Ritu Malhotra- The Cellular Alchemist

People pleasing doesn’t always look like a weakness.
Sometimes, it looks like being ‘the dependable one.’

Case in point.

A senior professional I worked with, let’s call her Ananya.

Very capable, very dependable… and very appreciated. The one people turned to, the one who would not drop the ball.

“Only you can do this.”
“You’re the best person for this.”

And just like that… another yes.

Even on days when her plate was full, even when there was resistance within. Because saying no felt like breaking a perception, an image, maybe even a relationship.

So we stayed with this a little longer, and an interesting thought emerged.

Was she responding to the request or to the feeling of being valued?

And there it was.

The approval, the warmth, the sense of being needed and seen. That made the yes easier. And the no… much harder.

Once you see this, it changes the lens.

It is not about others anymore.
It is about what your yes is trying to hold on to.

Stay with that.

'I want change… but I don’t start.'

It’s a strange place to be... wanting more from life, yet staying within the same patterns.

I call it a rut.

Sometimes, it’s life asking for a new beginning.

The question is… will you respond?

I remember my wedding day more vividly for what I was told not to be than for what I actually felt.

‘Don’t look up.’
‘A bride must look demure.’
‘And whatever you do, don’t laugh.’

At one point, when I instinctively tried to peek out from under my veil, an aunt gently pushed my head down. It was done with care, even love.

But in that moment, I stopped being myself and started trying to be ‘normal’.

And I wonder how often we do that.
We spend so much of our lives trying to find that invisible line.

We adjust how we speak, how we dress, how we show up. Not always because it feels true, but because it feels acceptable. And slowly, without realising it, we begin to edit ourselves. To fit in. To be acceptable. To avoid that one label we all fear, ‘weird’.

But who decides what normal is? Is there really some eye in the sky keeping score?

Or have we simply agreed to follow what everyone else is doing?

The more I reflect, the more I feel that what we call ‘weird’ is often just someone choosing to think for themselves. Someone stepping slightly off the expected path.

And perhaps that is not something to correct, but something to understand.

For me, the shift began by questioning what we have always accepted.
Is same-sex marriage really wrong, or have I just never examined my belief?
Will you really ‘burn in hell’ for eating a cow, or is that something you’ve inherited without reflection?
Is it really not okay for you and your staff to sit and eat at the same table?

And then, noticing the labels I carried.
‘I’m this kind of person.’
‘I’m not that kind of person.’

But labels belong on bottles, not people.

We are far more fluid than that.

We are, all of us, a work in progress. Not finished, not fixed... just not yet.

And maybe that is the freedom.
To keep becoming.

To choose, again and again, who we want to be.

Art, at its best, creates dialogue. Not just between the work and the viewer, but between people, ideas, and perspectives.

That’s what this exchange at the Pune International Centre felt like. In conversation with Pooja Sood, Arti Kirloskar, Dinanath Kholkar and Jui Tawade, there was a shared intent to build spaces where culture is not just consumed, but engaged with.

It opened up possibilities, yes. But more than that, it reinforced how essential it is to create spaces where dialogue can exist with depth and intent.
Grateful to have been part of it:)

After just one session, Anamika messaged me:

‘Ritu, the scared, paranoid 27-year-old in me still shows up in bits… but I can move her aside now. I didn’t think a genuine, good man could happen to me. And now I do. I’m able to be present… and actually enjoy what’s here, instead of thinking about what I’ll do if this also goes wrong.’

As I read her words, I smiled and found myself going back to our conversation.

‘I don’t understand this about myself,’ she had said.
‘Things are good… he’s kind, consistent. But I keep waiting for it to fall apart.’

‘What tells you it will?’ I asked.

‘Because it always does.’

‘And what does ‘always’ mean here?’ I gently pushed.

She thought for a moment. ‘Maybe not always… but enough for me to believe it will.’

‘And so, to protect yourself,’ I said, ‘you stay a step ahead… preparing for the moment it falls apart.’

She nodded.

‘And while you’re preparing,’ I asked, ‘what happens to the moment you’re actually in?’

A little later she said, ‘I don’t think I ever believed that something genuine could last for me.’

And there it was.

Beneath the fear of this relationship ending was a belief that had been leading for far too long. A belief that shaped how she interpreted, responded, and held herself back.

The rest of the session was about helping her see that she had a choice.

A choice to stay guarded, or to allow herself to be in the experience.

And so I leave you with this...
what beliefs are shaping the way you experience your relationships, your choices, your world?

Are you a tree or a bird?

I notice how quickly the mind wants to answer this.
To pick one, to define itself.

But life doesn’t move in such fixed ways.

There are phases where we long for roots… certainty, stability, something that holds us in place.

And then there are phases where staying feels heavy, and something within us wants to move, to expand, to find new skies.

Neither is better.

The discomfort often comes when we expect ourselves to be one, while life is asking us to be the other.

Perhaps happiness is simpler than we make it.

It’s not in becoming a tree or a bird,
but in learning to trust when to root… and when to rise
and having the courage to honor both.

Today, I recall a session I had with Priya some time ago.

On the surface, everything in her life seemed in place. She was doing well at work, managing things at home, showing up where she needed to.

And yet, as she began speaking, there was a strain beneath her words.

“I don’t understand this about myself,” she said.
“I know what I need to do. I prepare. I think things through. But when the moment comes… I hold back.”

I listened.

She described a meeting where she had an idea she believed in.

“But when it was my turn,” she said, “I rushed through it. I could feel myself shrinking.”

I asked her, “What were you feeling?”

She paused. “I think… I was afraid of sounding foolish. But it doesn’t make sense. I know my work. Why does this still happen?”

I said, “Because knowing is one part of us. And fear is another.”

Like most of us, her instinct was to move away from that discomfort. To fix it. To get rid of it.

“The mind is trying to protect you,” I said. “It prefers what is familiar. Even if it is limiting, it feels safer than the unknown.”

She took that in.

“And yet,” I added, “there is a part of you that is not comfortable staying the same. That’s why this is coming up.”

She looked up, almost in recognition.

We spoke about this push and pull.

I told her, “Courage doesn’t mean the fear goes away. It means you begin to see that the fear is only one part of your experience, not the whole of it.”

“And what do I do in the moment?” she asked.

“You notice,” I said. “Notice what is happening within you.”

Like stepping into cold water. The body resists. Everything says step back. But if you stay, even a few seconds longer, you begin to adjust.

A few weeks later, Priya returned.

“There was another meeting,” she said.
“I felt the same fear. But I spoke anyway.”

It wasn’t smooth. She wasn’t confident in the way she would have liked. But she didn’t shut down.

“And what happened?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “It was… fine.”

We both smiled.
Because that’s often how it is.

She left not with a solution, but with a way of looking.

If there’s one piece of advice I could give you, it would be…
Don’t wait for company to begin.

It’s something I’ve heard in different ways over the years, but I don’t think I understood it until I began.

When Spotlight started, it was just a small room and a handful of people, with no real sense of where it would go and no guarantee that it would grow. Just a feeling that this space mattered to me, and a decision to keep showing up for it.

Of course, there were doubts. There always are.

Moments where it would have felt easier to wait… for more people, more energy, more certainty. But something in me knew that if I kept waiting, I would lose the very essence of why it began.

And in many ways, this hasn’t just been about Spotlight. I’ve seen the same truth unfold at AJNA, where the work has unfolded over decades, and through the Malhotra Weikfield Foundation, where change happens one student at a time.

None of these began with scale or visibility. They began with presence.

And that’s what Spotlight has come to mean to me as well.

I think that’s what this idea really is about.

You don’t wait for people to walk with you.

You begin.
Only to turn back and see you were never walking alone.