanted them so badly, had felt such a rush when he finally got them. But that feeling had faded within a week, and now they just sat in his closet, occasionally making an appearance in Instagram photos.
“But here’s what Epicurus really understood,” Uncle Lim said, his voice gentle but firm. “Some pleasures lead to more pain than joy. They seem good in the moment, but they cost you in the long run.”
“Like what?”
“Like eating until you’re sick. Or spending money you don’t have. Or drinking too much. The pleasure is real, but temporary. The pain that follows lasts much longer.” Uncle Lim paused. “Or chasing after fame and status. That’s an endless hunger. You feed it and feed it, but it’s never satisfied.”
Amir felt something twist in his stomach. “But... ambition is good, isn’t it? Working hard, achieving things?”
“Of course. But why do you work hard? Is it because the work itself brings you joy? Or because you want others to see you as successful?” Uncle Lim’s eyes were kind but penetrating. “Is it the pleasure of learning, or the pleasure of being better than your classmates?”
Amir stared at his tea. He thought about the hours he spent checking his ranking, the way his mood rose and fell with every test score, every social media post. The sick feeling in his stomach when someone did better than him. The brief high when he won something, followed immediately by anxiety about the next competition.
“I...” he started, then stopped. “I don’t know anymore.”
“That’s honest.” Uncle Lim nodded approvingly. “Most people never even ask themselves that question. They just keep running, wondering why they’re always exhausted, always unsatisfied.”
They sat in silence for a while. The evening air was cooling, and Amir could hear the distant sounds of the city, muffled by the garden’s walls. Here, surrounded by plants and simple food, drinking tea with an old man he barely knew, Amir felt something he hadn’t felt in months. Peace. Just for a moment.
“This,” Uncle Lim said softly, “this is an Epicurean pleasure. Simple, natural, necessary. Tea with a friend. Food that nourishes. A quiet place to rest. These things cost almost nothing, but they give real contentment.”
“But you can’t live your whole life just drinking tea in a garden,” Amir protested. “People need to achieve things, earn money, make something of themselves.”
“True. But you can ask yourself: what kind of achievement brings lasting satisfaction? What kind of success lets you sleep peacefully at night?” Uncle Lim finished his tea. “Epicurus wasn’t against ambition or work. He was against the wrong kind of desires. The ones that promise happiness but deliver only more wanting.”
Amir thought about his phone, still in his pocket. He hadn’t checked it once since entering the garden. Usually, he couldn’t go ten minutes without looking at it.
“Those sneakers you’re wearing,” Uncle Lim said, and Amir looked down in surprise at his feet. “Expensive, I’m guessing?”
“Quite.”
“Did they make you happy?”
Amir opened his mouth to say yes, then closed it. “For a little while.”
“And now?”
“Now they’re just shoes.”
Uncle Lim laughed, a warm sound. “Exactly. That’s an ‘empty’ pleasure, as Epicurus would say. It seems to promise something, happiness or status or admiration, but it doesn’t deliver. The pleasure evaporates, leaving you looking for the next thing to buy, the next thing to achieve.”
“So what should I do? Just give up everything and sit in gardens?”
“No, no.” Uncle Lim shook his head. “Just be honest about what truly brings you contentment versus what brings you empty excitement. Some things that seem pleasurable are actually sources of pain. The constant comparison with others, that’s pain. The anxiety about your ranking, that’s pain. The need for validation from strangers online, that’s pain dressed up as pleasure.”
Amir felt something crack open inside him, a realization he’d been avoiding. “I’m tired,” he admitted quietly. “I’m so tired, Uncle Lim. But I don’t know how to stop.”
“You don’t have to stop everything. Just stop chasing the wrong things.” Uncle Lim stood and stretched. “Start noticing which activities truly nourish you, and which ones drain you while pretending to fill you up.”
As Amir left the garden that evening, his backpack felt lighter somehow, though he hadn’t removed anything from it. Uncle Lim had sent him home with a small bag of onde-onde.
“Share them with your family,” the old man had said. “Simple pleasures are better when shared.”
Walking home through the darkening streets of Taman Tun Dr Ismail, Amir pulled out his phone. Seven notifications. He almost opened Instagram, then stopped. Instead, he pocketed the phone and just walked, noticing things he usually rushed past. A cat sleeping on a motorcycle seat. An old couple sharing tea at a mamak stall. The smell of frying onions from someone’s kitchen.
Small things. Simple things. And for the first time in months, Amir felt something that wasn’t anxiety.
He didn’t have a word for it yet, but it felt something like peace.
Chapter 3: The Pain We Choose
The school assembly hall was packed with students, teachers, and parents. Amir sat in the third row, his posture perfect, his face calm. Inside, his heart hammered against his ribs.
This was supposed to be his moment. The Outstanding Student Award. He’d won it last year, and everyone expected him to win it again. He’d worked for it, sacrificed for it, organized his entire year around being worthy of it.
The principal stepped up to the microphone. “And this year’s Outstanding Student Award goes to... Sarah Tan.”
The applause was thunderous. Amir clapped along with everyone else, the smile frozen on his face. Sarah walked up to the stage, beaming, and Amir felt something ugly twist in his chest. She deserved it, he knew that rationally. Sarah was brilliant, kind, involved in everything. But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.
After the assembly, people kept coming up to him. “Better luck next time!” “You’ll get top student in SPM for sure!” “Don’t worry, you’re still amazing!” Each well-meaning comment felt like salt in a wound.
By the time school ended, Amir’s jaw ached from maintaining his smile. He skipped his tutoring session without telling anyone and found himself walking, not quite sure where he was going until his feet carried him to the familiar alley.
The garden was quiet in the late afternoon. Uncle Lim was pruning his tomato plants, carefully removing dead leaves and tying up wayward stems.
“Uncle,” Amir said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.
Uncle Lim looked up, took one look at Amir’s face, and set down his pruning shears. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”
Amir collapsed onto the plastic stool. Now that he was here, away from the eyes of his classmates and teachers, he felt the tightness in his chest threatening to crack open completely.
Uncle Lim returned with the tea and sat down without saying anything. He just poured, handed Amir a cup, and waited.
“I didn’t win,” Amir finally said. “The award I’ve been working toward all year. Someone else got it.”
“I’m sorry. That must hurt.”
“It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t care this much.” Amir stared into his tea. “Sarah deserved it. She’s great. It’s just... I worked so hard. I gave up everything. And it wasn’t enough.”
“What did you give up?”
Amir thought about it. “Time with my friends. They stopped inviting me out because I always said no. Sleep, most nights. Reading for fun. Playing futsal, which I used to love. My sister asked me to help her with a project last month and I was too busy.” He felt shame wash over him. “I gave up a lot, Uncle Lim. And for what?”
“For an award you didn’t win,” Uncle Lim said gently. “But let me ask you something. Even if you had won, would it have been worth all that?”
Amir opened his mouth to say yes, then hesitated. He remembered winning last year. The rush of pride, the congratulations, his parents’ joy. But he also remembered that the feeling had faded within a week. By the second week, he was already anxious about maintaining his position, about winning again next year.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
Uncle Lim nodded. “Epicurus talked about this. About the pain we inflict on ourselves by chasing the wrong things. He said there are natural pains, unavoidable ones. Hunger, cold, illness. But then there are pains we choose, pains we create ourselves.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anxiety about the future, that’s a pain we create. The future hasn’t happened yet, but we suffer for it today.” Uncle Lim sipped his tea. “Comparing ourselves to others, that’s a pain we choose. There will always be someone smarter, richer, more successful. If we measure ourselves against others, we guarantee our own misery.”
Amir thought about the hours he’d spent checking the class rankings, the sick feeling every time someone scored higher than him, the way he couldn’t enjoy his own successes because he was too busy comparing them to everyone else’s.
“And desire for things we don’t need,” Uncle Lim continued. “That’s another self-inflicted pain. The more we want things that aren’t necessary for our wellbeing, the more we suffer when we don’t get them.”
“But this award matters,” Amir protested. “It goes on my university application.”
“Does it? Or do you just think it does?” Uncle Lim leaned back. “Tell me honestly. Is the pain you’re feeling right now about your university application? Or is it about pride, about status, about wanting to be seen as the best?”
Amir felt his face grow hot. “Maybe... maybe both.”
“That’s honest.” Uncle Lim smiled slightly. “You know, when I was your age, younger even, I wanted to be rich. Not just comfortable, but wealthy. Big house, fancy car, all of it. I came from a poor family, and I thought money would solve everything, would make me happy, would make people respect me.”
“What happened?”
“I worked like a demon. Studied accounting instead of philosophy, which was what I loved. Got a job at a big firm in KL. Made good money, even.” Uncle Lim’s eyes grew distant. “I worked sixty, seventy hours a week. Missed my father’s funeral because I was closing a deal. Lost my first girlfriend because I never had time for her. Developed an ulcer from the stress.”
“But you made the money?”
“I did. And you know what I discovered? It didn’t make me happy. The big house felt empty. The car was just a way to get places. I’d spent years chasing something that, once I caught it, turned out to be hollow.” Uncle Lim shook his head. “That’s when I found Epicurus. Read his works and realized I’d been inflicting pain on myself for years, chasing pleasures that weren’t really pleasures at all.”
“So you quit?”
“Eventually. Went back to school, studied philosophy, became a teacher. Made a fraction of what I used to make. But I slept better. Enjoyed my days. Had time for friends, for reading, for this garden.” He gestured around them. “I chose a different kind of life. One with less of the pain I’d been creating for myself.”
Amir sat with that for a moment. The garden was peaceful in the fading light, the city sounds distant and muffled. A butterfly landed on one of the tomato plants, its wings opening and closing slowly.
“I don’t know how to stop caring,” Amir said quietly. “About the rankings, the awards, what people think. It feels like if I stop chasing these things, I’ll just be... nothing.”
“No,” Uncle Lim said firmly. “You’ll be yourself. Your real self, not the self you’ve constructed to impress others.” He leaned forward. “Listen, Amir. Ambition isn’t bad. Working hard isn’t bad. But when these things cause you more pain than joy, when you sacrifice your peace of mind, your relationships, your health, then you need to ask: what am I really chasing?”
“I thought I was chasing success.”
“Success at what? Being better than Sarah? Being admired by people who don’t really know you? Or success at living a good life, whatever that means to you?”
Amir didn’t have an answer. He thought about the past year. The constant stress, the way his stomach hurt most mornings, the distance that had grown between him and his friends. He’d told himself it was all worth it, that these were necessary sacrifices. But were they?
“Epicurus taught that we should examine our desires,” Uncle Lim said. “Ask ourselves: is this desire natural? Is it necessary? Will satisfying it bring lasting peace or just temporary pleasure followed by more wanting?” He paused. “And most importantly: is the pain of pursuing it worth the pleasure of achieving it?”
“How do you know? How do you decide?”
“By being honest with yourself. By noticing how you feel.” Uncle Lim stood and began closing up his tools. “That girl who won the award, Sarah. Is she your friend?”
“She used to be. We were close in Form Three.”
“And now?”
“I... I pushed her away. I couldn’t stand how good she was at everything. It felt like competition, not friendship.”
“So you inflicted loneliness on yourself,” Uncle Lim said, not unkindly. “You turned a potential source of joy, friendship, into a source of pain, rivalry. That’s the kind of pain Epicurus warned about. Self-created, unnecessary, avoidable.”
Amir felt tears prick at his eyes. He’d been so focused on winning, on being the best, that he’d lost sight of what actually mattered. And now, sitting in this quiet garden with an old man he barely knew, he felt more at peace than he had in months. More at peace than he’d felt even when he’d won last year.
“What should I do?” he asked.
“Start by forgiving yourself. You’re young, you’re learning. We all chase the wrong things sometimes.” Uncle Lim put a hand on Amir’s shoulder. “Then start paying attention. Notice which thoughts cause you pain. The comparison, the anxiety, the constant measuring yourself against others. When you catch yourself doing these things, ask: is this necessary? Is this helping me or hurting me?”
“That sounds hard.”
“It is. But it gets easier with practice.” Uncle Lim smiled. “And remember, Epicurus didn’t say to avoid all pain. Some pain is necessary. The pain of hard work, of discipline, of growth. But the pain of anxiety, of comparison, of endless wanting? That pain serves no purpose. That’s the pain we can let go.”
As Amir walked home that evening, he felt different. Lighter somehow, though also sad. He’d lost the award, but maybe he’d gained something else. A perspective, a question to ask himself. Is this pain necessary? Am I choosing to suffer?
He pulled out his phone and opened Instagram. For a moment, he scrolled through posts of people celebrating, achieving, showing off. He felt the familiar twist of envy and inadequacy start to rise. Then he paused, Uncle Lim’s words in his mind.
Is this necessary? Is this helping me or hurting me?
He closed the app and pocketed his phone. Tomorrow, he decided, he would talk to Sarah. Apologize for being a terrible friend. Maybe see if there was any way to rebuild what he’d lost.
It wouldn’t fix everything. He still felt the sting of disappointment. But for the first time, he understood that some of his pain was optional. Some of it, he could choose to let go.
And that realization, small as it was, felt like the beginning of something important.
Chapter 4: The Garden Test
Amir showed up at the garden on Saturday morning, a notebook tucked under his arm. Uncle Lim was transplanting seedlings into larger pots, his movements careful and deliberate.
“Uncle, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About noticing which things bring peace and which bring pain.”
Uncle Lim looked up, a smile creasing his weathered face. “Good. Thinking is the first step. But thinking alone won’t change anything. You need to observe, to pay attention to your actual experience.”
“That’s why I brought this.” Amir held up the notebook. “I thought maybe I could write things down.”
“Excellent idea.” Uncle Lim wiped his hands on his trousers. “But let me give you a proper challenge. For one week, I want you to keep track of your daily activities. Not just what you do, but how each activity makes you feel.”
“How do you mean?”
“After each activity, take a moment to notice. Did it bring you genuine peace? Contentment? Or did it bring excitement that faded quickly? Anxiety? Restlessness?” Uncle Lim gestured for Amir to sit. “Epicurus called this examining your pleasures and pains. Most people never do it. They just keep doing the same things, wondering why they’re not happy.”
“What should I write?”
“Three columns.” Uncle Lim held up three fingers. “Activity, immediate feeling, and lasting effect. Be honest. No one else needs to see this but you.”
Amir opened the notebook and drew three columns on the first page. “Should I start now?”
“Why not? What did you do this morning before coming here?”
“I woke up and checked my phone. Scrolled through Instagram for about twenty minutes.”
“And? Immediate feeling?”
Amir thought about it. “Kind of... stimulated? Like there was a lot happening. But also...” He paused, trying to find the word. “Agitated. Yeah, agitated. Seeing everyone’s posts about their achievements, their lives.”
“And the lasting effect? How do you feel about it now?”
“Empty, I guess. Like I spent twenty minutes but got nothing from it. And a bit anxious.” Amir wrote it down in his notebook. “Is that bad?”
“It’s not about good or bad. It’s about seeing clearly.” Uncle Lim picked up his watering can. “Keep doing this for a week. Every activity, big or small. Be specific. Be honest.”
Over the next week, Amir carried the notebook everywhere. He wrote in it after class, after meals, after studying, after scrolling his phone. Some observations surprised him.
On Monday, he wrote: “Studied Chemistry for two hours. Immediate: frustration, tiredness. Lasting: anxiety about not understanding fast enough. But also... satisfaction when I finally got a concept?”
On Tuesday: “Played futsal with some guys from school during lunch. Immediate: fun, laughter, forgot about everything else. Lasting: felt energized, lighter. Why did I stop doing this?”
Wednesday brought an uncomfortable realization: “Checked class rankings. Immediate: adrenaline, comparison, noticed I dropped one spot. Lasting: ruined my whole afternoon. Couldn’t concentrate. Kept thinking about it. This happens every time but I keep checking.”
Thursday: “Had breakfast with Nenek before school. Just us, eating toast and drinking tea. She told stories about when she was young. Immediate: peaceful, interested. Lasting: smiled about it several times during the day. Why don’t I do this more?”
By Friday, patterns were becoming visible. Amir sat in the garden after school, reviewing his notes while Uncle Lim tended his plants.
“I think I’m seeing something,” Amir said. “The things I thought were important, like checking my ranking or scrolling social media, they make me feel terrible. But I keep doing them.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because... because they feel like they should make me happy? Like, seeing my ranking should make me proud of my progress. Social media should make me feel connected.” Amir shook his head. “But they don’t. They just make me anxious and compare myself to everyone.”
“And what about the things that did bring you peace?”
Amir looked at his notes. “Time with my grandmother. Playing futsal. There was this moment on Wednesday when I helped my sister with her homework and we ended up just talking and laughing. That felt good. Really good. But I almost didn’t do it because I said I was too busy.”
“Too busy for what?”
“For studying. But looking at my notes, studying for hours makes me tired and anxious. I mean, I need to study, but...” Amir struggled to articulate it. “It’s like the amount I’m doing isn’t actually helping. It’s just making me stressed.”
Uncle Lim set down his tools and came to sit beside Amir. “Let me see your week.”
Amir handed over the notebook. Uncle Lim read through it slowly, nodding occasionally.
“You’ve discovered something important,” Uncle Lim said. “Look here. Tuesday, you played futsal and felt energized for the rest of the day. How long did you play?”
“About forty minutes during lunch.”
“And that evening, you studied for three hours. How productive were you?”
Amir thought back. “Actually, pretty productive. I was in a good mood, felt clear-headed.”
“Now look at Monday. You studied for five hours straight. How productive?”
“I... I kept getting distracted. Kept checking my phone. Took forever to get through one chapter.”
“So which approach actually served you better? Five hours of anxious, distracted studying? Or forty minutes of play followed by three hours of focused work?”
Amir stared at his notes. “The second one. But that doesn’t make sense. More hours should mean more learning.”
“Should it? Or have you been telling yourself that to justify sacrificing everything else?” Uncle Lim smiled gently. “Epicurus would say you’ve been pursuing an unnecessary pleasure, the pleasure of feeling like you’re doing enough, of appearing busy and dedicated. But the actual experience, the lasting effect, is pain. Stress, exhaustion, diminishing returns.”
“So I should study less?”
“You should study wisely. There’s a difference between necessary effort and unnecessary suffering.” Uncle Lim tapped the notebook. “Look at your social media entries. Every single one left you feeling worse. Why do you keep doing it?”
“I don’t know. Habit? FOMO? Everyone else does it.”
“Those aren’t good reasons.” Uncle Lim leaned back. “Epicurus talked about empty pleasures, remember? Things that promise satisfaction but deliver only more wanting. Social media is the perfect example. Each scroll promises something interesting, something that will make you feel good. But does it?”
Amir looked at his notes. Monday through Friday, five entries about checking social media. Every single one noted anxiety, comparison, or emptiness as the lasting effect.
“No,” he admitted. “It really doesn’t.”
“And yet you do it multiple times a day.”
“It’s just there. My phone is always with me.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Amir thought about it. The idea of giving up social media entirely felt terrifying. What would he do with that time? How would he know what was happening? But looking at his notes, the evidence was clear. It was hurting him, consistently, predictably.
“I could... limit it? Maybe delete the apps from my phone?”
“You could. The question is: will you?” Uncle Lim stood and stretched. “This is where philosophy becomes practical. It’s not enough to understand intellectually that something hurts you. You have to actually change your behavior.”
Amir looked at his phone sitting on the table. Right now, he could open it and check. See what he’d missed today. The urge was there, familiar and strong.
“It’s hard,” he said quietly.
“Of course it is. These habits are deeply ingrained.” Uncle Lim began watering his plants again. “But you have evidence now. Hard data from your own experience. When you’re tempted to scroll, look at your notes. Remember how it actually makes you feel, not how you imagine it will feel.”
Amir turned to a new page in his notebook. “What about the good things? The things that did bring me peace?”
“What about them?”
“I want to do more of them. But I feel guilty, like I should be studying or being productive instead.”
“Ah.” Uncle Lim nodded. “That’s the trap, isn’t it? We’ve been taught that pleasure is somehow wrong, that we should always be working, always producing. But Epicurus said the opposite. He said pleasure is the goal of life. Not empty pleasures, not pleasures that lead to pain, but genuine contentment.”
“So spending time with my grandmother is... allowed?”
“Allowed?” Uncle Lim laughed. “It’s necessary. Friendship, conversation, connection, these are what Epicurus called the highest pleasures. They cost nothing, they’re always available, and they bring lasting joy. Why would you sacrifice them for hours of anxious studying that doesn’t even help you learn better?”
Amir made a note: “Spend breakfast with Nenek three times a week. Play futsal Tuesday and Thursday. Actually talk to my sister.”
“Good,” Uncle Lim said, watching him write. “Now, one more thing. Look at your week. What activity caused you the most lasting pain?”
Amir scanned his notes. “Checking my class ranking. Every time I do it, it ruins my day. If I’m ahead, I worry about losing my spot. If I’m behind, I feel like a failure.”
“And how often do rankings change?”
“Not that often. Maybe once or twice a month when we have major tests.”
“So you’re checking something daily that only changes monthly, and it causes you pain every time.” Uncle Lim raised his eyebrows. “What does that tell you?”
“That I’m being stupid?”
“That you’re being human. We all do these things. But now that you see it clearly, you can choose differently.” Uncle Lim came back to the table. “Try this. Don’t check your ranking for one week. Just one week. See what happens.”
The thought made Amir’s chest tighten. “But what if I fall behind and don’t know?”
“Then you fall behind for a week. Will that change anything about your actual learning? Or will it just mean you spend a week without that particular source of anxiety?”
Amir knew the answer. Checking his ranking didn’t help him learn. It just fed his need for comparison, his fear of not being good enough.
“Okay,” he said, surprising himself. “One week. I won’t check.”
“Excellent.” Uncle Lim smiled. “And keep your notebook going. Notice what changes when you remove that source of pain. Notice what you do with the mental energy you usually spend worrying about your ranking.”
As Amir packed up to leave, Uncle Lim called out to him. “Remember, this isn’t about being perfect. You’ll slip up. You’ll check your phone when you said you wouldn’t, or waste an hour on social media, or check your ranking. That’s fine. The practice is in noticing, in coming back to what actually serves you.”
Walking home, Amir felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not excitement, which was always followed by a crash. Not pride, which was always followed by anxiety. Just a quiet sense of clarity, of understanding something true about himself.
He pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, then paused. How would this make him feel? He already knew the answer. He pocketed the phone and kept walking.
It was a small victory. But it felt significant.
That night, instead of studying until midnight, Amir stopped at ten. He spent half an hour sitting with his sister, watching her favorite show, asking about her day. She seemed surprised but happy.
In his notebook, he wrote: “Watched TV with Adik. Immediate: relaxed, connected. Lasting: felt good. She smiled at me for the first time in weeks. Why did I think I was too busy for this?”
The answer was obvious now. He’d been too busy chasing the wrong things. Too busy creating his own suffering to notice the simple joys right in front of him.
It was going to take time to change. But at least now he knew what he was changing from and what he was changing toward.
At least now he could see the difference between pleasure that nourished and pleasure that depleted, between necessary pain and the pain he chose for himself.
It was a start.
Chapter 5: Simple Joys
Three weeks had passed since Amir started his notebook. The changes had been gradual, almost invisible at first, but now they felt real. Substantial.
It was Tuesday morning, and Amir sat at the kitchen table with his grandmother, sharing breakfast before school. This had become their routine: roti bakar with kaya, hot teh tarik, and conversation. His grandmother was telling him about her childhood in Kelantan, about the rubber plantation where her father worked.
“Nenek, you never told me that story before,” Amir said, genuinely interested.
“You never had time to listen,” she said, but her eyes were warm. “Always rushing, always busy. Now you sit with me. This is better.”
Amir’s mother came into the kitchen, surprised to see them still there. “You’re going to be late for school.”
“I have time, Mak. I’m catching the later bus now.”
His mother exchanged a glance with his grandmother, a small smile passing between them. Amir knew they’d noticed the changes. He was home for dinner most nights now. He laughed more. The tightness around his eyes had eased.
At school, Amir found himself approaching Sarah during recess. He’d been working up to this for days.
“Sarah? Can I talk to you?”
She looked surprised but nodded. They found a quiet spot under the big angsana tree in the schoolyard.
“I wanted to apologize,” Amir said, the words coming out in a rush. “For this whole year. For being competitive and weird and not being a good friend. You deserved that award, and I should have congratulated you properly instead of just... disappearing.”
Sarah was quiet for a moment. “I noticed. That you pulled away.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I got so caught up in wanting to be the best that I forgot what actually matters.” Amir looked at his hands. “You were my friend, and I treated you like competition.”
“You’re not wrong that it felt like competition,” Sarah said carefully. “But I missed having you as a friend more than I enjoyed beating you at things.”
Amir laughed, surprised. “You enjoyed beating me?”
“Sometimes.” She grinned. “You can be pretty arrogant, you know.”
“I know. I’m working on it.” Amir hesitated. “Do you think we could try again? Being friends, I mean?”
Sarah considered it, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
They spent the rest of recess actually talking, not about grades or rankings, but about a book they’d both read, about Sarah’s plans to study engineering, about the new mamak stall that had opened near school. It felt easy in a way it hadn’t felt in months.
That afternoon, instead of going to extra tutoring, Amir went to play futsal with a group of classmates. His muscles protested at first, out of practice, but the joy of running, of laughing, of just being physical instead of mental, filled something in him he hadn’t known was empty.
“Where have you been, man?” Jason asked, passing him the ball. “You used to play all the time.”
“Got too serious about everything,” Amir said, dribbling past a defender. “Forgot how to have fun.”
“Well, you’re rusty. We’re going to destroy you.” Jason laughed and stole the ball back.
They did destroy him. His team lost badly. But Amir couldn’t remember the last time losing felt so good.
Later that evening, Amir sat in the garden with Uncle Lim. It had become a weekly ritual, Tuesday evenings after futsal. Sometimes they talked about philosophy, sometimes about nothing in particular. Today, Uncle Lim was showing Amir how to prune the tomato plants.
“You take off the suckers,” Uncle Lim explained, pointing to small shoots growing between the main stem and branches. “They steal energy from the fruit. The plant thinks it’s growing more, but really it’s just getting busier, not more productive.”
Amir smiled at the metaphor. “Like my old schedule. Lots of activity, not much actual growth.”
“Exactly.” Uncle Lim handed him the pruning shears. “You try.”
Amir carefully removed a sucker, then another. The movements were meditative, requiring attention but not stress. “Uncle, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been making changes. Spending less time on things that hurt me, more time on things that help. And it’s better, I really do feel better.” Amir paused. “But I still want to do well. I still want to get into medical school. Is that wrong? Is that still chasing empty pleasures?”
Uncle Lim settled onto his stool, considering the question. “Tell me why you want to study medicine. The real reason.”
Amir thought about it carefully. A month ago, he would have rattled off answers about prestige, about making his parents proud, about proving himself. Now he tried to find a deeper truth.
“I think... I actually want to help people. When my grandfather was sick last year, the doctors were so kind, so patient with him and with us. They made a horrible situation bearable.” Amir looked up from the tomato plants. “I want to be able to do that. To be useful in that way.”
“That’s a good reason. A genuine reason.” Uncle Lim nodded. “Epicurus wasn’t against ambition or goals. He was against pursuing things for the wrong reasons, or pursuing them in ways that create unnecessary suffering.”
“So I can still work hard?”
“Of course. But work hard because the work itself is meaningful, not because you’re desperate to be better than everyone else. Study medicine because you want to heal, not because you want the status of being a doctor.” Uncle Lim smiled. “The difference is subtle but important. One approach brings contentment, the other brings endless anxiety.”
“I’m still anxious sometimes,” Amir admitted. “About exams, about whether I’m good enough. It’s better, but it’s still there.”
“That’s natural. Some anxiety is useful. It motivates us, keeps us from being complacent.” Uncle Lim picked up his watering can. “The question is: does the anxiety serve you, or does it rule you? Are you working toward something you truly want, or are you running from the fear of not being good enough?”
Amir considered this. “Both, maybe? But more the first one now. I think.”
“Progress, not perfection. That’s all any of us can aim for.” Uncle Lim began watering the herbs. “You know what Epicurus said about pleasure? He said the pleasure of the mind is greater than the pleasure of the body. Peace of mind, ataraxia he called it, that’s the highest good.”
“What does that mean? Ataraxia?”
“Tranquility. Calm. Not the absence of joy or excitement, but freedom from anxiety, from fear, from the constant agitation of wanting and comparing and worrying.” Uncle Lim paused in his watering. “You’re closer to it now than you were a month ago, I think.”
Amir realized it was true. The constant buzz of anxiety that used to fill his days had quieted. It wasn’t gone, but it no longer dominated every moment. He could focus in class without his mind spiraling into worry. He could enjoy time with friends without feeling guilty about not studying. He could even handle a bad test score without it destroying his whole week.
“I haven’t checked my class ranking in three weeks,” Amir said, surprised at himself.
“And?”
“And I don’t actually miss it. I mean, I wonder sometimes where I am. But it doesn’t consume me anymore.” Amir laughed. “I probably dropped a few spots and I don’t even care.”
“Does not knowing make you work less hard?”
“No. If anything, I work better now. I’m more focused when I study because I’m not exhausted all the time. And I actually remember what I learn instead of just cramming and forgetting.”
“Then what purpose did checking serve?”
“None. It just fed my anxiety and made me competitive with people who should have been my friends.”
Uncle Lim set down his watering can and came to inspect Amir’s pruning work. “Good job. You’re getting the hang of it.”
They worked in companionable silence for a while, the evening air cooling around them. Somewhere in the kopitiam behind them, someone was cooking, and the smell of frying garlic and shallots drifted over the garden wall.
“Uncle Lim?” Amir said after a while. “Thank you. For this. For teaching me.”
“I didn’t teach you much. Just asked you to pay attention to your own experience.” Uncle Lim smiled. “The wisdom was already in you. You just needed to stop running long enough to hear it.”
“Still. This place, these conversations, they’ve changed things for me.”
“Then you understand what Epicurus meant by his garden. It’s not just a physical place, though that helps. It’s a way of life. Simple pleasures, good friends, meaningful work, freedom from unnecessary desires and anxieties.” Uncle Lim gestured around them. “This is what he taught. Not hedonism, not excess, but contentment through wisdom.”
Amir looked around the little garden, at the plants thriving in their mismatched pots, at the simple table with its chipped teacups, at the old man beside him who had somehow become one of his closest friends. This place had given him more than any award or ranking ever had.
“I want to bring someone here,” Amir said suddenly. “A friend from school. Marcus. He’s even more stressed than I used to be. Maybe... maybe he could benefit from what you taught me?”
Uncle Lim’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Of course. The garden is always open. Epicurus taught that philosophy isn’t meant to be kept private. When you find something that brings peace, you share it.”
“He might not listen.”
“Maybe not right away. You didn’t either, not really, the first time you came.” Uncle Lim chuckled. “But seeds take time to grow. You plant them and wait.”
As Amir prepared to leave, packing his school bag, Uncle Lim pressed a small container into his hands. “Tomatoes from the garden. Share them with your family.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
Walking home through the familiar streets of Taman Tun Dr Ismail, Amir felt a contentment that wasn’t based on achievement or validation. It was quieter than that, deeper. The contentment of knowing he was living in a way that aligned with his true values, not just chasing what others said he should want.
He thought about bringing Marcus to the garden. His friend was always near the top of their class, but Amir had seen the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his hands shook before exams. Marcus was walking the same path Amir had been on, heading toward the same emptiness.
Maybe he could help. Not by lecturing, but by showing. By being an example of someone who had found a different way.
That night at dinner, Amir shared the tomatoes. His family gathered around the table, his parents, his grandmother, his little sister, and they ate together without anyone checking their phones, without rushing off to other obligations.
“These are good,” his sister said. “Where did you get them?”
“From Uncle Lim’s garden. You’d like him, Adik. Maybe I can take you there sometime.”
“I’d like that,” she said, and Amir realized how much he’d missed her, even though they lived in the same house.
His mother caught his eye across the table and smiled. She didn’t say anything, but he could see she’d noticed the changes. Less stress, more presence. Her son was finally here, really here, not just physically present while his mind raced ahead to the next achievement, the next competition.
Later, lying in bed, Amir pulled out his notebook. He’d kept up the practice of tracking his activities and their effects, though now it was more about maintaining awareness than discovering new patterns.
“Today: Breakfast with Nenek, immediate joy. Apologized to Sarah, immediate nervousness but lasting relief. Played futsal, immediate fun, lasting energy. Garden with Uncle Lim, immediate peace, lasting contentment. Family dinner, immediate warmth, lasting gratitude.”
He looked at the entry from exactly one month ago, found the page in his notebook. That day had been filled with anxiety, comparison, exhaustion. The contrast was stark.
This was better. Not perfect, not without challenges or worries. But better. Real. Sustainable.
Amir closed his notebook and turned off the light. Tomorrow, he would talk to Marcus. He would offer, gently, without pushing. The garden would be there if Marcus wanted it. The wisdom would be available if he was ready to hear it.
And if not, that was okay too. Amir had learned that you couldn’t force contentment on anyone. They had to discover it for themselves, in their own time, through their own experience.
All he could do was plant seeds and wait.
Just like Uncle Lim had done for him.