Ever thought about how an unexpected, totally random person can end up teaching you a whole life lesson?
Most of the mango people would say no. “Who would even listen to them?”
Totally understandable. Life’s a fast-paced journey—even the slower ones might end up winning the race.
The conclusion? Life is a race, and most of us don’t have the time to stop and listen to the experiences these so-called mango people have to share.
Well, that’s exactly what I learned from a professor at the B-school I was in.
Mango People—or as we say in Hindi, Aam Aadmi.
The term creative stuck with me—and honestly, that’s exactly why I enrolled in B-school. A fresh start after hitting a major career blockage. But the debate inside me was unbearable: Should I follow what I desire, or do what’s necessary?
“Do whatever you want. All we do is put money in a well—it’s up to you whether you take the best out of it or not,” my dad said.
His words cut deeper than any knife ever could. He was right. He never stopped me from chasing what I wanted. But he never truly supported me either. And that’s what hurt the most.
All my life, I’ve made reckless decisions driven by passion.
And every single time, in the end—he’d question them.
No matter how hard I tried. I failed.
Again and again
Countless questions ran through my neurons.
I hoped—really hoped—that all this overthinking would somehow boost my brainpower and maybe even improve my memory.
“Mimi, I’ve put the rice on the stove. Turn it off in a minute. Don’t forget!” my mom called out before heading for her nap.
A clear warning. Classic mom move—phrased so casually, but layered with silent urgency. She knows me too well.
I laughed out loud until my shoulders shook—it was some random, stupidly funny video on Instagram.
Then I sniffed.
Something was burning.
I sniffed again. “FUCK.”
That’s when I remembered. I forgot to turn off the gas. The pot of rice was burning.
This—this is exactly what I’m talking about. I forget things so easily. I cursed under my breath. This kind of thing has happened way too many times now.
The difficulties were always there—until I began to understand my own capabilities.
As an overthinker, I tend to spiral.
I think. A lot. Mostly about things that don’t even matter.
I became quiet. Stopped socializing as much. Even started tuning out what my parents used to say.
I was focused on something deeper—life itself. What’s the reason behind my birth? That question lived in my head rent-free for years.
And I knew one thing for sure: When I grew up, I wanted to create change. I was never built for the rat race. But change demands courage. And passion. And I was stuck somewhere in between—confused, unsure whether I truly had either.
On a quiet evening, I found myself sitting by the riverbank, lost in thought. I watched the water flow—twisting and turning gracefully, as if it knew exactly how bold it was.
I imagined what it would feel like to run through that river, to move my body with its curves, to be weightless, stress-free.
“I wouldn’t even think about it.”
My eyes popped open, startled by the unexpected voice.
“Sorry?” I asked, not sure what this woman meant.
She looked out at the water and said, “Those little waves might look dangerously beautiful… but they’re not as harmless as they seem. Same goes for still water. It may look calm and peaceful—but it can pull you under when you least expect it.”
She paused for a moment, then turned to me with a quiet intensity in her eyes.
"Life’s a lot like this river. The moments that look calm might hide the deepest pull—and the ones that look wild? Sometimes they lead you exactly where you need to go." She smiled faintly. "If you're waiting for the perfect moment to make a change, you’ll miss it. Sometimes, the current is the opportunity. You just have to decide whether you’re brave enough to jump in."
I repeated her words in my mind, over and over.
“Sometimes, the current is the opportunity…”
I sat there, staring at the river, trying to understand what she truly meant. Was she talking about risk? About letting go? About not waiting for life to make sense before I make a move?
It made me uncomfortable—how much it felt like she was talking directly to me, even though she knew nothing about my story.
"And what if you’re confused?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she picked up a small stone and tossed it into the river, watching the ripples stretch outward.
“Confusion means you’re thinking,” she finally said.
“It means you care. The danger isn’t in being confused—it’s in standing still for too long because of it.”
She looked at me, a gentle seriousness in her expression. “Clarity doesn’t always come before action. Sometimes… it comes because of it.”
I curled up in bed, tossing and turning, shifting positions like my thoughts were physically uncomfortable. Eventually, I lay flat on my back, staring blankly at the ceiling.
My mind wouldn’t let go of what that lady had said. Her words echoed in my head, louder than sleep.
“Fuck it,” I whispered.
I got up, grabbed a notebook, and started writing.
I began pouring out the memoir of my life—every moment, every flaw, every time I doubted myself.
I wrote for the people who might be in my shoes one day. People who need to know they’re not alone. Someone might need my story. And it won’t reach them if I keep procrastinating.
So I took action. And I did my best.
A small letter to myself, tucked at the end:
'To the little me,
Thank you for taking action and doing your best.
You made it.'
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