Thoughts Over Brews

“Do what you have to do until you can do what you want to do.” – Oprah Winfrey  

We often find ourselves judging our abilities based on limitations we believe we have or on the expectations others place on us. Even when we feel a strong pull toward something our heart desires, we often let fear and self-doubt take the reins. A chance encounter on a flight once taught me an unforgettable lesson about living life on our terms.  

—

A few years ago, I boarded a flight and found myself seated next to a woman in her mid-50s. Sleep-deprived and hoping to catch some rest during the journey, I quickly realized that wouldn’t be easy. From the moment we sat down, the woman beside me seemed restless, fidgeting constantly. Resigning myself to the situation, I decided to distract myself with a book I’d impulsively bought at the airport—a lackluster thriller I couldn’t refuse after a sweet, smiling child handed it to me.

Not long after we took off, the air hostess came by with snacks, and the way the woman next to me spoke caught my attention. Something about her tone reminded me of my English teacher from high school. On impulse, I turned to her and asked, “Are you an English teacher?”  

To my surprise, she smiled and said, “Yes! But that was a long time ago. I didn’t just teach English; I taught History, Geography, Physics—pretty much everything. What made you think so?”  

“It’s the way you spoke to the air hostess. It reminded me of my English teacher.”  

She chuckled. “Well, I didn’t realize I still sound like that.”  

“Maybe some traits never fade,” I replied.  

“Maybe,” she said, laughing lightly.  

We exchanged introductions, and she asked about the book I was reading. I admitted that it wasn’t great, explaining how a little boy’s adorable persistence had led me to buy it. She laughed at the story and then shifted the conversation.  

“So, do you like your job?” she asked.  

“I do. But more than that, I enjoy the experience of living away from home, taking care of myself, and working in a place I like.”  

She smiled warmly. “I appreciate girls like you these days. I didn’t prioritize my career. I married young, had two kids, and took on a lot of family responsibilities. My husband wasn’t supportive of me working, so I left my job.”  

“But it seems like you’re working now?” I asked, curious.  

“Yes,” she said, her face softening. “A few years ago, my daughter asked me a question that changed my life. She said, ‘Mom, what have you accomplished in life that makes you happy? And before you say your kids, know that you would’ve had us anyway.’ That question shook me. I didn’t have an answer.”  

“Did she encourage you to start working again?”  

“She did. Both my daughter and my son supported me. My husband wasn’t on board at first, but one day I stopped asking for his permission. I realized I was ready to live for myself. My life had always been about others—first my parents, then my husband and his family, and later my kids. I had been so focused on them that I lost sight of my own identity.”  

“That’s really inspiring,” I said, genuinely moved by her story.  

She laughed. “I sent my daughter to one of the best universities for her master’s. If she ever decides to leave her career for marriage, she’s going to hear it from me!”  

We both laughed. I could tell she had more to say, so I waited.  

“My dad has Alzheimer’s,” she said after a pause. “He doesn’t remember me, my sister, or even my mother. My mother once broke down and said, ‘Enu te main vi nai yaad (He doesn’t even remember me).’ After that, her health started to decline. Today, she’s in the ICU, and I’m flying home to be with her. She doesn’t have much time left.”  

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were going through so much.”  

She smiled faintly. “It’s life. My father-in-law is bedridden too. It feels like all the elders in my family are slipping away. For a while, I didn’t even realize I was depressed. My kids helped me through it by encouraging me to start my business. They gave me back my purpose.”  

I was speechless. What could I possibly say? 

She sighed, “Today is my daughter’s birthday, and I forgot to wish her. She’s mad at me and isn’t answering my calls. I even had to ask a relative to send her a gift on my behalf. She doesn’t know about my mother yet… I just hope nothing happens today—I don’t want this to shadow her birthday.”  

After a pause, she continued, “Darling, we don’t have control over our lives. Things just happen. We spend so much time pleasing others, living by their expectations, that by the time we realize we’ve lost our lives doing nothing, it’s already too late. Your generation doesn’t see it now, but you’re lucky. You have meaning in your lives. Don’t ever lose that meaning for someone else—no matter who they are.”  

She gave a sad smile and added, “Look at me, going on and on. I’m sorry. I just… really wish my daughter would answer my calls.”

I replied softly, “She will.” But in that moment, I hated our generation.  

We spent the rest of the flight talking about literature, life, and the cities we were connected to. Her strength and perspective left a deep impression on me.  

When the flight landed, she turned on her phone and immediately received a call. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she wiped them away quickly, took her luggage, and moved toward the exit. I followed silently, understanding the news she had just received.  

At the luggage belt, she got another call—a relative had informed her daughter about her mother’s passing. She was furious. Holding back her tears, she called her daughter to console her. “Baby, it’s okay. She’s in a better place now. We’ve been preparing for this day. And what better day to leave this world than your birthday? My angel, I’m fine. You just take care of yourself.”  

While she was on the phone, I retrieved our luggage and handed her a bottle of water. She thanked me and composed herself. “I need to go take care of my sister. She’ll need me now.”  

I offered her a ride, but she declined. “You’ve done enough for me already,” she said. “At least let me buy you a coffee to thank you.”, and went to buy me one.

As we exchanged numbers, she said, “By the way, my name is Kumud.”  

I smiled. “I know—I saw it on your luggage tag.”  

“And your name?”  

“Tanu,” I replied.  

Her eyes lit up. “Tanu? That’s what we call my daughter. Her full name is Tanvi.”  

I hesitated but chose not to share that my birth name was also Tanvi. It felt like a personal connection I wanted to keep to myself.  

—

Meeting Kumud left a profound mark on me. Her resilience, determination, and empathy continue to inspire me. She reminded me of an essential truth: life is too short to live by rules imposed by others.  

We only get one life. Will you let fear and expectations dictate yours, or will you choose to live authentically, pursuing what makes you truly happy?  

Take that first step. It’s always worth it.