Expectations

At a recent literary gala, the evening began not with a famous author or polished emcee, but with an unpretentious man from a local Indi-Comedy-Club. Unknown name, ordinary appearance—expectations were low.

He began with a story. A heart surgeon had given him the address of his clinic, and when the comedian went there, he noticed a jalebi-wala shop at the corner. The image instantly transported many of us back to India, where every neighborhood had its own jalebi shop—hot, syrupy, irresistible. The comedian asked the doctor why he had chosen such a location. The doctor smiled and said, “Jalebis are a major cause of obesity. My practice grows!”

The room erupted. Within minutes, more jokes poured out of this unassuming man, each sharper than the last. He had overturned our expectations, reminding me of their power.

As I have worked on publishing my memoir, I find myself reflecting on how expectations have shaped my own journey. Unlike the comedian, who thrived by defying them, I often lived under their weight.

In my home, among three siblings, I was at the top of the heap of insecurity. I placed my parents on a pedestal, never questioning their choices, never doubting their wisdom. Their expectations—spoken and unspoken—became the compass by which I navigated my early life.

When I became an entrepreneur, the stakes grew higher. My earliest employees had taken a leap of faith in me, and I felt a deep responsibility not to disappoint them. Then came investors, and later, public shareholders. Each layer added new expectations, heavier than the last.

But here’s the paradox: expectations can propel us forward, yet they can also imprison us. Every story, however, has a turning point. Mine did too.

I was reminded of this lesson again at the bridge table. As a novice player at my local club, I once opened my first call (bid) with “2 Clubs,” intending to signal an average hand. Only later did I realize that in that bidding system, it meant something entirely different. In that instant, I had to recalibrate—not just my own expectations for the hand, but also how my partner and I would navigate the rest of the bidding. And I had to do it with a perfectly straight face—lest visible dismay be considered passing unauthorized information, or cheating.

That moment taught me something important: we make a move with one intention, only to discover it means something else to the world.

This defies expectations in its own way, perhaps similar to the comedian at the gala. The difference was that my mistake worsened at the bridge table.

In the end, my story is about learning to live beyond expectations. It begins with the weight of expectations and ends with the freedom of letting them go. Along the way, there are moments of triumph, of doubt, of laughter, and of loss. But at its heart, it is a story about learning to live not for the applause of others.