Wild subject for a first blog.
Life is rarely simple. We spend a lot of our time trying to make sense of things that don’t always have neat answers. Sometimes the more you think about something, the more complicated it becomes.
One thing that has always fascinated me is a good thought experiment.
For anyone encountering the term for the first time, a thought experiment is essentially a hypothetical situation designed to make you question something. It doesn’t necessarily have a definite answer. Instead, it puts two or more ideas against each other and asks you to sit with the contradiction.
I love them because they are like gym workouts for the mind. You take an idea, push it to an extreme, and see what breaks.
One such experiment that we usually encounter in life, but hardly notice, is the “Ship of Theseus”.
Fellow Marvel fans - if you have watched WandaVision - you already might know where this is going, lol.
The Experiment - Ship of Theseus
The ship originally belonged to the mythical Greek king Theseus, who is known for slaying the Minotaur (God of War fans know the feel :3)
Just imagine you own a wooden ship. Over time, the wood in a ship tends to rot, so you have to keep replacing it.
You begin by taking out the rotting planks from one of the floors and putting in new ones. After a few weeks, the steering wheel starts to rot, so you replace it. Then the bow, then the mast, and finally the sails. Eventually, you would have replaced the whole ship with new planks. And at that point, there would be no original planks left.
Here comes the question: Is it still the same ship that you had at the beginning?
The Experiment - Scooter of Abhishek
For the sake of argument - I’m gonna modify this experiment a little.
I have a TVS NTORQ 125, which is one of my favourite performers, but GODDAMN does it have some terribly fragile plastic parts. I have broken quite a few of them by just running into a pothole.
The first time it was the front left panel with the ‘125’ logo. So I replaced it in the next service.
The next time it was the other side, so I replaced that as well. Then the headlight came loose. Then one of the indicators.
Now hypothetically imagine something more extreme:
Suppose I kept replacing parts over almost a decade. One by one. The panels. The headlight. The indicators. The seat. The tyres. The wheels. The fuel tank. The transmission. The engine. Every single component, including all the internal parts.
Eventually, nothing from the scooter I bought in 2018 would remain. But now it’s 2026 and I’m still riding it.
Here’s the fantastic question:
Is it still my same old favourite scooter I bought back in 2018?
THIS is the thought experiment. The situation is unlikely, but not impossible.
We have definitely seen motorcycle or car enthusiasts completely restore a vintage but classic model. They may not have replaced 100% of the parts, but it’s not impossible. They could do it if they wanted to.
At that point, is it still the same old vehicle that they knew and loved?
If you argue, it’s the same scooter
But… all the parts are new. It’s basically like a brand new scooter.
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What makes it the same? The fact that I bought it in 2018? The fact that I’ve owned it continuously? The fact that I never intentionally replaced the whole scooter? Its registration number, VIN/chassis identity, or legal ownership?
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Does the process matter? If I replace one part, it’s obviously still my scooter. What about 10 parts? Half the parts? 90% of the parts? At what point does it stop being the same?
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Does gradual change matter? If I replace every part gradually over ten years, it’s supposedly the same scooter. But if I replace every part simultaneously tomorrow, suddenly it feels like a new scooter.
If you argue, it’s a completely new one
If the physical parts are what define the scooter, then which part is the “real” scooter?
The engine? The chassis? The frame?
Now here’s a bigger twist
If the mechanic who serviced my scooter secretly kept all the damaged (but still functioning) parts and somehow re-assembled it into a working scooter…
Now there are two scooters.
Scooter A: The one I’m currently riding. Every part has been replaced over the years.
Scooter B: A scooter reconstructed entirely from the original parts of my 2018 scooter.
Which one is mine?
My first instinct would be to say Scooter A. After all, I’ve been riding it continuously for years. It has been with me through everything.
But then I look at Scooter B. That scooter contains the original parts. The original body panels. That one nostalgic red paint streak from when I managed to crash into the side of a gate. It has all the visual memories of my adventures with it. And suddenly Scooter B has a pretty convincing argument too.
So which one is the original? Which one is mine?
Both are my original scooters. Neither is the original scooter.
Maybe it’s the memories
This is where the question becomes a little more personal for me. I’ve had this scooter since 2018. It’s not just a collection of mechanical and plastic parts anymore. It’s attached to memories.
- The long rides to Kanchipuram with my closest friends.
- The countless trips to our favourite restaurants.
- The frequent trips to Thiruvanmiyur beach.
- The stupid decisions made while riding around.
- The fun of speeding down an empty road with the wind hitting my face.
- The crashes. The scratches. The stories.
So perhaps the identity of the scooter isn’t entirely contained in the scooter itself. Perhaps some of its identity comes from my relationship with it.
Maybe it’s my scooter because I remember it as my scooter. Maybe it’s my scooter because my friends remember riding it with me. Maybe it’s my scooter because so many experiences have happened around it that calling it “a different scooter” feels almost absurd.
But then another question appears:
If identity comes from memory, whose memory matters?
Mine? My friends’? The memories of everyone who has ever ridden it? And what happens when those memories fade?
If twenty years from now I can barely remember the rides I took on it, does it become less of my scooter? That sounds ridiculous.
But then again, that’s the whole point of thought experiments. They take something that seems obvious and keep asking questions until the obvious answer starts looking strange.
The Problem of Personal Identity
Biologically, every human being is literally a Ship of Theseus. Most cells in our body are constantly dying and being replaced. Over a span of roughly 7 to 10 years, the vast majority of the physical atoms in our body are replaced.
The Dilemma: If my personal identity is tied strictly to the material stuff that I am made of, I am not the same physical entity I was a decade ago.
Yet, I don’t feel like an entirely new person arrived in my place. I am the same person who fell down and scraped my knee years ago; there is an unbroken chain of physical continuity holding the transition together.
But am I the same psychologically?
The person who bought that scooter in 2018 isn’t exactly the person writing this today. I’ve learned things. Forgotten things. Changed my opinions. Made new friends. Lost some. Had experiences I couldn’t have imagined back then.
My body has changed. My interests have changed. My beliefs have changed. Even the way I see myself has changed.
And yet, I don’t wake up every morning wondering whether I’m still the same person who bought that scooter. I simply assume I am.
So what makes me the same person?
Maybe identity isn’t a single thing hidden somewhere inside an object or a person. Maybe it’s a narrative built from everything that came before. Or maybe that’s just another way of avoiding the question.
At the end of the day, that’s what life is. We shed old parts, adopt new ones, endure repairs, and gather battle scars. We are a constantly changing collection of many things - held together by one mind.