A story recounted in the Bengali daily Prothom Alo describes a poet who once had no shoes to give to his feet. The small lack darkened his mood. Then he noticed a man who had no feet at all, moving with difficulty, his face clouded. The poet’s resentment dissolved in an instant. He understood, the account says, that the pain of having no shoes is nothing next to the pain of having no feet. The anecdote is offered as a lesson in the psychology of gratitude: one’s own deprivation shrinks when measured against another’s sharper loss.

That same article cites a saying of the Prophet Muhammad, recorded in Sahih Muslim, instructing believers to look towards those who have less, not more, lest they belittle the blessings already given. The second caliph, Umar ibn al-Khattab, is quoted as finding three divine gifts in every personal calamity: that the affliction did not strike his faith, that it could have been worse, and that it would be rewarded in the hereafter. These are not isolated sentiments. An Arabic proverb, featured by Radio Mitre, frames the choice bluntly: “A moderate tranquil well-being is preferable to opulence full of worries.” The proverb does not reject wealth; it questions the cost of its pursuit.

A similar equilibrium is captured in a line by the Indian author Ruskin Bond, highlighted in Mint: “Happiness is a mysterious thing, to be found somewhere between too little and too much.” Bond, who has lived for decades in the quiet hills of Mussoorie, is presented as an embodiment of the idea that contentment arises from simplicity rather than constant striving. The article notes that too little—of love, ambition, or opportunity—can breed dissatisfaction, while too much can generate stress, greed, and emptiness. The mystery, Bond suggests, lies in recognising that happiness cannot be measured by possessions or achievements alone.

Modern research, as reported by Prothom Alo in a separate feature, adds empirical weight. A 2014 experiment by Nicholas Epley and Juliana Schroeder at the University of Chicago and the University of California found that commuters instructed to strike up a conversation with a stranger enjoyed their journey significantly more than those who remained silent, despite predicting the opposite. A 2019 study in Science Advances showed that university students who valued time over money reported greater happiness a year later. And work from Harvard Business School and UCLA in 2018 indicated that spending on others, on experiences, and on buying time yields more lasting satisfaction than acquiring material goods.

Spiritual traditions point inward. A report from Khabar Online describes the physical and mental effects of the Islamic prostration, or sajdah: fixing the eyes stills the flow of thought, increasing concentration, while the posture itself is said to calm anger and bring tranquillity. Imam Ja’far al-Sadiq is quoted as saying that the closest a servant comes to God is in prostration. In a separate piece, Prothom Alo reflects on the “living heart” as the greatest spiritual sustenance—a heart that trembles at the remembrance of God, softens at another’s suffering, and feels remorse after wrongdoing. The Prophet Muhammad, upon seeing a man who never kissed his children, is reported to have said, according to Sahih Bukhari, “If Allah has removed mercy from your heart, what can I do? He who does not show mercy will not be shown mercy.”

What emerges from these disparate sources is not a single doctrine but a shared intuition: that a life measured by accumulation alone risks missing the quiet wealth of a sensitive heart. The poet without shoes, the commuter who dared to speak to a stranger, the worshipper whose forehead touches the ground—each, in a different idiom, gestures towards the same elusive balance.