Why it's perfectly OK to be ordinary—and unambitious

 

“We want rock stars.”

“10x engineers.”

“Super achievers.”

It’s an overwhelming reality of the world we live in. Every company wants exceptional, super-productive people on its teams. And every individual strives to be in the top 10, 20, or whatever number they fancy in a given realm.

The human race has been in a relentless race with its own kind for as long as anyone can remember. For everything—from jobs and sports to crazy feats and rare honors.

But, of late, the desire to be extraordinary has taken on a ferocity that makes the rest of us—the ordinary folk who form the bulk of Planet Earth’s inhabitants—shudder.

I have nothing against superlative achievement or the pursuit of excellence, mind you. On the contrary, aspiring to reach our highest potential is a worthy, admirable goal.

I’m here to warn against and provide a contrarian view to the blind cult of ambition at any cost. Against an all-consuming pursuit that usually breeds secret fears of being left behind in an avalanche of technology-led progress. Which also begets unhealthy envy. And depression. And, quite often, a dangerous attitude of “making a mark, come what may.”

So much so that many “driven” people wouldn’t think twice before building their palaces by bulldozing the tiny huts of those who aren’t as “passionate” (read “aggressive”).

Again, it’s all right to be full of energy and follow one’s dreams in right earnestness. But reckless driving to mow down others? Not done.

To be sure, it takes a combination of talent, hard work, and the right circumstances (also known as luck) to reach the pinnacle of success in any field.

Plus, there’s only so much room at the top (unless you are thinking of climbing Mount Everest, where it’s a crowded slugfest now!)

But, more importantly, and the main point of this post: not everyone needs to be super ambitious or extraordinary. In fact, in their heart, a majority of people are not ambitious—though many of them harbor borrowed ambitions and expectations of those around them (Remember the “What do you want to be when you grow up” spiel or the never-ending plea to “push the envelope”?).

IMHO, most folks just want to live in an admixture of peace, love, and fun—with or without achieving a supposedly lofty goal. 

Not all who join as employees do so to become the CEO—which is okay. (They may still become the CEO which, again, is okay.)

Not all folks who play a sport or go for daily runs do so to win an Olympics medal—which is okay.

Not everyone who applauds a theatrical performance is looking to be a stage actor—which is okay. 

And not all who put on makeup want to win beauty pageants—OK, again.

Ordinariness is an essential, irrefutable fact of life. It is, of course, not to be worn as a badge of honor—but nor is it to be looked down upon. Ordinariness or lack of ambition is usually the way things are, and the person that others label as “ordinary” or “unambitious” may not give it two hoots.

What’s more, labels can be misleading. An ordinary assistant, for instance, may be a great human being while an extraordinary CEO can be lousy and mean. A “successful” career politician can fill you with disgust while a “street tramp” playing the violin can bring a smile to your face.

What matters more than ambition—whether you consider yourself extraordinary or ordinary—is the sincerity with which you do the job at hand or the empathy with which you treat your fellow humans and other sentient beings.

I’m not just preaching this to you—I speak from experience. I gave up being ambitious in my career when I was in my forties. Somewhere along the line, I stopped chasing increments or jumps but, instead, began to walk with a pace that was more in step with my psyche. I also focused more on what mattered to me personally (to the extent I could). This included meditation, reducing my cravings, and taking joy in the little things of life. Seeing my friends and even complete strangers flourish and laugh made me happy. Before long, I felt more fulfilled, more connected with the world at large, even as I quietly acknowledged my own tininess.

At a time when the specter of AI is looming large over jobs, it is important to wield human ordinariness not only as a shield but as something of great value—one that no extraordinary AI model can ever generate. 

It is important to strive for excellence—but more by means of who we are than by the judgment of others. It's even more urgent to achieve collective happiness and peace in a world increasingly divided by labels, gaps, and rifts. 

It is indeed important and necessary—and perfectly all right—to be ordinary.

Why There's Still Nothing Like Great Mornings

In India the early morning hours, called Brahma Muhurta, are considered auspicious for new initiatives and great beginnings. Even otherwise, there’s something in the morning air that takes you to another level of exalted existence—provided you can shake off the sleep and be up and about this side of 6 a.m.

I used to be an early bird but, somewhere along my worklife, I metamorphosed into a night owl. Even so, every once in a while I chirp up at a respectable morning hour.

Recently I got up around dawn, took one final yawn and, freshening up quickly, made for the nearby park that’s my usual walking heaven.

The moment I found myself in the middle of a grassy patch with peepul, margosa, and ashoka trees, I paused to take it all in. The beautiful, green landscape. The cool breeze. The sound of koels, barbets, mynas.

Sitting down on a bench, I listened. Above the sweet din of birdsong, my ear caught the curious cry of a black kite. I have often wondered at the onomatopoeic symphony that so closely resembles the Hindi name of the raptor. It goes like this: “Chee-eel, chee-eel, chee-eel.” The kite was making slow circles up in the air, probably looking for its first catch of the day down below on the ground. Or maybe it was eyeing me, reciprocating my curiosity!

My attention was diverted by a unique buzzing chorus that was growing in loudness and intensity. I wondered whether it was a swarm of crickets, grasshoppers, or some other insects making those shrill noises. In all probability, they were a bunch of male cicadas out on their annual short sojourn out of the mud, attracting females through what’s called “stridulation.” Later on, when I searched the web, I came across this beautiful article  by Ramya Coushik on the whole shebang. The Britannica entry throws in some amazing tidbits, too (like, each of the 3,000 species of cicadas has a distinct sound; or that they can contract their tymbal muscle, responsible for those screeches, 120 to 480 times a second!).

But let’s not lose our wings in entomology—back to the park and the morning.

Having noticed all that natural drama around me, I did some stretches and settled down to meditate. Most often, I meditate in my room but exercising or meditating out in the open, green surroundings is remarkably different. Your lungs are fuller, your mood lighter, and your spirits higher. Gratitude and love flow more easily from the bottom of your heart.

On this particular occasion, I didn’t have to wait long before I eased deeper into a state of peace and equanimity. I felt healthier and more agile, even though I was barely moving.

When I opened my eyes, the benign sun was just appearing on the horizon. It was the middle of summer but there was still an hour or so before the day would lose its cool to the ferocious glare of the sun.

I surveyed the park before getting up to leave. The crowd of people to make good on their jogging and exercising self-promises had grown. Dog-walkers were jostling for track space with slow-moving uncles and impatient athletes. Not far from where I sat, a group of yoga enthusiasts were folding up their mats. It was apparent from their echoing banter that they had had a good session.

On my way back home, I saw the city wake up in an outburst of laziness and bustle. Reluctant folks bringing milk and groceries; long-distance commuters hurrying up to the nearest metro station, trying to avoid the dust from the mighty sweeps the street cleaners made with their witch-brooms; cows munching on leftovers they shouldn't be eating for producing healthy milk; the neighborhood elder shouting North India's most common salutation as he passed the next house or shop: “Ram-Ram ji!”—each one playing their usual part in the forward march of the day.

Just another great morning in the ongoing drumbeat of time.

Falling in love with amaltas in the mad heat of Delhi

Amaltas on a road divider in Delhi: Photo by Sanjay Gupta

 

When people say, “May heaven's choicest blessings be showered upon you”—a  popular wish, spoken frequently at weddings—they could be visualizing amaltas, also known as “the golden shower tree.” 

This yellow beauty wears multiple monikers. Indian laburnum and Cassia fistula (the botanical name) are fairly well known. Somewhat less common, but more significant from historical and health points of view, are Aragvadha (meaning disease killer) and Rajavriksha (the royal tree)—both of which find mention in Charaka Samhita, the oldest Indian treatise on Ayurveda.

There are several other names, too. But I'm particularly fond of amaltas and how easily it rolls off your tongue with a lyrical feel: amal-taas.

Different parts of this tree provide different medicinal benefits. It is said to have anti-inflammatory and laxative properties, and is useful in arthritis and skin diseases, among other ailments. Killer of diseases indeed!

For me, amaltas represents soothing drops of nectar sent from above for the benefit of parched souls. Especially for Delhiites sweating it out in the scorching days of May and June.

The signs of delicate yellow on slender, otherwise-nondescript branches of the medium-sized tree begin to appear in April. Come May and the golden shower works its magic everywhere. On trees planted along traffic dividers. In clusters across city parks. In fortunate folks’ backyards. Just about anywhere.

Take one look at the pleasant flowers twinkling invitingly and the heat that has been oppressing you relents a bit. Pause a little longer to drink their blessings and a cool reassurance percolates in your being.

In the sweltering afternoons of harsh city life, the relief that sightings of amaltas bring to me—and countless others I'm sure—is immense. The yellow petals, swaying in the wind, make your spirit soar and put the bounce back in your step.

Trees remain Nature’s most benevolent, most visible marks on a rapidly deteriorating Earth. Let’s give a shout-out to one of their most lovable manifestations.

“Love you, amaltas!”