The story of a quiet girl, an orange car and the power of choosing
Before we dive into the saga of the orange car, let’s journey back to a small town in Kerala, South India. Amidst the ancient temples, tall coconut trees, and lush greenery, lived a small family in a cozy home. The family consisted of a stay-at-home mom who loved cooking and decorating, a dad with his medical practice, and their little girl.
As an only child, she was pampered by her parents.
Mummy would cook her favorite chicken biryani and bake sponge cakes for special occasions. Pappa would sit with her and listen to her classroom adventures, even when a room full of patients was waiting.
The little girl loved sketching and scribbling in her journals, cutting out pictures of beautiful landscapes and cute animals from the pamphlets Pappa received from the medical reps.
She spent hours with her journals, drawing books, and colored pencils, making handmade greeting cards for her family. She dreamed up autobiographies for inanimate objects, giving each one a life and a story. She lived in her world of imagination and books. Her neighbor Aunty often caught her in conversation with the plants and trees outside her bedroom window.
Pappa and Mummy always chose what they thought was best for her. She was never asked for her opinion but was happy and content with whatever she was given. She rarely stopped to wonder if she wanted something different.
She was good at Math and Science, though they were never her favorite subjects. Her parents encouraged her so much in those subjects that she came to believe that she was supposed to favor Math and Science.
Whenever she brought home high scores, her parents beamed with pride, and she felt a sense of achievement.
She still vividly remembers her 8th-grade Math teacher rewarding her with a pack of Dairy Milk bars for scoring 100/100 on the final exam. Walking through the school corridors with that chocolate bar in hand, she felt exhilarated, soaking in the compliments. Her parents were on cloud nine—and she was, too!
For a kid who was a dreamer and artist at heart, she poured her creativity into decorating her science project books. She filled them with detailed illustrations, added cursive handwritten notes for each experiment, and drew intricate patterns on the introduction and table of contents pages. Her real focus was on making her projects look beautiful rather than on the experiments or lessons themselves. Luckily, she had friends who took care of the scientific bits for her!
After high school and some unsuccessful attempts at Engineering and Medical entrance exams, she ended up pursuing an undergraduate degree in Physics—a subject she had no real interest in, chosen by her parents as the “best path forward.”
She went along with it without hesitation, enjoying time with her friends and attending her classes. Gradually, her art, writing, and creative passions began to fade into the background.
A few days after she graduated, her parents and uncle gathered on the porch around their rattan coffee table. Between sipping chai and snacking on the sweet delicacies Mummy served, her family debated her future.
Her uncle suggested they get her married, while her mom insisted she pursue her Masters. The young girl was inside, overhearing their conversation about her future. No one asked her what she wanted.
Why was she not in the room? Why weren’t they asking her what she wanted?
But she didn’t speak up. She had no clear idea of what she wanted either. Her family had always decided what was best for her—Math and Science were her strengths, according to them—and that path was always laid out for her, one way or another.
As they discussed the next steps, another uncle suggested a new degree that seemed to be gaining popularity—MCA, or Master in Computer Applications.
The family reached out to cousins and friends in other states to gather information. After some research, they found a college in a small town called Mandya, near Bangalore, that offered the program at a price that fits her parent’s budget.
A month later, the family, along with her uncle, piled into their black Ambassador car and set off for Mandya to check out the college.
The young girl was mesmerized by the scenic 6-hour journey—winding paths shaded by trees on both sides. The air was noticeably cooler than back home, and the breeze felt refreshing. Everything seemed so different. The scenery was new, the people were different, and they spoke a language she wasn’t familiar with.
For a small-town girl, this was the first time she was stepping out and exploring the world, and it excited her more than the college or the degree.
She was a creative dreamer at heart, but here she was, being thrown into a degree she had no interest in. Still, she went along with it—partly because she was good at it, but mostly because it was the path that had been chosen for her.
Away from her parents for the first time, she learned to navigate friendships, live with roommates, and savor simple joys like going out for Set Dosa and By 2 Tea before classes.
She spent hours memorizing Bollywood song lyrics, cramming for exams at the last minute with notes from her bestie, and shopping with whatever little was left of her monthly allowance. Those three years flew by in a blur.
In the final year of her degree, she received a call from her parents asking her to come home immediately. A family was coming to see her—specifically a boy who lived and worked in the US. Her parents had decided this was a good match, a relationship worth pursuing. For those unfamiliar with the process, this was how arranged marriages worked in India, especially back in the day.
The girl was initially nervous about moving so far away from her family, but as always, she went along with her parents’ choices. In the few hours she spent talking to him, he seemed quiet and charming.
The wedding ceremonies were all arranged by her parents and extended family.
Her mom chose her wedding saree and jewelry, while her aunt took charge of decorating the wedding hall and planning the Mehndi ceremony. Her sister-in-law handled her hair and makeup, and someone else decided which car would take the bride to the wedding hall. Every detail was arranged by everyone but her.
If you haven’t guessed it yet, this is the story of my life.
From that little girl in the small town to the young bride ready to embark on a new journey miles away from home, I was happy and content, never complaining or voicing my opinion about anything.
I didn’t even know what I wanted. I never learned how to stand up for myself or think about what I truly needed. I didn’t have a favorite color; I just went with whatever my mom chose for me.
I admired my cousins and aunts who spoke up, were strong, and stood firm in their choices. But I was never one of them. I was always the good girl—the one who got along with everyone. The nice one. The quiet one.
After I got married and moved to the US, it was an exciting new phase in my life. I was on my own, but did that mean I was making my own decisions?
You guessed it. NO. I handed over that responsibility to my husband.
When we went out for dinner, I would glance at the menu and let him choose my dish. I never took the time to look through it and think about what I wanted, what would taste good to me—for my palate.
When we went shopping, I would let him choose the clothes he liked. They were mostly collared shirts and checkered or striped patterns—his picks, but I was fine with them. Khaki pants and collared T-shirts became my go-to uniform.
It wasn’t that he didn’t let me buy what I wanted. The truth was, I never had my own opinions. I had never taken the time to pause and reflect on what I truly wanted or what genuinely caught my eye in the store. Collared T-shirts and striped or checkered patterns weren’t my style at all. I preferred ruffled tops and bohemian-patterned skirts.
Everything changed once I turned 40. It was like a switch flipped.
Surprisingly, I owe much of this transformation to Instagram memes. Yes, Instagram memes!
Social media often gets blamed for many things, but in my case, it played a key role in my journey toward growth and empowerment.
I began to realize what I had been missing all along—understanding that my opinion mattered. That I needed to have a voice, a perspective, and a sense of what I truly wanted.
I began to experiment, starting at the dinner table. Choosing what I wanted to eat from the menu was my first step.
When it was time to grab food at the airport lounge, I looked at my two options: tomato soup and chicken soup. Although my husband suggested the tomato soup, I chose the Thai chicken soup because I genuinely wanted to try it. And I loved it. Instead of just sitting there waiting for someone to tell me what to eat, I made my own decision. It felt so empowering, and I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself for making that choice.
Next came picking my clothes—ones that truly reflected me. I swapped collared shirts for ruffles and flowy, girly tops, embracing the styles I loved.
And I figured out that my favorite color is orange. Yes, orange—it makes my heart sing.
If you’ve been to our home, you’d know that instantly.
Splashes of orange peek out from the terracotta pots holding my giant Monstera plants, the cozy pillows tossed around the house, the vibrant mural on the living room wall smeared with shades of orange, yellow, and green, the camel-colored sofas in our family room, the orange placemats brightening up the dining table.
Orange is everywhere—it’s my color, my voice.
When it was time to get a new car for me, I had a few thoughts in mind. I wanted a small, sporty car in the color orange. It was my one wild, crazy dream—one that I had held onto on my vision board for years.
My family cringed. An orange car? Are you sure? My son rolled his eyes!
My husband dropped some subtle hints too—”Are you really sure? How about blue? Black isn’t a bad choice either.”
But this time, I was more sure than I had ever been. Orange is my choice, and nothing is going to change my mind!
Would it look like I am riding inside a pumpkin? Maybe, but do I care? Not one bit.
I checked in with myself again and again. Yes, I was 100% sure.
They say when you truly want something, the universe conspires to bring it to you. We walked into a car showroom, and there she was—the orange beauty, with the special black optics package and the all-black trim.
It was love at first sight. I knew immediately she was the one.
When I test-drove her, the seat hugged my every curve, and my feet fit perfectly on the pedals. The ride was smooth and fun, and I was smitten. My heart was all in.
This car marks the first time I’ve made a brave, bold choice—one that goes against the grain.
It represents a version of me finally staying true to my feelings and listening to my inner voice, rather than conforming to what the world around me dictates.
A first step toward living a life that reflects who I truly am.
It symbolizes a decision where I let my flamboyant side shine—no longer coy, shy, or doing things quietly.
For me, this car is more than just a vehicle; it’s a statement—the beginning of many unapologetic, bold moves I’m ready to embrace.
It stands as a testament to voicing a strong opinion, holding onto my vision, and seeing it through, regardless of others’ thoughts or suggestions.
It reflects my adventurous spirit, in my introverted way, and a willingness to carve a new path and stand up for what I believe in.
Above all, it’s a symbol of breaking free from the box of blandness and being a trendsetter – in a sea of grays, whites, blacks, and neutrals. It is embracing risks, and being okay with standing out—even if it means being mocked.
It’s my way of saying, “This is who I am, and I’m proud of it.”
I feel like a total badass when I step into my orange car, crank up the music, and hit the road. I’m completely obsessed with her. I can’t help but take countless pictures—adoring her for a few extra minutes even after parking, before heading to my appointments.
I’m constantly clicking photos of her and sending them to my husband, interrupting his work crises with a big “Look at her!”
I love it when neighbors comment as I drive by, sneaking glances at the bold orange beauty.
I revel in the admiration from friends when they gush over the color. One of them was so inspired that he now rides an orange bike!
It’s amazing to see how a bold choice can spark a ripple effect. Sometimes, taking risks doesn’t just change your world—it starts a movement.
And there are some unexpected perks too—spotting the car in a crowded parking lot is now a breeze! My husband has no trouble spotting me from a mile away when I drive to the airport to pick him up.
As my kid grows, I want him to have his own opinions and make his own choices.
“Pick something, anything,” I tell him.

Because if you don’t, someone else will end up driving your entire life. Maybe it seems easier now, but I don’t want you to look back one day and wonder if you could’ve made different choices.
Even when the choices aren’t perfect, they’re still yours. They’re still your mistakes, and that’s okay. They shape you, you own them, and you learn from them.
Now, I love my parents and my husband with all my heart and am ever so grateful for the sacrifices they have made to give me this beautiful life. And I know they are all doing what they think is best for me.
This post is not to blame them or find fault with them. This post is about taking responsibility for your own life.
My story is a reflection on how things work in society and a plea to every woman on this planet: Do not give your power to somebody else.
You need to have a say in your matters. Only you can decide what you want and what’s best for you—from the clothes you wear, the food you eat, the car you drive, the degree you pursue, to the career path you take.
You need to fight for what you want. Your dreams matter.
They might look silly or unreasonable to others, but only you know what’s in your heart. Lead with that, and you will never go astray.
When you get to your 40s and beyond, you’ll be in a much happier place.
As for me, I continue to cruise around in my orange car, a little more confident in making decisions and embracing colorful choices. Every drive in my orange car is a reminder to honor my needs, listen to my heart’s desires, and go after what truly makes my soul sing.
I am now the person who dared to own an orange car, and I approach my decision-making with that same courage. I hope my story inspires you to find the confidence to make bold choices and live true to yourself.
XO

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