Until God Tells Me to Stop
The other night, I was sitting in a bar with a
few close friends—classmates from ISB. Over single malts and a bowl of roasted
peanuts, we laughed about the year gone by. It had been… a lot.
Twelve months of intense academic rigour, 8
a.m. classes, 2 a.m. submissions, cold calls that hit harder than caffeine, and
that beautiful mess of group projects, parties, and personal growth. Somewhere
between late-night debriefs and spontaneous dance floors, I began to reinvent
myself. Again.
But reinvention isn’t new to me.
I was 13, overweight, and struggling to keep
up at Rashtriya Indian Military College, a world where physical
endurance and mental grit were non-negotiable. I still remember gasping for
breath on long runs, trying to hide my wheezing from the seniors, but I kept
going.
Then came the National Defence Academy,
where I pushed myself through brutal cross-country runs, each a test of will
more than stamina. I wasn't fast—but I was stubborn. I kept showing up, one
foot in front of the other.
Later, as an air navigator in the Indian
Air Force, I wanted more. I didn’t just want to fly—I wanted to fly heavy
lift platforms. So I trained harder, studied deeper, and upgraded my
category. Every step felt uphill. But I took it anyway.
In my late 30s, I rediscovered running—not for
a medal, not for a promotion, just for myself. The same legs that had struggled
years ago now carried me with quiet confidence. And when I decided to apply to
B-schools, I gave the GMAT multiple times. Despite not getting the
“perfect” score, I didn’t quit. Because the score didn’t define my potential—my
persistence did.
And now, at ISB, amid a sea of younger,
sharper minds, I still wake up early, train hard, and give everything in
class—not because I’m expected to, but because I can’t help it. Something
inside won’t let me stop.
That night at the bar, as we reflected on the
year gone by, someone asked, "What matters to you?"
One friend said social impact. Another
said helping people. Then they turned to me.
I took a sip, leaned back, and said,
“If God came down and told me, ‘This is your
limit. This is the best you’ll ever be,’ I’d stop. I’d stop running, stop
studying, stop pushing. But until that moment, I’ll keep going. Because
reaching my potential is my only real goal.”
I didn’t say it to impress anyone. I said it
because it’s the most honest thing I know.
To me, potential isn’t just about
performance—it’s about the promise. It’s not defined by outcomes; it’s
revealed in effort.
There are days I've questioned myself.
Wondered if I was behind, too late, too old, or already done. But even then, I
know: I’d rather fall while reaching than stand still and wonder what
could’ve been.
This journey isn’t about applause. It’s about honouring
the struggle. About paying respect to every version of me that fought,
failed, got back up—and kept going.
If one day, God looks at me and says, “Ashish,
you’ve given it your all,” maybe then I’ll stop.
But until then, I’ll keep running. I’ll keep
learning. I’ll keep becoming.
Because I’m not chasing perfection.
I'm chasing the man I was always meant to be.
That night, no one argued. We just sat with
it. And in that quiet moment, I think we each saw something of ourselves.
We all have our “why.”
Mine is chasing the very edge of who I can
become.
And I’ll keep chasing it—
Until God tells me to stop.