The Entrepreneur’s Curse: When the Dream Becomes the Cage


Built to break free, but chained by our own ambition.

“I started to escape the 9-5. But now, I work 24/7 for a boss called ‘my dream’.”

Every entrepreneur starts with a fire in their belly. We tell ourselves, “I’ll be my own boss. I’ll build something meaningful. I’ll find freedom.”

But somewhere along the way, that freedom becomes a mirage. We become prisoners to our own creation — locked inside a cage we proudly built brick by brick.

The never-ending chase

Entrepreneurs are wired to keep moving. The moment we achieve a milestone, we don’t celebrate — we set a new, bigger one.

Your startup gets its first 100 customers? You think, “Why not 1,000?”
You close a big deal? You’re already eyeing the next.

Ambition is our superpower. But it’s also our slow poison.

The idea overdose

Our minds don’t stop. We’re cursed with constant ideation — new products, new pivots, new “next big things.”

We often leave half-built bridges behind, chasing the next shiny island on the horizon. And each unfinished idea weighs on us like a ghost of potential.

The loneliness paradox

Surrounded by a team, admired by peers, loved by family — yet feeling utterly alone.

Why? Because the final decisions, the late-night worries, the quiet fears — they’re all yours.

Success has many fathers, but failure is an orphan — and that orphan usually lives in the entrepreneur’s heart.

The financial and emotional rollercoaster

Some months feel like flying private jets; other months feel like you’re holding on to a falling kite in a storm.

You burn cash, energy, and sometimes your own sanity to keep things alive. Meanwhile, friends in stable jobs post pictures from their vacations, and your blood boils — not from envy, but from the realization that your hustle never really sleeps.

The silent sacrifice

Family dinners become “quick calls.” Gym sessions become “next month.” Sleep? A mythical creature you read about in productivity books.

The worst part? You justify it all in the name of “passion.”

The identity trap

Your business becomes your identity. Wins feel like personal validation; losses feel like public humiliation.

The line between *who you are* and *what you do* blurs until you can’t find yourself outside your pitch deck.

“We wanted freedom, but we got shackles made of ambition.”

The entrepreneur’s curse isn’t just about work stress. It’s about the emotional tax no one talks about. It’s about fighting invisible wars within your mind, every single day.

Yet, we keep going. Why? Because despite the curse, we love the game.

We love building, dreaming, and living on the edge. Because deep down, even our suffering is a story we want to own.

A Generation Disconnected: Where Did We Lose the Thread?


We didn’t grow up visiting hotels. We grew up visiting hearts.

When I close my eyes and think of my childhood, it’s never about fancy vacations or five-star resorts. It’s the smell of my grandmother’s kitchen, the chaos of sleeping ten to a room on the floor, the shared laughter echoing through my uncle’s village home.

Holidays didn’t mean plane tickets or curated itineraries. Holidays meant piling into crowded buses and trains, hopping from one relative’s house to another. We didn’t book hotels but our homes were each other’s hotels. Our cousins weren’t just “relatives,” they were our first friends, our first rivals, our first lessons in sharing, forgiving, and standing up for each other.

We fought like cats and dogs over a piece of mango, formed secret gangs in the neighborhood, and defended each other in front of elders even if we had fought the previous night. Those silly fights and spontaneous adventures taught us patience, empathy, and resilience. They made us feel rooted, as if no matter how tough the world was outside, there was always a gang waiting with open arms.

But today, as I watch my children grow, I feel a quiet ache in my heart. The world has become smaller and faster, yet our circles have become narrower and colder.

Most of my cousins have moved abroad. We now meet on rare occasions and a rushed dinner, a hurried coffee. When they visit India, they stay in hotels or spend a day at our home before moving on. Our children look at each other like polite strangers, awkwardly sharing a few minutes before retreating to their screens. By the time they warm up, it’s already time to say goodbye.

When I was my daughter’s age, I had at least 15 cousins with whom I had created countless stories. Even today, no matter how far they are, I can pick up the phone and know there’s a friend on the other side who understands me without explanations.

But what about our kids? Who will they call when they’re lonely at midnight? Who will they turn to when they need that quiet moral support that only someone who grew up with you can offer?

We’ve unknowingly cut off a generation from the warmth of cousinhood, from the small fights that build big hearts, from the comfort of shared silences and shared mischief. We’ve traded community for comfort, depth for convenience.

I often wonder, if this new normal progress or a quiet tragedy? Are we giving them wings but forgetting to give them roots?

I don’t have all the answers. But I know this: relationships don’t grow in hotel lobbies or quick meet-ups. They grow in messy kitchens, in crowded living rooms, in late-night talks that spill into dawn.

It’s not too late. We can still invite cousins to stay over, plan longer family visits, encourage our kids to spend a summer vacation at a relative’s home without us hovering around. We can start telling them our stories — about how we played, how we fought, how we learned to love each other through it all.

We owe it to them. We owe it to the silent bonds that made us who we are today.

Let’s not leave them with just photos and polite greetings. Let’s gift them the messy, beautiful, irreplaceable magic of family.

It’s Time to Meet Venky Again — A Diary in Bullet Points


I had been waiting to meet Venky (Venkatachalapathy) again, and the day finally arrived. Here’s how it unfolded — a day of blessings, roads, and memories.

Early Morning Start

* Planned to sleep early since we had to leave home by 6:30 AM, but a stiff neck and headache kept me up until 3:30 AM.
* Managed to get just 2 hours of sleep, yet woke up at 5:30 AM and got ready.
* Bala arrived right at 6:30 AM in his car.
* Bala mentioned he had never driven on a highway before and asked me to take the wheel.
* Picked up Ravi, who lives just a street behind my house.
* Reached Nithya Amirtham, Tiruvallur, around 8 AM for a hearty breakfast.
* Started driving again at 8:30 AM, feeling recharged.

Temple Visits

* First stop: Tiruchanur Padmavathy Thayar Temple.
* Took the ₹200 darshan ticket and joined the line.
* Blessed to witness a Thiru Kalyanam as we moved through.
* Had darshan of Thayar and collected our quota of laddus.

Drive to Tirumala

* Drove to Alipiri Gate and completed the scanning.
* The rule: cannot cross the stretch in less than 28 minutes to avoid penalties — drove slowly and reached Tirumala in 35 minutes.
* Parked near the entry gate, completed ticket scanning and security checks.
* Waited in a hall for 2 hours 15 minutes until the gates opened at 3:30 PM.

Divine Darshan

* Entered the sanctum and finally had the beautiful darshan of Lord Venkateswara — truly a heart-filling moment.
* Made an offering in Hindi.
* Inside the praharam, it was push and pull with the heavy crowd, but we managed to come out by 4:30 PM.
* Collected more laddus from the laddu stall.

On the Way Back

* On the way to the parking lot, witnessed the oonjal seva and received blessings from two elephants.
* During the descent, we had to cross Alipiri exit only after 40 minutes.
* Even after driving slowly, reached in 38 minutes, so we waited 2 minutes at the gate before crossing without a penalty.

Return Journey

* Started driving back by 5:15 PM.
* Reached Nithya Amirtham, Tiruvallur, for dinner at 8:30 PM, and finished by 9:10 PM.

Reflections

* It was my first time driving to Tirumala in 12 years; the last two times were via TTDC packages.
* Shocked to see the entire route transformed — endless buildings replacing the peaceful farm lands and empty stretches.
* Even Tiruchanur, once a calm village, has grown into a bustling suburb of Tirupati.
* Despite all these changes, the journey felt blessed and deeply satisfying.
* Loved reconnecting with Bala after so long, and reconnecting with Venky after years felt like coming home.

Until next time, Venky — I’ll be back.

Karma: The Bitch, The Boomerang & The Cleansing — My Take


There was a time when I thought karma was just some cosmic revenge system — a way to sleep peacefully after someone wronged me. You know, that comforting phrase we throw around: “Karma is a bitch.”

We say it when someone cheats and loses everything, or when that arrogant boss finally gets fired. It’s a bit of a guilty pleasure, like watching a villain get slapped in a movie. But the truth? This is karma in its most raw, vengeful form — the “bitch” side of karma.

Then there’s the other version we don’t talk about enough: “Karma is a boomerang.”
Throw out love, it comes back. Throw out hate, it comes back too. Unlike the bitchy version, this is not about punishment. It’s about balance. The universe simply mirrors what you put out, no drama, no extra seasoning.

And finally, there’s the silent warrior: Karma cleansing.
This is for those who decide they’re done with the loop of reaction and revenge. It’s about intentionally cleaning your slate — not by just sitting and waiting for karma to do its thing, but by consciously choosing acts of kindness, forgiveness, meditation, or service. It’s less about “waiting for them to fall” and more about “rising above my own past mess.”

Three perspectives, one principle: What you give is what you get.
Whether you want to see karma as a fierce lady with a whip, a simple returning boomerang, or a chance for deep soul detox — the choice is yours.

At the end of the day, karma is not just about punishing others. It’s a mirror, a teacher, and sometimes, the friend who gives us a much-needed slap or a hug at the right time.

“Your karma, your choice. How do you want to play this game?”

The Bohra Community: A Masterclass in Business Ecosystem Building


When we talk about thriving business communities, we often think of Silicon Valley or startup hubs like Tel Aviv and Bengaluru. But long before these flashy tech ecosystems rose, there existed quiet, tightly-knit business networks that mastered community-based growth. One shining example is the Bohra community — a fascinating case study for any entrepreneur or community builder today.

Who are the Bohras?

The Bohra community, primarily known today as Dawoodi Bohras, originated in Gujarat, India. Historically, they trace their roots to traders and merchants who were excellent at building trust-based relationships. While the community has religious origins, what really sets them apart is their social and economic ecosystem that has flourished across centuries.

Why was such a community system needed?

Imagine you’re a small trader in medieval India. There are no banks to loan you money easily. No formal insurance if your ship sinks or your goods get stolen. No “startup pitch nights” or VC funds waiting to take a bet on your idea.

You were on your own — unless you belonged to a community that pooled resources, guaranteed credit, and vouched for your reputation.

The Bohra community filled this exact gap. They created a tightly bonded network that offered:

* Financial support (credit lines, shared funds)
* Crisis assistance (help during business losses or personal emergencies)
* Mentorship and skill sharing (how to trade, manage risks, expand to new territories)
* Trust-based business references (the original “LinkedIn recommendations” if you will!)

How did the Bohra business ecosystem work?

The Bohra system was surprisingly sophisticated and modern, even by today’s standards. Here’s a simplified breakdown:

Shared Identity & Ethical Code

Every community member followed a strong ethical code. Reputation wasn’t just personal; it reflected on your family and the entire community. Trustworthiness was non-negotiable.

Interconnected Support System

Members didn’t just help each other for charity — they saw it as mutual growth. If one merchant grew, the whole network gained access to more opportunities. This meant:

      Zero-interest or low-interest loans within the community.
      Collective bargaining for better trade deals.
      Emergency support funds to bounce back from failures.

Knowledge Transfer & Mentoring

New entrepreneurs didn’t have to figure things out alone. Older, more experienced traders mentored the younger ones, often within family lines or through arranged apprenticeships.

How the system works: from small pods to larger councils

The Bohra community is beautifully structured, almost like a layered support network. At the foundation level, members often operate in small, tightly-knit local groups known as jamaats. Think of these as 7-member “pods” — small circles where individuals share resources, discuss problems, and support each other directly.

Above these pods, there is a central jamaat at the town or regional level, which acts like a larger council. This bigger body manages larger pooled funds, organizes business mentorship sessions, resolves disputes, and offers bigger loans or collective trade guarantees.

Finally, there’s the highest central leadership, which sets ethical standards, provides strategic guidance, and connects the entire global network. This tier acts as a unified brand, ensuring trust and credibility wherever a Bohra merchant goes in the world.

This pod-to-council model means a struggling entrepreneur can first lean on their 7-member pod for immediate help; if needed, they escalate to the town jamaat for bigger resources; and for major crises or opportunities (like international expansion), they can count on support from the central leadership.

Global Network Before Globalization

The Bohras were pioneers in creating cross-border trade networks long before “globalization” became a buzzword. From East Africa to the Middle East and Southeast Asia, they established trusted nodes of commerce and created a seamless supply chain.

The Bohra Community Template for Modern Builders

Today’s founders and startup enthusiasts can learn a lot from this framework:

1️⃣ Build on trust, not just transactions.
2️⃣ Create pooled resources (funds, discounts, services) for mutual growth.
3️⃣ Focus on reputation and collective brand value.
4️⃣ Encourage mentorship as a core practice, not an optional add-on.
5️⃣ Celebrate shared wins and support failures without judgment.

Why this matters today

In a hyper-competitive world where many entrepreneurs feel isolated, the Bohra community model reminds us of the power of belonging. It shows us that a strong, values-driven group can become a safety net, a growth engine, and an inspiration hub — all rolled into one.

If you’re building an entrepreneur community today, take a page from their playbook: build trust, share resources, and treat every member’s success as your own.

Karma and Justice: A Conversation with My Scars


When karma tips its hat, I simply watch — scarred, healed, and finally free.

I grew up hearing the phrase “justice delayed is justice denied.” In my younger days, it sounded so powerful, so sharp — a perfect line to quote when you felt wronged or betrayed.

I believed justice meant someone should pay for hurting me, and they should pay now. I carried this belief with me, holding it close every time I felt cheated or double-crossed.

When I was betrayed, I felt an almost animal-like hunger for revenge. I would replay moments in my head, craft imaginary confrontations, and wish that karma would strike them down while I was still raw and bleeding.

But as time passed, something changed.

Life didn’t stop for my pain. The people who hurt me moved on, sometimes even seeming happier than before. I stayed stuck in a loop of anger, frustration, and helplessness, waiting for karma to arrive like a superhero and save me from my inner chaos.

Years later, karma finally did visit them. Two of the people who had hurt me so deeply faced their consequences — harshly. But by then, something unexpected had happened to me: I had healed.

When I heard about their downfall, it felt like reading an old news headline. There was no thrill, no moment of triumph, no fireworks. Just a quiet nod inside me, as if my soul whispered, “See? Life balances itself.”

In that moment, I realized: karma is not my personal lawyer. It’s not designed to heal my wounds or bring me peace. It’s not even meant to satisfy my sense of timing.

Unlike our legal system, where “justice delayed is justice denied” because victims need relief here and now, karma operates on a different plane altogether. Karma doesn’t arrive on our schedule. It doesn’t rush to fix our pain. Instead, it patiently restores balance in its own mysterious, universal way.

By the time karma acts, the raw wound has already become a scar. And when it does, it often feels like a distant echo rather than the roaring justice I once imagined.

I used to think that if karma didn’t act fast enough, it was as good as denied. But today, I see it differently. Karma is not about me; it is about the larger flow of life, the unseen balance sheet of actions and consequences that spans beyond my small circle of feelings.

Looking back, I understand now that healing was never karma’s job. Healing was mine. Karma didn’t come to save me — I had to save myself, stitch up my own wounds, and learn to walk forward carrying my scars with pride.

Those scars? They’ve taught me more than any revenge ever could. They taught me resilience, boundaries, patience, and — above all — the power of moving on.

So today, when I think about those who wronged me and finally “paid” for it, I feel nothing more than a gentle nod to the universe: Thank you for doing your part. I had already done mine.

What I’ve learned

  • Don’t wait for karma to heal you.
  • Don’t put your peace on hold waiting for someone else to fall.
  • Your healing is your responsibility; karma is just the universe keeping its own books.

In short

“Justice delayed is justice denied” is about human systems.
“Karma delayed” is not karma denied — because karma is not about providing you justice, but about cosmic balance.

From Wounds to Scars: A Lesson in Karma and Healing


There was a time when betrayal felt like an open wound. When someone cheated or double-crossed me, I didn’t just feel hurt, I felt an almost animalistic urge for revenge. I wanted blood. I wanted them to feel the pain I was going through.

Other times, I felt like a helpless victim. I moved away quietly, carrying my heartbreak and frustration like a heavy bag I couldn’t put down. And as I carried it, that pain slowly turned into a deep sense of anger, depression, and a silent scream that no one else could hear.

Years passed. The sharpness of those wounds dulled. They turned into scars, they are always there, but no longer bleeding. Life went on, and I learned to walk forward with those scars stitched into my story.

And then, life did something unexpected.
Within this year, two of the people who had wronged me, the very people I once wanted revenge against had finally faced the consequences of their actions. Karma, as we like to call it, had arrived.

But here’s the surprising part: it didn’t make me feel victorious. It didn’t bring me the happiness or relief I thought I’d feel a decade ago when those wounds were raw.

Instead, it felt like reading a piece of news. Just information. A passing moment of, Oh, I see. Life has its own way of balancing things out.

I realized something important in that moment:
I had outgrown my need for revenge.

Back then, revenge felt like the only closure that could heal me. But healing never really waited for karma. Healing happened inside me, as I moved forward and rebuilt myself piece by piece.

Karma didn’t come to heal me; it simply came to do its job. The person I am today is no longer the same person who once stayed up at night imagining ways to “even the score.” Today, I find peace in knowing that I survived, that I grew stronger, and that my life is no longer defined by those betrayals.

The scars? They remain. But they are no longer a source of pain, they are reminders of how far I’ve come.

If karma had arrived ten years ago, it might have felt like a victory. Today, it feels like a gentle whisper from the universe: “Keep going. You’re already free.”

Don’t wait for karma to heal you.
Don’t wait for someone else to hurt for you to move forward.

Your healing is yours — and the most powerful revenge is to build a life so full that you no longer look back waiting for justice.

The Hidden Co-Founders: Israeli Spouses & The Kitchen Cabinet


While we often talk about venture capital, tech units, and risk-taking culture when describing Israel’s startup ecosystem, there’s a silent powerhouse that rarely gets enough credit: the spouses.

When Israel was founded in 1948, it was built in the middle of constant conflict and war. Men often had to volunteer or were called away for military service, leaving farms, family businesses, and shops vulnerable. While there wasn’t a strict law forcing women to officially take over businesses, there was a strong community expectation: the wife must know the business inside out to keep it alive if the husband was away — or never returned.

This wasn’t just about economics; it was survival. Business continuity was seen as a patriotic duty. Women weren’t simply supporters at home — they became equal partners in family businesses, laying the cultural foundation for today’s startup ecosystem where spouses often act as the “hidden co-founders.”

In modern Israeli startup culture, there’s a popular phrase called the “kitchen cabinet.” Originally used to describe Golda Meir’s informal advisory group that gathered in her kitchen, it now refers to the personal circle of trusted advisors founders rely on at home — often their spouses.

Many Israeli founders say their toughest strategic decisions didn’t happen in boardrooms but over late-night coffee with their spouse at the kitchen table. Spouses guide them through funding crises, pivots, layoffs, or those nerve-wracking “should we shut it down?” moments.

They hold the emotional line when things fail and cheer the loudest when things click. In a country where risk isn’t just accepted but celebrated, these spouses are not only emotional backbones but also often step into operational roles when needed — just like they did in the early days of the nation.

In Israel, a startup is never just “his” or “hers.” It’s a family mission, a collective leap, and a living example of shared resilience.

Why Israel Doesn’t Fear Startup Failure — And What We Can Learn


In Israel, failure isn’t feared — it’s your startup badge of courage.

When we think of failure in India, it usually comes with a long line of unsolicited advice from relatives, worried glances from parents, and that unspoken label — “loser.” But if you zoom out to Israel, famously known as the Startup Nation, you’ll see something very different.

I’ve been diving into articles, founder interviews, and global startup reports — and one thing is crystal clear: failure isn’t just accepted in Israel, it’s almost celebrated.

In Israel, if your startup fails, people don’t write you off. They ask, “So, what’s next?” Investors don’t shy away from you; they lean in closer. It’s as if failure is your badge of honor, proof that you had the guts to play in the arena instead of watching from the sidelines.

Why? Because in Israel, they believe that if you haven’t failed, you probably haven’t aimed big enough. You didn’t push hard enough. You didn’t swing for the fences.

A huge part of this mindset comes from their military culture. Israeli youth go through mandatory army service, where experimentation, rapid problem-solving, and facing unexpected challenges are everyday routines. Mistakes aren’t punished — they’re analyzed and turned into future strategies.

Add to that a society built on survival and constant innovation. When you’re turning deserts into green farms and defending your borders every day, you learn fast that trial and error isn’t optional — it’s how you stay alive.

What really blew my mind is that many Israeli VCs actually prefer founders who have tasted failure. They believe these founders have “paid their tuition fees” and know what not to do. Imagine pitching to an investor in India after a failed venture — chances are you’ll get a lecture on “safe government jobs” instead of funding.

Israel’s startup ecosystem treats failure like a pivot, not a funeral. It’s a milestone, not a tombstone. And that’s exactly why they keep producing unicorns and game-changing technologies, even with a population smaller than some Indian cities.

As founders and dreamers, maybe it’s time we bring this “fail forward” attitude home. Because the real failure isn’t falling — it’s refusing to get back up.

Israel doesn’t bury failed startups; it recycles them into stronger founders.

The Two Faces of Loneliness: How I Transformed Fear into Solitude


I met my scariest thoughts in silence. Later, I met my truest self there too.

Between 2010 and 2012, most of my close friends got married and slowly started moving to the US. I was still in India, watching my social circle shrink. Slowly, I started feeling a deep loneliness. It wasn’t just the absence of people; it was a heavy, unsettling silence that echoed inside me.

That loneliness didn’t feel like a quiet evening to rest. Instead, it created a voice inside me — a kind of invisible scare. I had sleepless nights and scary nights, but what exactly was I scared of? I couldn’t define it clearly.

Through my own reflection and reading, I understood that these were what psychologists sometimes call phantom threats. When our social support system breaks down, our brain starts scanning for danger, even if there isn’t any real external threat. It’s a leftover survival instinct from when being alone meant being vulnerable to wild animals or enemies. In modern life, this translates to vague fears, restlessness, or a feeling of being unsafe — even in the comfort of our own room.

Then, I got married. Suddenly, I had a partner, someone to share every small joy and every small fear with. That scary loneliness vanished. I didn’t feel that void anymore.

Fast forward to 2019–2025. Life had moved into another gear: kids, family commitments, work deadlines, responsibilities piling up. Ironically, there was no physical loneliness at all — I was constantly surrounded by people.

But deep inside, a new kind of loneliness crept in. This wasn’t the fear of being alone in an empty room; it was the exhaustion of never truly being alone with myself.

Every day felt like a marathon — waking up to attend to kids, squeezing in work calls, family discussions, endless errands. Even at night, when the world finally went quiet, my mind didn’t. It kept replaying unfinished tasks, small conflicts, worries about the kids, tomorrow’s to-do list.

I would close my eyes but feel half-awake, as if there was a hidden guard inside me who refused to let me fully rest. My dreams were crowded — sometimes about work, sometimes about family, sometimes random worries stitched together in confusing ways.

When I woke up, instead of feeling refreshed, I felt as if I had already lived an entire day in my mind. My body was stiff, my head heavy. It was like my brain never turned off, always on “alert mode,” scanning for the next responsibility.

There was no space for me. No silent cup of coffee alone. No lazy morning staring at the ceiling. No blank mental canvas. Just an endless wave of obligations crashing over me, one after another.

This was a loneliness that no one talks about — the loneliness inside a crowded life. You are surrounded by people, yet your inner self is starved for attention.

In June 2025, I moved to Chennai to focus on work, and for the first time in years, I got a lot of alone time. I was worried that the old fears would return, that those phantom threats would sneak back into my nights. But to my surprise, this loneliness felt completely different.

This time, it wasn’t scary. It was warm, healing. It felt like a solitude that I had long needed.

Now, instead of voices and scares, the silence felt like music. The quiet nights felt like gentle hugs from my own mind. I started enjoying small things again — watching the rain, making my own tea, sitting in silence without having to answer anyone.

I realized that this wasn’t loneliness; it was solitude — a conscious, chosen space to meet myself. It was no longer about being left out but about reconnecting inward.

Looking back, I realize loneliness and solitude are two sides of the same coin. One scares you when you don’t feel safe with yourself; the other heals you when you finally do.

As I write this today, I don’t feel the void I once did. Instead, I feel gratitude — for the noisy years, for the silent nights, and for the rare chance to meet my own mind in peace.