Chapter 4 Seeds of Identity

I was born into a traditional Hindu Brahmin family – a household steeped in customs, rituals, and an unwavering sense of dharma. Ours wasn’t the kind of home you’d find in movies or glossy magazines. There were no luxurious furnishings or grand gestures. But what we lacked in material wealth, we more than made up for in depth—depth of belief, of purpose, and of character.

Our mornings began not with alarms but with the soft echoes of temple bells, the subtle aroma of incense, and the hum of Vedic chants that my mother often recited from memory. Even as a child, something was calming about it—almost as if the divine was gently tapping me awake. My mother would already be in the kitchen, preparing the first meal of the day, her hands moving in rhythm with the sacred mantras playing on the radio. My father, deeply rooted in discipline, would be reading the newspaper after his morning prayers, always dressed neatly, even if he wasn’t going anywhere that day.

From an early age, I was taught to fold my hands in respect, to touch the feet of elders, and to offer water before asking for it myself. These weren’t just gestures—they were daily reminders of who we were and what we stood for. My parents didn’t preach with words—they demonstrated through their actions. And slowly, without even realizing it, I began absorbing those values into my very DNA.

We didn’t have much by way of luxuries. There were nights when the electricity would be out, and we’d huddle together under the dim light of a lantern. My siblings and I would laugh, tell stories, and sometimes fall asleep mid-conversation. Even in those moments of apparent inconvenience, there was togetherness. It was never about what we lacked, but about how we carried what we had.

My father was a quiet man. He rarely raised his voice, but when he spoke, it was like thunder wrapped in wisdom. He carried the burden of our family’s responsibilities with grace, never letting us see the weight he bore. I later learned he had once dreamed of becoming an engineer, but life had other plans. He sacrificed that dream so we could have ours. My mother, on the other hand, was the beating heart of our home. She managed everything—from our meals to our moods—with a kind of love that was silent yet supreme. Her strength wasn’t loud, but it was the kind that could move mountains.

Growing up in such a household, the values of discipline, respect, and education weren’t enforced—they were woven into daily life. If I forgot to say “thank you,” my mother would gently remind me with a look. If I tried to skip homework, my father would sit me down and explain, not with punishment, but with patience. Education wasn’t seen as a means to an end—it was a way to elevate the soul. I still remember how proud my parents were when I brought home even the smallest of academic achievements. Their pride wasn’t in the paper certificate—it was in knowing their efforts were blooming into something meaningful.

But life wasn’t always easy. There were months when we had to stretch every rupee. I remember my mother reusing plastic jars, repurposing old sarees into curtains, and bargaining in the market with quiet dignity. Yet, we never felt poor. We had warm meals, shared stories at the dinner table, and found joy in the little things—like mangoes in the summer, home-cooked sweets during festivals, and the first rain of the season.

It was in these formative years that I began to understand resilience, not as something loud or heroic, but as something steady, quiet, and persistent. The kind of strength you find in people who keep showing up even when the world gives them every reason not to.

Religion, too, played a silent but powerful role in shaping my identity. Not as blind faith, but as a compass—a system of ethics that guided my decisions. Whether it was celebrating festivals like Diwali with devotion or observing fasts during important spiritual days, these practices weren’t just rituals—they were ways to pause, reflect, and reconnect with something greater than myself. They gave me perspective during chaos and clarity in confusion.

I often think about how those early years forged my character. It wasn’t a single moment, but a series of tiny ones—my father giving his last coin to a beggar, my mother sharing food with a neighbor, my mother narrating stories from the Ramayana that carried deeper life lessons than any textbook ever could. These moments stitched the fabric of my personality—one thread at a time.

There’s one memory that’s etched deep in my heart. It was just before an important school exam. Our financial situation was tight, and I knew my parents had skipped a few personal expenses so I could afford new books. The night before the exam, I couldn’t sleep—not out of fear, but out of gratitude. I realized that I wasn’t just chasing marks—I was carrying their dreams. That moment changed how I viewed responsibility. I wasn’t just a boy anymore. I was slowly becoming a man.

Looking back, I now see that my identity wasn’t shaped by a singular experience—it was shaped by a way of life. By watching values in motion, by feeling the weight of sacrifice, and by growing in the presence of people who never gave up—even when life offered them every excuse to.

These early seeds—the spiritual grounding, the moral clarity, the emotional intelligence—would go on to become the foundation of my entrepreneurial journey. Because to lead, you must first understand what it means to serve. To build a business, you must first learn how to build character. And to create a legacy, you must know where your roots lie.

So, when life eventually threw storms my way—betrayals, losses, loneliness—I didn’t break. I bent, yes, but I didn’t break. Because the roots were deep. My identity was never tied to success or failure—it was tied to values. And those values had been nurtured since the day I was born.

In a world constantly telling you to be someone else, I had the privilege of growing up in a home that taught me to be myself. That identity, born out of tradition, hardship, and humility, is still the compass I follow.

Because long before I learned how to lead a team, raise funds, or close deals, I learned something far more powerful:

That true success isn’t about how far you go, but how deeply you’re rooted when you get there.