There comes a time in every person’s life when they need to make a decision that could potentially alter their lives. Drastically. Completely. And often irreversibly. My time came a couple of months ago.

The story itself throws back about a decade. I’ve been dancing ever since I could walk, and a teeny part of me… well, that would be misleading; in all honesty, a resonating voice within me… wanted to dance. I’ve spent many an afternoon watching ‘Dance With Me’ and wanting to be there. Dancing, teaching dance, performing… I wanted to do it all.

But of course, good Malayalee Nair girls do not become dance teachers. Not unless it’s Bharatnatyam or Mohiniattam or the like, and even then it’s not quite considered a ‘career’. Dance was always looked upon, and even encouraged as, a hobby. A pastime. But it ended there.

And so my choice of career veered towards my second-but-disguised-as-first love, fashion. And so I slogged, managed to get myself accepted into the most prestigious fashion college in the country, and figured that the hardest part was over.

Wrong again. Even whilst at college, I spent far more time dancing and choreographing than ever designing. Every college festival, contest, inter-college event – you name it, I was there, either on stage performing, or in the wings watching my choreography unfold. Sometimes both! And yes, I’d sketch the odd garment every now and then. I managed to work a so-called balance between the two by designing stuff for my dance performances. For some reason though, my faculty never quite considered that a ‘balance’. Hmmm. So much for encouraging creativity!

And so I graduated, do not ask me how. Started working soon after, and then life changed dramatically. Work took over my very existence, and there was little or no time left to dance. Until it reached breaking point, and I could not go any longer without dance to help ease the pain inflicted by the corporate world.

And then, the magic began…

Friends wonder why I walk home alone at well past midnight. And why I’m not afraid to do so. They’re shocked by the fact that I don’t even mind traveling alone in a Mumbai local train in the dead of night.

They ask me why I do it. Why I don’t just let one of them escort me home. But the thing with me is, I’m just far too used to taking care of myself… because nobody else was around to take care of me.

No no, I’m not about to launch into a tirade of my-parents-ignored-me-I-was-raised-by-wolves-yada-yada Freudian cockamamie nonsense. I was raised by adoring parents, who managed to pamper me without spoiling me (You rock, Mom & Dad!). And albeit ever-concerned, they (thankfully) never stopped me from exploration. I was encouraged to test my own limitations, and they trusted me enough to know that I knew where to draw the line. But that was the bottomline – I was responsible for myself. Dependence on another individual was not exactly frowned upon, but it wasn’t encouraged.

In all honesty, it did sometimes freak my parents out to learn that I had attended a rock concert (the scenario was scary enough for them right there, but of course, I couldn’t possibly leave it at that!) in a fairly distant suburb (see how this gets more interesting?), and returned home alone (the plot thickens…) in a local train (drum roll) at well past the witching hour (ta-daah!) So we reached an agreement of sorts. If I am to pull stunts of the sort, my handbag must always contain a can of Mace (I’ve substituted it with deo – just as effective, and hey, it comes in handy!) and my Swiss Army knife (a gift from my darling Daddy, complete with tips from my cop uncle on how to do the most damage with it – I love my family!)

Yada yada. I’m digressing from the topic.

It isn’t about carrying an armory wherever I go. It never was. It was about gumption. Some people consider it foolhardy, but I’m of the opinion that if you can walk with your head high, without fear, then you’ve tackled anything that might trigger fear at all. Which is not to say that it makes you invincible. But perhaps there’s some truth to the power of suggestion.

Maybe the Universe does conspire to give you what you crave.

In which case... Universe, where's Wentworth Miller already?!