Category: Personal

When You’re Judged Only by Results: The Unwritten Rule of Our Times


I was that kid who never copied in exams. Even when I knew I’d fail and get caned by teachers, scolded by parents, and laughed at by friends, I stood my ground. I believed honesty would eventually get me somewhere.

But life outside those dusty classroom benches? Oh, it plays by a very different rulebook.

Out here, no one cares how many nights you stayed up studying or how honestly you wrote every word. They don’t applaud your discipline or your quiet sacrifices. They only ask one thing: Did you pass? The world doesn’t celebrate effort — it only worships results. The process is forgotten; only the scoreboard shines.

I saw people who copied, cheated, and manipulated — and they didn’t just pass; they got medals, got applause, and even got the spotlight. And me? I was left clapping for them from the sidelines, still holding on to my moral certificate like it was a VIP pass to success.

Truth is, history remembers the winners, not how the game was played. We remember who won the trophy, not who played fair. In business too, people are judged by how big their bank balance is, not by the sleepless nights or the fair deals they kept refusing.

Somewhere along the way, I realized: society doesn’t run on sincerity certificates. It runs on headlines. And as long as you don’t get caught, no one questions your methods. It’s a harsh truth, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

But in today’s world, everything is fair in love, war, and the race for success. Marksheets don’t show how many nights you cried, balance sheets don’t list your sacrifices, and award speeches never thank the honest failures. Merits are judged only by results — the headlines, the trophies, the follower counts. It’s a jungle out there, and no one asks if you hunted fair — they only admire the kill.

In a world obsessed with results, playing it straight is not just rare — it’s almost rebellious.

Core Team – The Unseen Faces Behind Every Big Win


Core team. Core strength.

If there’s one thing I keep repeating (even when no one asks), it’s that the success of any business revolves around the core team. People throw around words like “visionary” and “solo genius” as if someone sat in a corner and built an empire alone. But the reality? It’s always a team sport.

In my first venture, I had that magic combo. My partner and I were like two puzzle pieces that just clicked. My strength was his weakness, and his strength covered mine beautifully. It felt like playing doubles in tennis, always knowing someone had your back when you missed a shot.

And then, there were people like Aparnaa and Major Karthik — solid pillars. They weren’t just employees; they were the eyes and ears of the organization. They helped pick the right talents, made sure we kept them, and told us when something was wrong in the team. That loyalty, those late-night calls when there was a problem, those quick decisions we made together — these are things you can’t measure on paper.

When I started my second venture, I had a core team too. But this time, I missed that one piece: a true business partner. And those employees who would stand in the storm with me? I missed that too. You feel it most when the tide turns against you. You realize quickly that it’s not the office decor or the fancy logo that holds you up — it’s that circle of people who will pick up your call at 2 a.m.

It’s the same everywhere if you think about it. Rajinikanth had SP Muthuraman — they did over 25 films together. Many of Rajini’s blockbusters carry Muthuraman’s name behind the scenes. Vijayakanth had Ibrahim Rowther. After their break, Vijayakanth’s box office magic started to fade. And there’s Anand Jain — often called Mukesh Ambani’s “trusted brain,” a man who played the off-field game few saw but many felt.

Even in cricket, look at MS Dhoni. Everyone talks about the “Captain Cool” legend, but think about his gang — Raina, Jadeja, Ashwin — players who trusted him blindly and went to war for him on the field.

When you look back at your journey, it’s always the core team that shines through the fog. The ones who stayed when money ran out, when deals fell through, and when self-doubt felt louder than success. A strong core team isn’t about headcount or titles; it’s about those rare people who treat the business as their own, who see your vision when no one else does, and who carry you through storms without asking for credit. You can have the best idea, the best pitch, or a temporary viral success — but without a core team, it all fades like a one-time festival cracker. Many people have tasted quick wins but vanished because they didn’t have that foundation holding them up when the spotlight moved on.

Finding this team is an art. You don’t spot them in interviews; you see them in crisis rooms and on those quiet late nights when no one is watching. And once you find them, you hold on. You reward them, recognize them, and retain them at any cost — because no trophy or headline is worth more than a team that stands by you even when the world doesn’t.

As we say in Tamil, “தம்பி உடையான் படைக்கு அஞ்சான்” — the one who has brothers behind him never fears an army. It’s a beautiful way our ancestors explained the power of having a strong, loyal support system. Tamils knew long back that it isn’t the sword or the shield that makes you powerful — it’s the people standing behind you.

Some people build empires on sand; some build on people. And if you ask me, the ones who build on people are the only ones who last.

Catching Up After 13 Years — With Kombucha & Cosmic Gossip


Today was one of those unexpectedly perfect days. I finally met Ajith after 13 long years. Honestly, I don’t even know how these years flew by — it felt like we were still on that Bangalore drive, debating random life topics and making a pit stop at midnight in McDonald’s Sulagiri.

Ajith took the initiative to set this up (big thanks, buddy!), and he also introduced me to TAKKT Southern Cafe & Kombucha. What a fun, happening place right in our own backyard! The kombucha? Absolutely fantastic — like a refreshing plot twist in a boring daily routine.

It felt nice to see that he has also given up a few things in life, just like I did. Maybe that’s why old friends feel special — they remind you of who you were and show parts of yourself you might have forgotten.

We covered everything today: work stories, personal struggles and joys from these 13 years, a little astrology (yes, Saturn in the 8th house still keeping life spicy), and plenty of those “just because” stories that have no start or end.

Thank you again, Ajith, for pulling me out and for the kombucha initiation. Let’s make sure we don’t wait another 13 years — next time, maybe a road trip, or even better, some divine temple trail to balance all this cosmic karma.

From Sleepovers to Missed Calls: Growing Up and Growing Apart


We didn’t grow apart. Life just grew between us.

I come from an era when summer vacations meant stuffing myself with mangoes at cousins’ houses and fighting over who got to sleep next to the window.

Back then, we didn’t need fancy resorts or curated “experiences.” One friend’s terrace and a big steel tiffin box full of lemon rice did the job. We treated our friends’ parents like our own, and their mothers scolded us with such love and ownership, you’d think we came as part of the house package.

We finished our academics around 2000, all wide-eyed and curious about the future.

Some started with direct selling or handing out credit card applications in front of Saravana Stores — anything to avoid asking Appa for bus money.

By 2005, most of us had found jobs. From 2005 to 2012 (the year I got married), we were all busy “swiping right” in real life — running around for alliances, comparing horoscopes, and attending those awkward first meets where coffee tasted like tension.

Then came the kid marathon.
My second child was born in 2019. One of my best buddies, Vignesh, had his kid in 2020 — the final entry in our “Gen 1.0” batch.

Now, we’ve entered a new phase of life.
The same guys who once debated which cricket bat brand was best are now arguing about NEET coaching vs. coding classes.
We’ve moved from cycle races to chasing after school buses in the rain.

We want to hang out, but life says, “Sorry, today is fully booked with PTMs, grocery bills, and last-minute school project hunts.”

Last week, Vignesh came to India after ages. We managed just one hour together, squeezed between his kid’s nap schedule and my quick stop to buy vegetables.

I wanted to pour out my struggles, share my small wins, and dive deep into those “bro talks” that heal more than any medicine. But life had other plans and threw us back into separate lanes before we could even warm up.

We stay connected — thanks to Instagram stories and “Good morning” WhatsApp groups — but the emotional distance? That’s the new unspoken reality.

Looking back, it feels like life pressed the fast-forward button on us. We went from fighting over who would run up and twist the channel dial like we were defusing a bomb — to fighting over time slots in our own calendars.

Sometimes, I wish we could all pause. Sit on that same terrace again. No deadlines, no work calls, no worries about kids’ exams or cholesterol levels.

We grew up together, but somewhere along the way, life grew between us.

Startups Then & Now: From Empty Streets to Crowded Highways


Two eras, one spirit: the unstoppable heart of an entrepreneur.

I started my entrepreneurial ride back in 2000.

Those days, we didn’t even call it a “startup.” We called it “business,” “consultancy,” or just “trying something on my own.”

There was no Shark Tank. No glossy LinkedIn posts with #hustle. No college workshops on “How to pitch to VCs.”

In 2000, entrepreneurship wasn’t a cool badge. It was something you did if you couldn’t find a job or if you were just stubborn enough to believe you could create something from nothing.

2000: Wild, open roads

  • No references for success. The word “startup” was so rare, only one in a lakh even dared to dream it.
  • Loyalty was real. Your first hire stayed not just for salary but for the dream, even if the office was a one-room setup with plastic chairs and Maaza bottles in the fridge.
  • Markets were raw. Everything was new and waiting. A simple website could make you look like a global player.
  • Corporates & tech were immature. Big companies were still figuring out email, and many had no clue how to use the internet beyond sending scanned copies of invoices.
  • Open source was magic. You could build a product for the price of a few nights of filter coffee.
  • Ecosystem? Nil. No accelerators, no pitch fests, no “startup India” subsidies. Just you, your idea, and sheer guts.
  • Limited resources, big possibilities. Everything felt like a blank canvas.

2025: Crowded highways

  • Startup became a fashion statement. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry wants to “launch something” — sometimes just to add “Founder” to their Instagram bio.
  • Expensive game. Startups today mean burn rates, seed funding rounds, CAC vs LTV debates — even before you have your first paying customer.
  • No loyalty. Employees switch for a ₹2,000 raise or a fancier “Head of Vibe” title.
  • Tech consolidation. The top 5 tech giants dictate tools, languages, and frameworks. Your “freedom to build” has a Terms & Conditions page.
  • Market consolidation. Big sharks have gobbled up fragmented small players. Niches get crushed before you even announce your beta.
  • Ecosystem overload. Events, podcasts, awards, startup conferences. Everyone is “networking,” but very few are really building.
  • Too many eyes, less patience. Today, if your product doesn’t go viral in 2 weeks, you’re labeled a flop.

Then vs Now: What’s the real deal?

In 2000, the road was empty and scary.
In 2025, the road is crowded and noisy.

Then, the challenge was survival in the unknown.
Now, the challenge is standing out in the overcrowded known.

Then, it was about creating a market.
Now, it’s about finding your slot in a saturated market.

Then, you worried about paying your first employee on time.
Now, you worry if your pitch deck slides have enough “impact words.”

But here’s the one thing that hasn’t changed:

The thrill of chasing a vision that only you can see.

Whether you’re hustling on a dusty internet café PC in 2000 or pitching on a Zoom call in 2025 — the soul of entrepreneurship remains the same:
A quiet voice inside that whispers, “Let’s try anyway.“

“Markets change. Tech evolves. But courage? That stays timeless.”

The Silent War After Failure


Sometimes the loudest battles are the ones no one sees.

I used to think failure was about numbers like losing money, shutting down a company, or missing targets. But real failure? It’s when you lose yourself.

After my own setback, I noticed something strange. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have work. It was that I couldn’t feel like working anymore. The spark that once lit me up like brainstorming at midnight, building teams, scaling products — it didn’t even create a flicker inside me.

I kept asking myself: Why can’t I just pick up something small and start? Why can’t I push through?

The truth hit me like a late-night punch: I had evolved. What excited me before simply didn’t feel meaningful anymore.

When you’ve built something big, your mind builds an invisible yardstick. You unconsciously measure every new idea against your past success. You remember the energy of a big team, the rush of growth charts, the adrenaline of new hires and expansions.

Now, when you try to start something small — a side gig, a consulting call, a tiny digital product — it feels like throwing pebbles after you’ve once launched rockets. You feel silly, almost embarrassed to call it “work.”

But it doesn’t stop there. Your entire identity gets woven into your career. Your “I am” statement was always followed by what you built or led. When that structure crumbles, it cracks you right at the core. You’re not just jobless; you feel nameless.

The worst part? You can’t even explain it to anyone. Friends and family might say, “Do something small! Just start anywhere!” They mean well. But they don’t realize you’re battling an invisible ghost inside — a ghost that constantly whispers, “You’re not enough anymore.”

I lived this. Every single hour felt heavy, every day felt like pushing through fog. I knew I should act, but the energy just wasn’t there.

I’m still figuring it out. I don’t have a grand conclusion yet. Maybe one day I will.

Sometimes the hardest comeback isn’t in the world outside — it’s in the quiet corner of your mind where your old self still lives.

Back to Basics: Trading Luxury for Life


If there’s one year I’d choose to fix in time — to bottle and revisit — it’s 2009.

Before that, life was an extravaganza. Between 2004 and 2008, I lived like there was no tomorrow. I got the first iPhone within a week of its US launch and mind you, it wasn’t even available in India. We jailbroke it, flaunted it. I wore branded sunglasses, high-end clothes, and indulged in a lifestyle that spelled luxury in bold letters.

Then came 2009.

I moved to Madurai, a city that felt more like a giant village than a bustling metropolis like Chennai. Suddenly, my world shrank. I swapped my shiny iPhone for a humble ₹1,000 Nokia. The car keys went into a drawer; I embraced crowded government buses and dusty auto rides. No more branded merchandise. No more air-conditioned comfort zones.

For the first time, I lived away from my parents. Rent? Just ₹3,000 on Bypass Road. Dining out? Almost every eatery was unbelievably cheap and the city had only two “posh” hotels: Pandian Hotel and Taj Pasumalai, meant for the affluent. I never set foot in them that year.

My weekends turned into quiet adventures: bus rides to Coimbatore, Kanyakumari, Thoothukudi, Munnar. With each journey, I peeled away another layer of comfort and rediscovered my resilience.

It was emotionally and financially tough. But here’s what matters most: I stuck to my resolution every single day, for the entire 365 days of 2009. I didn’t slip, didn’t compromise.

The year wasn’t great or something I long to relive. I don’t romanticize it. I simply cherish it for challenging myself with discomfort and for fulfilling that promise to myself completely.

Looking back today, I’m amazed that I really did it. I gave up all my comforts, chose a simple life, and stayed true to it for the whole year.

2009 wasn’t just another year. It was a fresh start, tough but real.

What Is Karma Cleansing? And Why Do Good People Get Cheated?


Why do bad things happen to good people?
Why do cheaters prosper and the loyal ones suffer?

Enter: Karma cleansing, a spiritual and emotional practice that doesn’t erase the past, but helps free you from its grip.

What Is Karma Cleansing?

Karma cleansing is the process of releasing negative emotional, mental, and spiritual baggage from past actions, yours or others, so you stop carrying cycles of pain into your future. It doesn’t mean ignoring what happened. It means you don’t let it define you anymore.

Just like physical detox clears toxins, karma cleansing is about cutting karmic ties to those who wronged you — not to forgive them for their sake, but to free yourself from them.

Why Are There Cheaters and Cheated?

In a fair world, you’d expect balance. But reality isn’t always fair, it’s karmic.
   > Some people cheat because they haven’t evolved yet.
   > Some people get cheated on because they’re strong enough to grow through it.

It doesn’t justify betrayal. But it gives it context. Sometimes, your pain is not your punishment — it’s your push toward transformation. You’re clearing something deeper than just this life.

How Karma Cleansing Helps

  • Breaks emotional loops of revenge or resentment
  • Brings clarity: “It was their lesson, not my worth”
  • Helps stop attracting the same pain again
    Creates space for better relationships and energy.

You don’t have to “let it go” overnight. But you can begin to let it go from you.

Final Thought

If you’re reading this and you’ve been betrayed or hurt by someone who had no reason to hurt you, know this:

Their karma is theirs. Yours is how you rise, heal, and stop carrying their poison in your heart.

Let karma cleanse, not consume. 🌙

The Garage Dream by the Sea: Two Years That Built a Legacy


Between September 2002 and September 2004, we built something unforgettable. Our office wasn’t in a fancy building or a posh tech park. It was tucked inside a TNHB quarters apartment in Valmiki Nagar, Kottivakkam. But for us, it felt like Silicon Valley.

Renting that space with self-earned money brought a satisfaction that can’t be fully put into words—it was something only a hustler’s heart could feel.

We began as a humble team of 8, packed with energy, grit, and ideas. Within two years, we had grown into a 40-member unit that breathed ambition. We set up everything ourselves—our very own Samba server, our desks, our dreams. Vel Sir stood by us, offering assembled computers on credit when funds were tight. We didn’t have an air conditioner when we started; the heat from the Chennai sun and CRT monitors turned the place into a furnace. But we endured.

We hustled in sweat, but not in despair.

Slowly, we upgraded—one A/C at a time. We set up a tiny kitchen for tea and coffee. We insisted that everyone must volunteer to prepare coffee or tea in that kitchen. Many resisted in the beginning. But soon, everyone took their turn—each cup brewed with pride, with patience. That pantry transformed into our bonding zone, our ritual, our daily pause between lines of code.

Every milestone—big or small—was celebrated with team lunches. From every corner restaurant in Besant Nagar to the iconic joints in Adyar, we made those places our own.

I practically lived in that office. My routine? Wake up at 5 AM, dash home to shower, and be back by 7:30. The location was a dream in itself—sea-facing, serene, and soul-fueling. The Sindoor Sea Club next door lit up weekends, Diwalis, and New Year’s Eves. I walked the beach to stay fit. I walked it again at midnight to clear my mind.

There were nights I rode solo on my Calibre bike from Valmiki Nagar to Mahabalipuram. Back then, ECR after 8 PM was a ghost road—no streetlights, no traffic, no cops, not even open tea stalls. But I needed that silence. That solitude was therapy.

Night shows at Prarthana or Mayajaal were my release. The rest of the time, we were a silent storm—working with focus, building in stealth. No one believed in us yet, but we did. We learned to smile through the struggle, to lead without applause, to hustle without hashtags.

There were times when the weight of challenges felt unbearable. But that location, that ocean breeze, those midnight drives—they helped me breathe, helped me bounce back.

Those two years weren’t just about building a company. They were about building character.

Where is my Madras?


I was born in Madras. Not Chennai. Madras.

Chennai is just the name. Madras — that is my emotion. It wasn’t just a city. It was the BGM of my childhood, the stage of my teenage dreams, and the silent witness to my becoming. But today, as I walk through these same streets, I search for my Madras — and I can’t find her. What I see now is a city that has transformed so much, it’s almost as if it forgot who it used to be.

I remember the theatres first. They were temples of wonder.

Alankar Theatre — where I watched every Jackie Chan movie as a wide-eyed kid, snuggled between my parents. From King Solomon’s Mines to Thunderbolt, it was our Sunday ritual, our adventure time. Then came Anand & Little Anand, where I saw Nayagan and Jallikattu with my dad, and Malabar Police with my college buddies. Every show had a memory etched beside it.

Melody Theatre — if it was a Hindi movie, that’s where we went. My mom adored Hindi films, and my dad made sure we saw them all. From Dil to Hum to Baazi, Melody was a family tradition. The last I remember watching there was in 2007 — and then, like everything else, it quietly disappeared.

Then came the dream that never faded: Prarthana Drive-in. As a kid, I heard stories about watching movies from a car. I never went. But once I started my own company near Thiruvanmiyur, I finally did — Kadhal Konden and Anbe Sivam. I didn’t have a car then. I sat on a plastic chair and watched, envious of those inside cars, feeling like I had arrived late to a dream. When I was stressed, I would go there alone, escape for a while, then return to work. A year later, things changed. I went there in a car, and took my cousins too — because they deserved to live that dream.

Udayam. Chandran. Sooriyan: These theatres were where I watched movies solo, with schoolmates, with my parents. They were razed just three months ago — like someone ripped out a part of my diary.

But Madras wasn’t just cinema. It was culture, bookstores, summer escapes.

Landmark: My hideout since 1995. I went there to beat the heat, to explore music, to touch books, to discover authors who sowed the seeds of entrepreneurship in me. It wasn’t a store — it was a sanctuary.

The Park Sheraton: Youthful nights at Dublin, celebrating Dhoni’s T20 World Cup win. That place was our escape, our celebration spot.

Luz Shanthi Sagar for chats. Dasa Prakash for cherry milk and green-pea sandwiches. The roadside podi dosa at Brilliant Tutorials. These weren’t just eateries — they were memories made edible.

I grew up on North Parade Road, in my grandmother’s house. The Malai Thiruvizha was a grand celebration then. Shops would stretch from Kathipara all the way to the Cantonment marriage hall. Today, that grand procession is reduced to the narrow streets around St. Thomas Mount. The horse stud at Alandur, where my parents would walk me, feed me snacks, and let me play — now stands a metro station.

The park where I once learned how to swing? It’s a turf now — professional, synthetic, and soulless.

Chennai has grown. Expanded. Boomed. But in doing so, it has wiped clean the chalkboard of memories. It has replaced nostalgia with glass towers, warmth with air-conditioning, and stories with speed.

I’m not against progress. But what do you do when progress forgets its past?

I don’t want a Madras frozen in time. I just want a city that remembers.

Because I remember. And I still miss her.

Where is my Madras?

In search of gold, I lost my diamond.

She was never just a city. She was my story, my Madras.