Even cowards have an ego.
Sometimes, especially cowards.
Fear doesn't always shrink you. Sometimes it sharpens you. Cowardice, ego, and fear, when mixed just right, can look exactly like confidence. That was the version of me that walked into the office every morning after I joined.
That first month changed me.
Even though I wasn't a fresher, I joined as one. New role. New expectations. A clean slate.
The first week, I went to the office only three days. It felt good. People spoke to me easily. Included me without effort.
One day, the CEO called me into his room and asked how my first week was. I told him the truth, that I had received my laptop, spoken to very few people, and was still observing.
He suggested a few names. People are doing solid work. He asked me to talk to them. Learn from them.
I picked one of them and quietly decided he would be my mentor. He was calm, sharp, and respected. I sat near him, listened carefully, spoke when needed.
Because of my experience, picking things up wasn't difficult. I understood the flow quickly. I could see where things connected. Around me, the other juniors were still finding their footing.
One morning, someone suggested we come in early, avoid traffic, and talk about what we'd learned the previous day.
It sounded simple.
Useful.
So we did.
Soon, mornings became discussions. Juniors gathered early, not because anyone forced them, but because it felt right. We talked about techniques, building blocks, coding rules, mechanisms, things that usually waited for meetings but now lived in conversation.
Somehow, word spread.
One day, the CEO mentioned it casually,
"I heard you're doing morning discussions. Nice initiative."
That one sentence did more than encouragement ever could.
Something shifted.
Within four weeks, people across teams knew my name. Discussions started finding me. I spoke more in those four weeks than I had in the previous year.
At my last job, I spent six months unheard, unless I was drunk, unless my words were softened by laughter. Here, I was discussing complex ideas with experienced people, and they were listening.
I wasn't arrogant.
But I wasn't invisible anymore.
That was my ego at work, not loud, not careless, but alert. It kept me upright. It felt earned.
Until the sixth week.
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That morning, I reached late because of traffic.
No early discussions.
No casual hellos.
No familiar rhythm.
Someone came by my desk and said, "The CEO is looking for you."
It surprised me. Mornings were rare. Usually, meetings happened after two in the afternoon. It was barely ten.
I walked toward his cabin. He was already inside and in another meeting. He saw me through the glass and gestured that he'd call me in.
I went to the cafeteria, had a chai, came back, and opened my laptop. A junior stopped by and mentioned they had discussed a few items that morning.
"I just got in", I said. "Let me check emails. We'll talk later."
Across the floor, one of the team leads, a woman, sharp and observant, looked up from her cabin. Our eyes met. I stood up, walked over, and wished her good morning.
She smiled.
"Why is the CEO looking for you so early?"
"No idea," I said.
"Maybe he's adding me to a project."
"You're already helping in multiple projects," she said, smiling. "I don't think he'll make you stick to just one."
As she spoke, my eyes drifted to the opposite cabin.
A new girl had joined. The IT team was setting up her laptop. She sat facing away from me, completely absorbed in the screen. Her voice was low, almost inaudible, even though she was only a few steps away.
The trainer joined her, explaining the fundamentals and pointing to documents.
I noticed her hair.
Straight. Carefully aligned. Cut clean, about a hand's length below her shoulders.
A wide neck.
A white kurta.
The edges of her hair were drawn into a line so precise it felt intentional.
It caught my attention in a way nothing else had that morning.
Before I could think further, my phone rang.
The CEO.
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"Good morning, sir."
"Good morning. Sit."
He asked how work was going. How life was. I told him things were good, that my mentor was giving me the chance to take over a module that week.
"That's great," he said. "Your own module. Good progress."
I thanked him.
Then he leaned back slightly.
"I need to introduce someone to you," he said. "We hired her recently. Her knowledge is really good. In the interview, I felt she could be another you."
For a moment, I didn't respond.
Another me?
I had experience. Context. A head start.
She had just come out of college.
I hadn't even seen her face.
If I had, maybe I would have accepted the comparison. Without that, it didn't sit right. The praise felt premature. Almost careless.
"Make sure you include her in your group," he continued. "Help her learn. Learn together for the first four weeks. If we train her well, we'll have another strong resource."
I smiled.
"Okay, sir. No problem."
"Good," he said, laughing. "And make sure you show even more progress."
I laughed too.
But as I walked back to the floor, my thoughts weren't on progress.
They were on the comparison.
On ego.
On the quiet discomfort of being praised, and then asked to share the space that praise had created.
I found myself thinking about what I would say to her.
And that was when I realised something important.
My ego hadn't been broken.
It had been challenged.
_________
I hadn't seen her face or heard her voice, and I didn't know if it was fear or ego unsettled by comparison. Why had my eyes lingered on a stranger I hadn't even seen yet, but something irreversible had already begun, and I could feel it moving toward me.
_________