It all started with a situationship that I just had to poke my nose in. A friend of mine was crying over a boy, as one does, and I, being the certified elder sibling archetype, decided to fix it. The boy in question? Ansh. This boy is now, unfortunately, an adult (can someone just stop time for 10 minutes so I can catch up).
She painted him as the villain of her romantic tragedy, the “he doesn’t want to commit” type. So naturally, I strapped on my imaginary armour, ready to wage war on her behalf. I entered the chat all righteousness and moral superiority, like “HOW DARE YOU HURT MY GIRL.” Then I actually spoke to him. And two minutes in, I realised, uh oh. This kid might actually be innocent.
It was like discovering the supposed antagonist was just a misunderstood supporting character who listens to Joji and takes photos of sunsets. I hate how fast I switched sides. One moment I was sharpening my pitchfork, next moment I was like “Wait… he’s kinda funny???”
We clicked instantly, in that soul-level connection way. The kind where you go from “who even are you” to “okay so here’s my childhood trauma” in under twenty minutes. Somewhere between the unhinged banter and late-night rants, he became family. No big revelation, no sentimental montage, just a natural evolution from strangers to siblings who cannot stop YAPPING.
He’s been chaos personified ever since. And I say that lovingly. If I had to describe our bond, it’s unhinged energy with emotional depth. He’s the younger brother I never had, the chaotic energy I didn’t ask for, and the reason my serotonin sometimes spikes randomly.
The dropout that broke my brain (temporarily).
One random day, he calls me. Casual conversation, right? WRONG. He just drops, “So I’m dropping out of 12th.”
I paused. I thought I misheard. I asked again. He said it again. And my soul left the chat.
Do you know how hard it is to process that as an academic gremlin? I have degrees lined up like dominoes, and this boy really said, “Education? Never heard of her.” I went into full desi elder sister meltdown. Bargaining, negotiating, threatening, basically went through all five stages of grief in one phone call.
I told him he was insane. I told him to at least finish 12th so that if his plan failed, he’d have something to fall back on. But Ansh? Ansh said, “No. I’m doing photography full-time.” And I swear I could hear background music playing like he was in a movie montage while I was crying in a corner with my textbooks.
But here’s the kicker: he actually did it.
Cut to a few weeks later, and I see pictures from his first big shoot with Triumph. I was staring at those photos like a proud mum at sports day, except instead of clapping politely, I was sobbing with pride. This boy really said “watch me win.”
Okay, before you continue reading, TAP TO FOLLOW HIM!!!
And he didn’t stop. From cars to festivals to random scenic shots that look like Windows wallpapers; he’s done it all. He’s got that raw, cinematic eye. That “I’ll get the shot even if it means hanging off a moving vehicle” level of passion. LITERALLY. I’ll be minding my business, and he’ll randomly tell me he’s now BUILDING A CAR. Like hello, when did this become Fast & Furious: Kochi Drift?
He proved me wrong in the best possible way.
The lesson in passion I didn’t know I needed.
Here’s the thing about Ansh. He doesn’t just follow his passion; he chases it like it owes him money.
And somewhere in that madness, I learned something profound. Growing up in India, we’re told success is linear: school, college, job, marriage, retirement, death. Step out of line and people lose their minds. But Ansh? He stepped out. Not because he wanted to rebel, but because he knew himself.
He taught me that success doesn’t always wear a suit and hold a degree. Sometimes it’s wearing a camera strap, running on caffeine, and finding joy in your own lane. He showed me that being burnt out to please everyone else isn’t a badge of honour; it’s a slow death of passion.
And yeah, I’ll admit it: he humbled me. As someone who thrives on planning and academic validation, watching him trust his instincts has been insane. But it’s also been inspiring. He’s proof that you can be young, messy, terrified, and still make it work.
He doesn’t sugar-coat things either. He’ll roast me for being dramatic (fair) and call me delusional (also fair), but then he’ll hype me up so loudly that even my imposter syndrome shuts up for a bit. That’s his superpower, he grounds me while pushing me to reach higher.
The boy who taught me how to try.
Every once in a while, someone walks into your life and reminds you that trying isn’t weakness: it’s courage in disguise. Ansh is that reminder.
He didn’t just show me what chasing dreams looks like; he redefined what failure means. Because after him, I’ve realised that failure isn’t not succeeding. It’s not trying at all.
And honestly? That’s changed me. I’ve always been the “what if it goes wrong” kind of person, and he’s always been the “what if it goes right” kind of person. And I think that’s why we balance each other. He’s all vision and fire; I’m logic and spreadsheets. Together we’re like a functioning disaster.
So, Ansh, if you’re reading this: thank you. You make chaos look like art. You’ve taught me that maybe, the universe rewards the ones who take the leap first. And that you don’t have to be fearless to try, you just have to want it enough.
You’re the kind of person who turns potential into proof. You redefine passion, self-expression, and what it means to believe in yourself. I am so stupidly proud of you.
Happy birthday, kid. Keep proving me wrong in the best possible way.
(Also, please stop hanging off moving scooties for “the perfect shot.” I don’t want to write a sequel called “The Boy Who Taught Me CPR.”)
For more stories that might inspire your socks off, head to Her Campus at MUJ.