Member-only story
About me
I wasn’t born a writer. I was born a curious, introverted boy in Rajasthan, raised in the heartbeat of Chennai. While others played with cricket bats, I played with lab kits. I had a microscope on my table and a dream in my chest. My room was a science museum, my terrace a place of wonder where sunlight, magnifying glasses, and fire taught me how energy moves. But even then, I didn’t chase science — I walked into commerce. I didn’t follow formulas — I followed instinct. I once thought I’d build machines, but life had other plans.
At 19, I started my first company — a distributor for Surya Lighting. I was ambitious, eager, and ready to take on the world. But when that business shut down, I was thrown into a quiet storm. I entered my father’s socks manufacturing business, not with confidence, but with humility. I called it Kolors. And while I learned how to build a brand from scratch, I never let go of my inner world — the journaling, the books, the voice within.
Writing wasn’t a career. It was my confession booth, my sacred space. I didn’t write because I had the perfect words — I wrote because I had to let something out. Sometimes, I don’t even feel like I’m the one writing. It’s as if Lord Shiva himself is whispering through my fingertips. And that realization didn’t come from any spiritual book. It came on a cold Maha Shivratri night.
