YogiWrites

Why Most Selfish Acts Are Just Panic Dressed as Power

The Dumbbell Incident That Changed Everything

Picture this: 6 AM at my local gym in Pune. The morning warriors are already sweating it out, and there’s this one guy—let’s call him Vikram—who has collected every single dumbbell from 15kg to 25kg around his bench like some kind of iron fortress.

The rest of us are doing that awkward dance you know too well. We circle around him like planets around the sun, hoping he’ll release just one pair so we can complete our sets. But Vikram? He’s completely oblivious, lost in his workout bubble, earphones in, occasionally using maybe two of the eight pairs he’s claimed.

My first instinct was pure Delhi road rage. Yaar, what’s wrong with this guy? Doesn’t he see people waiting? But then something shifted. I watched him more carefully—the way his shoulders hunched slightly, how he kept glancing around even while lifting, the almost desperate grip he had on those weights.

And suddenly, I saw it. This wasn’t arrogance. This was a terrified five-year-old who had finally found the toy store open.

When I Met My Own Dumbbell Hoarding

Let me take you back fifteen years. I was working at an IT company in Bangalore, pulling those notorious 12-hour shifts that we wear like badges of honor in this country. There was this one cafeteria table—Table 47, if you must know—that had the perfect view of the garden and the best WiFi signal.

Every lunch break, I’d rush down, sometimes even skipping important meetings, just to claim that table. I’d spread my laptop, phone, charger, water bottle, and half-eaten sandwich across its entire surface. Even when I went to get food, I’d leave my stuff there like territorial markers.

One day, my colleague Priya confronted me. “Sandeep, why do you need the whole table? There are four chairs.”

I gave her some nonsense about needing space for my work. But that night, lying in my PG accommodation, staring at the ceiling fan that sounded like a helicopter, I had to face the truth.

I wasn’t protecting my workspace. I was protecting my worth.

You see, growing up in a middle-class household where everything—from the TV remote to the last piece of gulab jamun—was a competition between three siblings, I had learned that scarcity was the default mode of existence. My inner child was convinced that if I didn’t grab and hold onto things, someone would take them away.

Table 47 wasn’t about convenience. It was about finally having something that was mine, completely mine, in a world that felt like a constant game of musical chairs.

The Hungry Ghost Syndrome

In Buddhist philosophy, there’s this concept of hungry ghosts—beings with enormous appetites but tiny mouths, forever consuming but never satisfied. Most of what we label as “selfish behavior” is just modern hungry ghost syndrome.

Think about it. That uncle who never lets anyone else speak at family gatherings? He’s not trying to dominate—he’s trying to prove he exists. That friend who always makes every conversation about herself? She’s not being narcissistic—she’s starving for validation that her story matters.

The ego, you see, is like that street dog outside my building. Feed it once, and it comes back every day, more demanding than before. But ignore it completely, and it becomes aggressive, desperately trying to get your attention through increasingly dramatic behaviors.

But here’s what I learned watching Vikram and remembering my own Table 47 days: the ego isn’t the enemy. It’s just a very confused security guard trying to protect something precious—your inner child’s unmet needs.

The Gym Revelation

So there I was, understanding Vikram’s dumbbell fortress, when something beautiful happened. Instead of joining the circle of frustrated gym-goers, I walked up to him during his rest period.

“Bhai,” I said, tapping his shoulder gently, “I can see you’re really focused on your workout. I just need the 20kg pair for five minutes. Can I borrow them and bring them right back?”

He looked up, almost startled. For a moment, I saw that five-year-old clearly—confused, a little ashamed, but also relieved that someone had spoken to him with kindness instead of irritation.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry. I didn’t realize…” He immediately started organizing the weights. “Please, take whatever you need. I was just… I thought someone might take them while I was using the other ones.”

And there it was. The confession of every hoarder, every selfish act, every ego-driven behavior: I thought someone might take them.

We ended up working out together that morning. Turns out, Vikram was new to the city, living alone for the first time, and those dumbbells represented some small sense of control in a life that felt completely out of control.

The Modern Scarcity Mindset

Here’s the thing about our generation—we’re simultaneously the most connected and the most isolated humans in history. We have access to everything but ownership of nothing. No wonder our inner children are confused and our egos are working overtime.

We hoard Instagram likes like Vikram hoarded dumbbells. We claim social media real estate like I claimed Table 47. We interrupt conversations, overshare our achievements, and yes, sometimes we take more than we need—not because we’re bad people, but because some part of us is still that child who learned that love and resources are limited.

The irony? True abundance comes not from taking more, but from trusting there’s enough. It’s like that ancient Sanskrit wisdom: “Poornamadah poornamidam”—from fullness comes fullness, and fullness remains.

But how do you convince a starving person that there’s plenty of food? How do you teach abundance to a mind programmed for scarcity?

The Practice of Conscious Giving

After the Vikram incident, I started what I call my “daily abundance experiment.” Every day, I find one small way to demonstrate to my inner child that there’s enough to go around.

Sometimes it’s letting someone cut in line when I’m not in a hurry. Sometimes it’s sharing credit for an idea that was mostly mine. Sometimes it’s just not correcting someone when they get a small detail wrong in a story.

It sounds simple, but it’s revolutionary. Each small act of conscious giving rewires the scarcity programming. It tells your inner child: “Look, we gave away some of our power/time/recognition, and we didn’t disappear. We’re still here. We’re still loved. There’s still enough.”

The ego, meanwhile, slowly learns to relax its grip. It realizes it doesn’t have to work so hard to protect you because you’re no longer operating from a place of lack.

When Selfishness is Self-Care

Now, before you think I’m advocating for becoming a doormat, let me be clear: there’s a massive difference between ego-driven selfishness and authentic self-care.

Ego-driven selfishness says: “I must take more because there isn’t enough.” Authentic self-care says: “I’m taking what I need so I can give from a place of fullness.”

It’s like the airplane oxygen mask principle—you put yours on first not because you’re selfish, but because you can’t help anyone if you’re unconscious.

The key is learning to distinguish between your inner child’s legitimate needs and your ego’s fearful demands. Your inner child needs security, validation, and love. Your ego wants control, superiority, and endless more.

Feed the child, question the ego.

The Dumbbell Wisdom

Six months later, I still see Vikram at the gym. Now he’s the guy who actively offers to share equipment, who spots newcomers, who creates that sense of community that makes morning workouts feel less like punishment and more like choice.

What changed? He learned what we all need to learn: that generosity isn’t about being nice—it’s about recognizing abundance. When you truly understand that there’s enough dumbbells, enough tables, enough love, enough recognition to go around, sharing becomes natural.

Your inner child stops panicking, your ego stops performing, and you start living from your actual strength instead of your perceived weaknesses.

So the next time you catch yourself hoarding—whether it’s dumbbells, credit, attention, or even emotional energy—pause. Ask yourself: “Is this my wisdom choosing, or my wounds reacting?”

The answer might surprise you. And more importantly, it might free you.

Next week, I’ll be sharing the story of how a chai wallah taught me the difference between being humble and being small. Spoiler alert: it involves a very expensive mistake and a lot of laughter.

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