We hear this every other day.
Get on with it.
Wait. Pause! Why? Who are you “hustling” for? What are you “hustling” for? Why are you “hustling”?
Oh right. Money.
Umm… Getting “there”!
Let’s retract a bit.
The word, “hustle” fundamentally means, “to push/coerce/jostle through…”
All-in-all, it appears hustling means, push through. Beyond. Without caring what comes our way.
But most of us do! We DO care about who/what we transit across in this journey as we supposedly seem to be hustling.
You see… It’s convenient to say we’re pushing through and pursuing our conquests. But having said that, we scoff aside what we don’t seem detrimental to our existence in our current reality.
Step back. And stop hustling.
Live a little.
Hustling isn’t what you’ll remember in time.
There are far better memories to make.
This article was first published in The Entrepreneur Middle-East, which can be viewed here: https://www.entrepreneur.com/article/274257
Start-up stories usually tell tales of vision & execution well done — building an amazing product, or delivering a fantastic service for the next big thing.
Vision & execution were just the ingredients we had when we embarked on the journey to build RBBi, 5 years ago.
Besides the initial paperwork and operational nightmares, from company registration to office fit out, we soon realised that there was so much more to building a sustainable start-up. Lessons, we only learned by experience. …
I recently flew from Mumbai to Dubai, returning from my short family-visit trip, back to the grind.
No sooner than I got comfortable on my seat on the aircraft, I was requested by my fellow passenger on my right if I could swap my seat with one of his colleagues’ who was allocated a different seat. I humbly did so.
In a matter of minutes, the lovely cabin crew approached me with the same request — swapping my new seat for another one, again!
I couldn’t really care less and was happy to do so.
As I attentively took my place in my 3rd seat on the plane, my new fellow passenger turned out to be a “chatter”. …
I came across this article a few months ago — I vividly remember how it made me feel at that time.
Then, as time has it’s way, I conveniently forgot about it.
Recently I re-discovered my Tumblr (I had completely forgotten I had an account there) — and saw the link to the article which I had posted there then.
It’s an excellent read on the process of “detachment” — titled aptly: “The Art of Giving Up” written by Dyske Suematsu.
Here’s an excerpt from the article which I particularly liked. …
The brightness of the flame enveloped her gaze.
She watched closely as the flame grew, encompassing every inch of the paper. She watched the fresh remains of the ashes in creation, as it lurched to wrap the unburned yet, with an insatiable quench.
As the flame made it’s transition to fire, she felt the ground slipping beneath her feet.
She had changed her mind. She wanted to look at it once again, one last time, savour it. But the fire didn’t comply with her desires anymore — it had crossed the line of no return.
The tears kept flowing, in vain.
She felt helpless as she watched the last photograph she had of him, burn down and proselytise to frail ashes.
She didn’t have a choice but to bid goodbye.
Just minutes ago… it all made sense! It was just fine! Everything fell in pristine order, just as she’d known all her life to be… just as everything “worked” out for her!
A plan it was! A plan that always made sense! All predetermined, like everything else that drew up a perfectly functional blueprint in her life. Oh yes there were always the unexpected mishaps. The ones that in the heat of moment tripped her off completely and swayed her from reality. But it never took her long to get back to “the plan”!
If there wasn’t one at that stage, it always came up. Her subconscious was her greatest ally! Eventually, it always came to her rescue, before she could even acknowledge it! …
Five past six in the morning. The piercing siren of the alarm jolts him into wakefulness. He debates in that split open second whether he had heard that alarm before. Sleep beckoning, he abandons the question and involuntarily reaches out to put it off. He opens his eyes and makes do with the darkness. He never was a strong believer in surprises. He treated his eyes the same way – let the light come in slowly, not just yet. Let’s not incinerate pain, he profusely believed.
The blissful waking moment begins to fade as the oversights start gushing in. Last night, last evening, last afternoon and then very gently, like a blood stain making its way on a clean sheet, the pinhole innocuously expands, bringing in realities of his existence from his waking life. …