In Indian mythology, the gods and demons once joined forces to churn the ocean. They used a divine snake as a rope, a gigantic mountain on the back of an enormous turtle, and pulled from both sides. This cosmic event, the Samudra Manthan, was a quest for the amrit, the nectar of immortality.

But the nectar did not appear first.

The first thing that rose to the surface was poison. Deadly, suffocating, and strong enough to destroy everything. Shiva himself had to swallow it, staining his throat blue forever.

That is how hard things work in life. Whether you are chasing a deliberate, long-planned goal or stumbling into one by accident, the pattern is the same. The first thing you encounter is the discomfort, the poison, and you have to decide if you are willing to keep churning long enough to reach the nectar.

When I first started learning salsa, my poison showed up before I even took a step because I had been tricked into the class. A friend told me, “Just come, I really want to learn and you have to support me.” Ten minutes later I was standing in a mirrored studio, surrounded by strangers in dance shoes, a salsa playlist in full swing. I wanted to bolt.

That first class began with movement drills and the basic step. I stumbled through, painfully aware of the giant mirrors reflecting every awkward shift of my weight. Forward-forward-back, back-back-forward. Right-left-right, left-right-left. My frame was stiff, my timing off, and my face hot the entire hour. But I made it through to the end.

So I kept churning.

It took four months to go from classes to my first real social. Even then, the churn did not end:

• Week 1: I showed up to my studio’s practice social, scanned the room, felt the panic rise, and left without dancing.

• Week 2: Came back, danced once, went home.

• Week 3: Two dances, then home.

• Week 4: Stayed for half an hour before slipping out.

Then came the “real” social, a bigger, louder room, where I started the process all over again.

Somewhere in there, the distractions arrived. In the Samudra Manthan story, Rambha, the celestial dancer, emerges mid-churn, dazzling enough to make gods and demons abandon their path. In salsa, my version was the thought: Should I date someone here? Maybe that is the reason I am showing up. A tempting detour, but still a detour. The real work was staying focused on why I had started.

Later in the Samudra Manthan came the allies: divine chariots, celestial animals, and sacred treasures that supported the gods in their quest. In salsa, that became the friends who pushed me to stay for one more song, walked me over to meet other dancers, and quietly whispered, “You’re better than you think, go ask her.” They made the room feel a little less foreign, a little more mine.

The initial poison has its costs and lingering effects. Even today, when I step into a new dance space, a flicker of that early self-consciousness returns. Like Shiva’s blue throat, it never fully fades. But I have learned to live with it and even let it sharpen my focus.

The amrit? It came the night, much later, when I walked into a social, spotted a stranger across the floor, and without overthinking, walked up, smiled, and asked her to dance. No hesitation. No voice in my head whispering what if you mess up? Just the quiet certainty that I belonged there.

That is what nectar tastes like.

The gods and demons churned for a thousand years before the nectar appeared. My timeline was shorter, but the pattern was the same. The poison comes first, not as punishment, but as proof you are disturbing something deep enough to matter.

So whatever your amrit is: repairing a fractured friendship, moving to a city where you know no one, writing a song you will perform live for the first time, learning to swim as an adult, expect the poison, welcome the allies, notice the distractions. 

And keep churning. One day, the surface will break, and the nectar will rise.

I Pebble You,
Ankit

"I Pebble You" is a heartfelt collection of thoughtful moments — articles, memes, videos, and insights —that spark joy and connection. Inspired by how penguins gift pebbles to their loved ones, it’s a space to pause, reflect, and share. Subscribe to receive these meaningful pebbles in your inbox, and add your own to help build something bigger — because together, we create more thoughtful connections.

👉 Read the previous pebble "Champagne in the Fridge"
👉 Read the original pebble "I Pebble You"

In Indian mythology, the gods and demons once joined forces to churn the ocean. They used a divine snake as a rope, a gigantic mountain on the back of an enormous turtle, and pulled from both sides. This cosmic event, the Samudra Manthan, was a quest for the amrit, the nectar of immortality.

But the nectar did not appear first.

The first thing that rose to the surface was poison. Deadly, suffocating, and strong enough to destroy everything. Shiva himself had to swallow it, staining his throat blue forever.

That is how hard things work in life. Whether you are chasing a deliberate, long-planned goal or stumbling into one by accident, the pattern is the same. The first thing you encounter is the discomfort, the poison, and you have to decide if you are willing to keep churning long enough to reach the nectar.

When I first started learning salsa, my poison showed up before I even took a step because I had been tricked into the class. A friend told me, “Just come, I really want to learn and you have to support me.” Ten minutes later I was standing in a mirrored studio, surrounded by strangers in dance shoes, a salsa playlist in full swing. I wanted to bolt.

That first class began with movement drills and the basic step. I stumbled through, painfully aware of the giant mirrors reflecting every awkward shift of my weight. Forward-forward-back, back-back-forward. Right-left-right, left-right-left. My frame was stiff, my timing off, and my face hot the entire hour. But I made it through to the end.

So I kept churning.

It took four months to go from classes to my first real social. Even then, the churn did not end:

• Week 1: I showed up to my studio’s practice social, scanned the room, felt the panic rise, and left without dancing.

• Week 2: Came back, danced once, went home.

• Week 3: Two dances, then home.

• Week 4: Stayed for half an hour before slipping out.

Then came the “real” social, a bigger, louder room, where I started the process all over again.

Somewhere in there, the distractions arrived. In the Samudra Manthan story, Rambha, the celestial dancer, emerges mid-churn, dazzling enough to make gods and demons abandon their path. In salsa, my version was the thought: Should I date someone here? Maybe that is the reason I am showing up. A tempting detour, but still a detour. The real work was staying focused on why I had started.

Later in the Samudra Manthan came the allies: divine chariots, celestial animals, and sacred treasures that supported the gods in their quest. In salsa, that became the friends who pushed me to stay for one more song, walked me over to meet other dancers, and quietly whispered, “You’re better than you think, go ask her.” They made the room feel a little less foreign, a little more mine.

The initial poison has its costs and lingering effects. Even today, when I step into a new dance space, a flicker of that early self-consciousness returns. Like Shiva’s blue throat, it never fully fades. But I have learned to live with it and even let it sharpen my focus.

The amrit? It came the night, much later, when I walked into a social, spotted a stranger across the floor, and without overthinking, walked up, smiled, and asked her to dance. No hesitation. No voice in my head whispering what if you mess up? Just the quiet certainty that I belonged there.

That is what nectar tastes like.

The gods and demons churned for a thousand years before the nectar appeared. My timeline was shorter, but the pattern was the same. The poison comes first, not as punishment, but as proof you are disturbing something deep enough to matter.

So whatever your amrit is: repairing a fractured friendship, moving to a city where you know no one, writing a song you will perform live for the first time, learning to swim as an adult, expect the poison, welcome the allies, notice the distractions. 

And keep churning. One day, the surface will break, and the nectar will rise.

I Pebble You,
Ankit

"I Pebble You" is a heartfelt collection of thoughtful moments — articles, memes, videos, and insights —that spark joy and connection. Inspired by how penguins gift pebbles to their loved ones, it’s a space to pause, reflect, and share. Subscribe to receive these meaningful pebbles in your inbox, and add your own to help build something bigger — because together, we create more thoughtful connections.

👉 Read the previous pebble "Champagne in the Fridge"
👉 Read the original pebble "I Pebble You"