Chapter 1 Where It All Began

My early life was simple. Not easy—just simple. We weren’t surrounded by luxury, but we were enveloped in values. We didn’t always have everything we wanted, but we always had what we needed. We were a middle-class family, deeply rooted in tradition and driven by discipline.

My parents were not the kind of people who raised their voices. They raised their children with silence that spoke volumes, gestures that taught responsibility, and routines that instilled resilience. My mother’s quiet strength and my father’s steady principles formed the invisible pillars of my childhood. They were spiritual, not in the ritualistic sense, but in the way they lived—with humility, patience, and unwavering belief in the goodness of hard work.

They never sat us down to deliver life lessons. Instead, they showed us how to live them. My father never lectured us about financial prudence; he lived it. Every rupee was accounted for, every expense weighed, and every indulgence questioned. We were taught to earn before we spent, to listen before we spoke, and most importantly, to respect—even in disagreement.

Growing up in an orthodox Brahmin family, life moved to a sacred rhythm. Mornings began with prayers, not alarms. The smell of aggravates (incense sticks), the chanting of mantras, and the sound of the conch shell during puja became the background score of my early life. I didn’t always understand the meaning behind the rituals, but I absorbed their essence. They represented order in chaos, faith in uncertainty, and a daily reminder that we were part of something bigger than ourselves.

School, for me, was never just about textbooks or exams. It was a theatre of human behavior. It was where I began to notice how people spoke, how teachers treated students differently, how friendships formed and broke like fragile glass. I wasn’t the brightest student in class—no gold stars or top ranks. But what I lacked in marks, I made up for in curiosity.

I was always asking questions. Not the kind that were found at the back of the book, but the ones that stirred beneath the surface: Why do we follow certain rules? Why do people pretend? Why can’t we choose a different way to live? That restlessness was more than rebellion—it was the beginning of awareness. It was the first flicker of individuality.

I remember a specific day when I was about ten. I had questioned a teacher in class—not disrespectfully, but out of genuine curiosity. I asked why we needed to memorize a particular poem instead of understanding what it meant. The room fell silent. The teacher stared at me for a moment that felt longer than it was and then said, “Because that’s how it’s done.” Something about that answer unsettled me. It was my first brush with the discomfort of conformity.

That moment stayed with me, not as a confrontation, but as a clue. A clue that maybe the world didn’t always make sense, and maybe that was okay. Maybe it wasn’t about fitting in, but about figuring it out.

Outside school, my world was filled with rituals, community gatherings, family visits, and the silent comfort of routines. But I was always looking beyond the boundaries. I didn’t know it then, but a quiet fire was building in me—the desire to make something of my own, to shape my life instead of simply inheriting it.

There was an alley behind our home where all the children in the neighborhood would gather in the evenings. We’d play cricket with makeshift stumps, argue over run-outs, and then sit in circles sharing stories, secrets, and dreams. I was often the one narrating tales—sometimes real, sometimes made-up. I loved how a story could silence a room, ignite laughter, or inspire a nod of agreement. That’s where my voice began to form—not in essays, but in emotion. Not in structure, but in connection.

Back home, things were not always smooth. There were months when money was tight, when we had to compromise on what we ate or wore, when electricity cuts made summer nights unbearable. But I don’t remember my parents complaining. Not once. My mother would light a diya and sit on the floor, singing bhajans softly to herself. My father would keep scribbling numbers in his notebook, planning, calculating, hoping. That silent perseverance shaped me more than any sermon could.

As a child, I felt the weight of unsaid things. I knew when my father had faced a setback, even if he smiled through it. I knew when my mother saved up a little extra just to buy us sweets for a festival. I learned early that love isn’t always loud—it’s often a quiet act of endurance.

Looking back, I now realize how important those years were. That simplicity wasn’t a limitation; it was a foundation. It made me resourceful. It made me observe. It gave me a hunger—not just for success, but for meaning.

One summer, I decided to help out at a local shop to earn a few rupees. I swept floors, arranged stock, and delivered parcels. The money was negligible, but the lesson was priceless. I learned how hard people worked just to survive. I saw dignity in labor. I saw stories etched in the wrinkles of daily wage earners. That experience planted a deep respect in me for people who grind daily without applause or acknowledgment.

By the time I was a teenager, I had started to see the invisible lines that divided people—the assumptions made based on money, language, background, even religion. I had friends from all walks of life, and I often wondered why society tried to put them in boxes. Why were some dreams considered more respectable than others? Why were some voices louder simply because they came from privilege?

I didn’t have the answers then. But I had questions. And those questions turned into reflections. Then into decisions. Eventually, into action.

Now, when I look back at those early years, I see them not just as a backdrop, but as a blueprint. Everything I’ve built since—the risks I took, the businesses I started, the people I chose to surround myself with—all of it traces back to that raw, unpolished version of me who questioned what he saw, felt deeply, and never stopped dreaming.

This chapter isn’t just about where I was born or what I did as a child. It’s about the values that raised me, the environment that molded me, and the inner restlessness that refused to settle. I came from a place of simplicity. But I carried a heart full of complexity—a hunger to grow, to challenge, to create.

And that’s where it all began.