Avocado

It is more than a fruit

Mar 29, 2025

You ever wonder what is your purpose in life?

Surely, we aren’t just meant to be corporate drones, grinding away until retirement like exhausted hamsters on a wheel. Where’s the fun in that?

I had a middle-class upbringing where "reduce, reuse, recycle" wasn’t some trendy slogan invented by billionaires sipping champagne on a private jet while brainstorming how to save the planet. No, for us, it was just called life.

Early on, I realized if I wanted to be successful I had to break free from the rat race. When you don’t inherit wealth, hard work becomes your default factory setting. Sure, there are other ways to make money, but I wasn’t interested in those. Frankly, I can’t risk ending up in jail — I just don’t have the flexibility to use an Indian toilet with a partially torn ACL.

But how do you escape the rat race? What’s that magical moment when you know you’ve made it?

Ever wondered that?

I always imagined it — that glorious moment when you achieve your biggest dream and bask in its glory. But first, you’ve got to find that dream.

People love talking about their ‘dreams,’ but let’s be real — most of those are just generic rich-guy fantasies. Big house, fancy car, and an entourage of people who exist solely to refill your glass of sparkling water.

Monisha beta, dream big! they’d say.

When nothing seemed to click, I looked for answers in the past. Maslow’s pyramid made sense — he basically said middle-class dreams live at the bottom. You’ve got to climb higher!

But that only took me so far.

I was desperate to find my one true dream. And then, one day, it hit me.

Avocado.

The magical fruit — nature’s answer to everything. The superfood. The sacred fruit whispered into existence by ancient gods and endorsed by every Instagram influencer with a smoothie bowl. Rich in every nutrient known (and unknown) to mankind.

I knew that owning — no, possessing — this fruit would give me salvation. I had finally found my dream.

And what didn’t I do to achieve it?

I chose engineering over science because I needed the math skills to crack CAT. Despite my terrible English and my hatred for socializing, I pushed myself through an MBA.

I kept my avocado dreams a secret. Evil eye is real. When they asked me in MBA interviews, “Why do you want to do an MBA?” I didn’t dare tell them the truth. Instead, I gave them a PowerPoint-certified answer — something about career goals, ambitions, and synergy.

But in my heart, I knew the truth: I wanted an MBA so I could earn enough money to buy avocados.

Avocados are everywhere. On your toast, in your sandwich, in your smoothie, on your face, in guacamole, in dark matter, in black holes, hiding in your car’s carburetor, chilling in the ozone layer, and probably sliding into your crush’s DMs.

I cracked CAT, finished my MBA, and got a job. But my avocado dream had to wait — because life showed up with a ‘Surprise! Here's your student loan card.

Then I got married. That delayed it further. Expenses, duh. I didn’t even go on a honeymoon — I was too busy saving for my precious avocado.

For two whole years after marriage, I lived like a monk — eating plain white eggs instead of the fancy brown ones. I never took cabs, always walked. When work-from-home became the norm, I silently rejoiced — fewer expenses, more avocado savings.

You might think I’m exaggerating.

‘Why would avocados even cost so much?’

Well, for starters, they’re imported from US of the A. Even if they fly economy class, the costs are insane. Add in visa fees, miscellaneous expenses, and emotional baggage charges — and suddenly, an avocado costs more than your self-respect after losing an argument to a 5-year-old.

11 years, 2 months, and 12 days. That’s how long it took me to finally buy my avocado — during a month-end sale, no less!

I sold my SIPs, emptied my FDs, and when the avocado arrived in the delivery guy’s hands, we both cried like long-lost siblings in a soap opera.

I had my rags-to-riches story. Publishers wanted to turn it into a bestseller. But fame? Nah. I had transcended worldly desires.

But when you know everything about avocados, you know when something’s wrong. And something was. The fruit was hard as a rock. Avocados are supposed to be softer than a baby’s butt in a diaper ad.

Did I give up? Nope. I did what any smart person would — I left it outside in Pune’s summer heat. Artificial ripening? No thanks. My avocado deserved only the finest natural sunlight and warm vibes.

It looks as if the fruit always says, ‘Are you worthy of me, mortal?’

And I waited. Boy, I waited.

You know how holding a plank makes time slow down? Try waiting for an avocado to ripen. It’s slower than your friend replying, ‘K, will let you know.’

Finally, the day arrived. I grabbed my knife, ready to cut it open like those fancy cooking show chefs.

This was it. My moment. Forget Forbes 40 under 40. Forget The 40-Year-Old Virgin. I was about to become the self-made 29-year-old who bought and ate an avocado by himself. It was about to become my killing two birds with one stone moment — first, walking out of the rat race and second cutting a fruit by myself. Take that patriarchy!

But then, it was rotten.

In my ambition, I forgot one crucial thing: when someone flies from the US of the A to India, they get severe jet lag. My avocado slept through the day — missing all the sunlight it needed.

Humanity has never known a pain greater than this.

I wept. And boy, I wept hard. Bards cried. Crows wailed. Pune’s heat suddenly felt like a Scandinavian winter — cold, sad and depressed. My heart hurt, and nobody was farting rainbows to cheer me up.

I felt hurted.1

I tried to console myself, but the truth was bitter — much like the taste of that spoiled avocado.

Even now, the pain lingers. My taste buds never got to experience that creamy, dreamy avocado goodness. Perhaps the mangoes got jealous and cursed me — who knows?

But I’m not done yet.

I’ve moved on from the avocado dream. I’ve learned my lesson. This time, I’m aiming higher — for the next great exotic fruit in the market.

Blueberries.

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