Some people inherit the tree. Some people plant it. Eventually, we’re all looking for the shade which is very fulfilling.
Day 5 in the MD’s Office. Legacy brand 75 years of history hardhsips and wins.
Day 5 of introducing myself approximately 47 times a day.
“Hi, I’m Prakruthi.”
Smile.
Handshake.
Repeat.
By Day 5, I had met what felt like half the company.
Some incredibly senior.
Some incredibly junior.
Some wonderfully kind.
Some politely curious.
And some who looked at me with the exact expression people reserve for unexpected guests at a wedding.
The expression said:
“Who is this girl?”
Not rudely.
Not openly.
Just enough for me to notice.
Which, unfortunately, I always do.
It’s funny how quickly a new role reminds you of your age.
One minute you’re feeling accomplished.
The next minute you’re introducing yourself in a meeting room full of people who have been doing this longer than you’ve been paying taxes.
And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of everything.
Your title.
Your experience.
Your age.
Your voice.
The questions you’re asking.
The questions you’re not asking.
The fact that everyone seems to know where the meeting rooms are except you.
By the end of the week, my brain felt like a browser with 37 tabs open.
A few were useful.
Most were unnecessary.
One was definitely playing music somewhere and I couldn’t find it.
That evening, I drove through Vontikoppal.
And that’s when I saw the house.
A beautiful old Mysore house.
The kind that doesn’t scream for attention.
The kind that has enough confidence to simply exist.
Tall trees.
A wide verandah.
A swing.
The sort of house that looks like it knows things.
I slowed down.
Not because I was planning to buy it.
At current real estate prices, I would first need to discover a hidden royal inheritance.
But because it made me pause.
And after a week of constantly proving, introducing, explaining and absorbing, a pause felt like luxury.
I looked at the house and immediately thought:
“Wow.”
Followed by:
“I wonder who owns it.”
Followed very quickly by:
“They’re lucky.”
There.
The honest thought.
The one most of us have and then pretend we didn’t.
Because sometimes people are lucky.
Sometimes they inherit beautiful things.
Sometimes they inherit opportunities.
Sometimes they inherit confidence.
Sometimes they inherit the luxury of not having to think about certain things.
And for a brief moment, I wondered what that must feel like.
To begin a race a little further ahead.
But then I found myself imagining something else.
Not the house.
The story.
The years behind it.
The people who lived there.
The ordinary days nobody photographs.
And strangely, that thought stayed with me much longer than the house itself.
Because somewhere between Day 5 in a new role and an old house in Vontikoppal, I realised I’ve spent most of my twenties building.
Building a career.
Building courage.
Building confidence.
Building the next version of myself.
Always building.
Always climbing.
Always looking at the next hill.
Which reminded me of Arjuna.
Not because I possess extraordinary archery skills.
The last thing I successfully aimed at was probably a coffee mug.
But because Arjuna spent years preparing for greatness.
Training.
Learning.
Winning.
Becoming.
And when the moment finally arrived, he discovered that achievement doesn’t automatically answer life’s biggest questions.
Krishna never tells him to chase a bigger kingdom.
A larger palace.
A more impressive victory.
Instead, he keeps bringing him back to something simpler.
Presence.
Purpose.
The quality of the journey.
Not just the outcome.
Standing there in Vontikoppal, I realised perhaps we’ve all become slightly obsessed with quantity.
More titles.
More followers.
More square feet.
More validation.
More.
Always more.
Yet the moments that stay with us are the biggest ones.
A conversation.
A cup of coffee.
A quiet evening with my most loved ones.
A feeling of belonging.
A swing on a verandah.
A life that feels like your own.
Perhaps that’s why that house stayed with me.
Not because it was beautiful.
But because it reminded me that someday, when all the meetings are over and all the titles change and all the ambitions evolve, what we’ll remember isn’t how much life we accumulated.
We’ll remember how well we lived it.
And slowly, very slowly, I am beginning to realise that the quantity of life is secondary.
It’s the quality that matters.
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