Md. Nurul Haque

Every human story begins with effort but ends with a single desire: happiness. We may cloak our ambitions in diplomas, banknotes, promotions, or even prayers, but beneath every robe beats the same heart. Toil and moil, chalk and sweat, coin and crown—these are scaffolding. The building is joy. We labor not merely to live; we live to be happy.

The quest begins in ancient Greece. The Pre-Socratics were the first cartographers of happiness. Thales gazed at the Nile and proclaimed water the origin of all things, hinting that life’s abundance—and with it happiness—springs from nature’s generosity. Heraclitus, brooding beside a river, murmured panta rhei—“everything flows.” Happiness, for him, was a river that moves endlessly, teaching us to embrace change instead of resisting it. By contrast, Parmenides froze the river, insisting that serenity lies only in permanence. The first fork in thought was drawn: should happiness be sought in embracing change or in clinging to what does not change?

Socrates then shifted the compass from the cosmos to the conscience. Happiness, he argued, is not in wealth or reputation but in virtue. His pupil Antisthenes founded the Cynics, declaring that joy comes not from possessions but from freedom from need. Their example was Diogenes, who lived in a barrel and owned little but dignity. When Alexander the Great offered him favors, Diogenes replied, “Stand aside—you block my sunlight.” His empire was the warmth of the sun—untaxable, unconquerable, unstealable.

The Stoics refined this further: life will bring storms, but happiness is not the absence of storms—it is steering through them with reason as the mast. Even chains could not shackle a Stoic’s soul. In another corner of Athens, Epicurus tended his garden. Misunderstood as a hedonist, he actually preached simple pleasures: bread, water, and the company of friends. True happiness, he taught, was not a feast of excess but a life of moderation free from fear.

Then came Aristotle, the grand architect. He raised three columns for joy: pleasure, civic responsibility, and contemplation. All three had to stand together. A man who lived only for bodily pleasure was as unbalanced as one who lived only for thought. Extremes, he warned, topple happiness like ill-baked clay.

Modern philosophers, centuries later, only retuned the violin. Kant struck the moral chord: happiness is dignity born from duty. Hegel painted history as a mural of Spirit discovering itself, and happiness lay in seeing ourselves as part of that larger unfolding. Nietzsche thundered from the mountaintop: love your fate—amor fati—even the abyss. Sartre and Camus, wandering in the desert of the absurd, said that even a cracked cup can hold wine. Drink it, and in that defiance, find joy.

Despite their differences, philosophers hummed the same refrain: happiness is the crown every human secretly seeks to wear.

But philosophy without faith is a lamp without oil. When Hellenistic thought blurred the line between myth and reason, philosophy and religion began to converge. Both sought salvation from fear and despair. Yet religion spoke more directly to the heart. It did not merely theorize happiness—it sang it in psalms, prayed it in mosques, and wept it in churches.

Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—all three Semitic faiths—taught that life’s meaning does not end in the grave. They promised not only survival but serenity, not only reason but redemption as well. Religion offers happiness in three chalices. First, meaning: our tears are not wasted rain but the irrigation of destiny. Second, community: prayer in congregation, festivals, and rituals dissolve loneliness into song. Third, consolation: death is not a full stop but a comma in God’s story, leading to eternal reunion.

Islam, in particular, chisels happiness into its very design. The Qur’an speaks of sakina—tranquility poured into hearts that remember God. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said: “True wealth is contentment of the soul.” Faith is the fortress, health its gate, family its garden. Parents are honored, children cherished, and spouses described as garments—woven for intimacy, protection, and comfort.

Friends and colleagues, too, are beacons of happiness in our lives. “The best of you,” the Prophet said, “are those best to their companions.” Joy here is not a solitary hoard but a shared treasure. Zakat makes happiness circulate like lifeblood; congregational prayer transforms solitude into a sense of solidarity.

Unlike the Cynics, Islam does not scorn health or wealth—it blesses them in balance. Unlike the Stoics, it does not numb suffering; it ennobles it as a test of one's character. Unlike consumerism, it does not shrink happiness into shopping bags—it expands it into remembrance: “Verily, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest” (Qur’an 13:28).

So, what is happiness? It is the last station of all human journeys. Education is its lantern, wealth its pavement, health its vehicle, family and friends its fellow passengers. Faith is the compass that keeps us from mistaking mirages for destinations.

Happiness is not a castle in the clouds but a hearth in the heart: the laughter of a child echoing in a small house, the loyalty of a friend standing at your side, the peace of a body in balance, the calm of a soul in prayer. Philosophy maps the terrain, religion blesses the journey, and Islam anchors the destination. All else—degrees, dollars, debates—are scaffolding. The edifice is joy.

And so the circle closes. The end of all efforts is happiness: sometimes in the rustle of prayer beads, in the sunlight, Diogenes refused to surrender, sometimes in the smile of one who owns nothing but gratitude. The riddle is not whether happiness exists; it is whether we will recognize it before the curtain falls.

The writer is an Assistant Professor of English at IUBAT and a PhD candidate at UPM, Malaysia.