I was on my way back home tonight, the kind of quiet ride where the wind hums louder than your thoughts — but somehow, your mind won’t stop talking. Streetlights flickered on the wet road, the kind of scene that always makes me think too much. And there it was again — that one question that doesn’t leave me alone: why do people act weird around me?
Not weird like they dislike me. More like… they don’t know how to place me. They talk, they laugh, but something in the air always feels slightly off. A half-second pause before replying, a subtle shift in energy when I open up too much. It’s small — but I notice it. And maybe for the first time tonight, I stopped blaming the moment. I looked inward.
Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s me.
Maybe it’s the way I was raised.
My father was never the kind of man who believed in “grey.” He lived in absolutes. Either someone was his person, or they weren’t. Either you show up, or you disappear. I grew up watching him pour his energy into people, do everything for them, and then, without warning, stop completely. As a kid, I didn’t get it — how can someone go from all to nothing so quickly? But now, I think I do. That rhythm — that emotional switch — grew inside me too.
Where I come from, it’s common. We’re emotional people. We don’t do casual connections; we do full-hearted loyalty.
We call it “tera bhai, mera bhai” — my brother is your brother.
That’s the world I grew up in.
But the world I’m building in now — the creative industry, the entrepreneurial circles, the people chasing goals, validation, and personal brands — that world doesn’t work like that.
Here, people build walls made of charm. Everyone’s polite, everyone’s “cool,” but everyone’s guarded. Smiles are social strategies. Vulnerability is currency — you spend it carefully. And I walk in with my raw, small-town wiring — thinking everyone feels like I do. I walk in open, honest, warm, thinking, “If we’re talking, we’re friends now.” But that’s not how it works here.
I’ve learned that when I’m happy, I overshare. When I care, I overdo it. I bring people in too close, too fast. I make sure no one feels like an outsider — even if it means draining myself to make them comfortable. But maybe that’s where I go wrong. Maybe people don’t want that kind of intensity. Maybe they don’t want to be “seen” so deeply. Maybe they just want to talk, laugh, and go home.
I was at a party last night — a room full of energy, people connecting, easy laughter bouncing off the walls. And there I was, standing in between all of it, realizing that I’m not good at greetings. I’m not good at surface-level talk. I can’t just nod and say, “Yeah, that’s cool.” I either get too deep too fast, or I stay silent in my corner. Either we’re friends for life, or we’re nothing.
That’s the part of me I’ve started noticing. And on the ride home, a story formed in my head. A story I’ve heard since childhood, but this time it meant something different.
Why does the wolf die and the fox survive?
The wolf is loyal, emotional, and bold. He tells everything to his king — what he saw, what he felt, what he thought. His honesty is his pride, his downfall. The fox, on the other hand, is quiet. He observes more than he speaks. He doesn’t show his cards. He doesn’t rush. The world calls him cunning, but maybe he’s just cautious. Maybe he’s just smart enough to adapt.
And that hit me.
Because I’ve been the wolf all my life — showing too much, saying too much, feeling too much. Believing that loyalty guarantees belonging. But in this new world, it doesn’t. It just leaves you tired and misunderstood. The fox isn’t fake. The fox is just playing the long game. He survives because he knows when to speak and when to stay silent.
The older I get, the more I realize — it’s not about being the loudest or the most loyal anymore. It’s about being aware. It’s about protecting your energy, not because people are bad, but because not everyone deserves your full version on day one. Adaptability isn’t betrayal. It’s evolution.
For the longest time, I believed moving fast meant giving your all — giving every ounce of your energy to everything you touch. But maybe moving smart means pacing yourself. It means knowing when to step back, when to listen, when to let silence hold the weight of a conversation.
So no, I’m not trying to change who I am. I don’t want to kill the wolf inside me — that’s where my heart, my loyalty, my soul lives. But I want to learn from the fox. I want to learn to move quieter. To hold a little back. To let curiosity replace oversharing.
Because truth is — the wolf dies for his honesty, but the fox survives by understanding timing. And maybe life isn’t about choosing one over the other. Maybe it’s about finding that middle ground — being a wolf in heart, but a fox in mind.
I rode home that night in silence, the city asleep, my thoughts awake. For the first time, I wasn’t angry at the world for being distant. I just understood that some people don’t speak the same emotional language. And that’s fine. Maybe I just need to learn the translation — not to fake who I am, but to evolve into someone who knows when to speak, and when to just smile, nod, and let the mystery do its work.
Sunday 9 Nov -11:35, MUMBAI
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