“I did not write this book to tell you how to live.”
I did not write this book to tell you how to live.
I wrote it to tell you how I saw my life: a fruit seller’s youngest son in a school full of businessmen’s children, a boy who set his books aside to survive, a young man who once ate spoiled rice and thought it tasted like biryani, and a dreamer whose films stayed on paper.
I lost my parents. I faced betrayal and loneliness. I met a world that often felt selfish, and I also met a few people who felt like family. I have tried to tell all of it honestly, without blaming anyone. My parents did what they knew, and the people who hurt me had their own reasons. I am not here to judge them.
Some of the lessons in these pages came late, and some came too late for me. I learned to respect my father’s work only after I had to carry a small part of its weight. I learned the value of balance, of financial planning and of staying close to the people we love after I had already walked the harder road. There are things I wrote here that I could not do myself.
That is why I share them. If something I learned the hard way can make your road a little easier, then my struggles have served a purpose.
I do not offer solutions. I offer awareness. Read what is useful, leave what is not, and decide for yourself.
If you take only one thing from this book, let it be this: no work is small, no person’s worth is measured by income, and humanity is greater than any label we are given.
I am not a victim. I am a man who refused to give up. And at the end of it all, what I wish for you, as I wish for myself, is health for a better tomorrow, knowledge to keep growing, freedom to live your own way, peace in your mind, and a purpose for what comes next.
“A person’s worth is never decided by their profession, their income or their social status.”
When I was a child, I sometimes felt shy to tell my friends that my father was a fruit seller. I worried about what they might think of me and my family. At that age, I did not understand the true value of his work.
As I grew older, my understanding of life began to change. I started to see how hard my father worked every day, how many sacrifices he made, and how much responsibility he carried to support our family.
He was not just selling fruit. He was earning an honest living, caring for his family, and doing his duty with dignity. Every rupee he earned carried his effort, his time and his sacrifice.
What I once felt shy to speak about became something I learned to respect. Life slowly taught me that a person’s worth is never decided by their profession, their income or their social status.
“I once felt shy to speak about my father’s work. Today, I understand that his honest struggle was a lesson in dignity that life had to teach me.”
“Learning today is an investment in your ability to stand again tomorrow.”
Life does not always warn us before things change. The opportunities we depend on may disappear, the support we receive may not always be there, and the comfort we enjoy today may not last forever.
That is why learning should never stop. We should not wait for a difficult time to begin preparing ourselves. The time we have today is a chance to build the knowledge and skills that may help us tomorrow.
Learn to communicate with people. Understand how money works. Develop practical skills, observe the world around you, ask questions, and learn from your mistakes. Every experience has something to teach us, if we are willing to learn.
Not every skill pays off at once. What we learn today may even seem unnecessary. But life has a way of showing us the value of that knowledge when we least expect it.
Money can be earned and lost. Opportunities come and go. Circumstances can change without warning. But the knowledge, experience and skills we build can help us find another way forward.
“When life takes away your comfort, your skills can help you rebuild. Prepare yourself before life tests you.”
“Some feelings are not meant to be ours to keep. Sometimes it is enough that they helped us discover a little more of who we are.”
Some memories never leave us. We grow older, our priorities change, and life carries us to places we never planned to go. But a few feelings stay in a quiet corner of the heart, like a lamp left burning in a room we no longer enter.
My first experience of teenage love is one of them. I do not remember it with sadness or regret. I remember it with a smile, because it introduced me to a feeling I had never known.
At that age, we begin to see people differently. A smile that once seemed ordinary becomes special. A few words from someone can stay with us for a whole day, and a single glance can make us feel we have stepped into another world. We do not understand what is happening inside us, only that something has changed. The world looks a little more beautiful, and ordinary moments begin to shine.
We may call it love, though we are still learning the difference between attraction, affection, friendship and the deeper meaning of love. I believe it is a natural part of growing up, an introduction to an emotion we have never met before, and for many of us it becomes a memory we carry for years.
For me, that feeling was not only about another person. It changed something within me.
I wanted to become better. I wanted to achieve something in life. I wanted to look good, dress well and grow my abilities, so that one day I could stand with confidence before the person I admired. We were not rich, and I could not always afford what I wished for. But I found my own ways to improve myself, because I did not need to have everything, only to become something.
Perhaps I wanted to impress her. But without knowing it, I was also discovering my own ambitions. Sometimes the wish to be noticed by someone can awaken abilities we never knew we had, and what begins as a simple attraction becomes a journey of self-discovery. Some feelings are valuable not for what they bring us in return, but for what they awaken within us.
But my life was not simple. I had my own struggles and responsibilities, and even education was hard. I carried feelings I could not express and dreams I was still trying to understand. And so, though I admired her, I never told her.
Perhaps I was afraid. Perhaps I felt I had not yet become the person I wanted to be. Perhaps I simply did not know how to speak an emotion that was new to me. I cannot say it was the perfect decision. I can only say it was how I lived that chapter of my life.
I kept my feeling quietly within me and went on with my battles. I did not want to disturb her life with my difficulties, so I stayed silent. Even now, I sometimes remember that smile, those conversations, those small moments that made an ordinary day feel different.
I do not need to turn those memories into a sad story. I do not blame anyone, and I do not regret having felt something beautiful.
Growing older has also shown me something else about myself. In those days I gave so much of my heart to one feeling that I sometimes forgot the love that was already there.
My mother’s love.
While I was thinking of someone else’s smile, I did not always notice my mother’s worry. While I waited for a message, a glance, a moment that could make my day special, I sometimes overlooked the daily care she gave without asking for anything. I was young, and a new feeling had taken so much room in my mind that I failed to see a love that had stood beside me for years.
Today I understand that I did not have to turn away from one feeling to honour another. I could have admired someone and still given my mother the attention she deserved. But that is the way of growing up. Understanding often comes only after the moment has passed.
I do not say this to make teenage love look wrong. Love, affection and attraction are not enemies of our responsibilities. They are part of being human. The lesson is to understand our emotions instead of letting them rule every part of our lives, and to give each important relationship its rightful place.
I also learned that love cannot be demanded. Admiring someone does not mean they owe us the same feeling. True love needs two hearts, with respect, freedom and willingness on both sides. If the feeling is shared, two people may build something beautiful together. If it is not, we must respect that truth, without forcing a confession, demanding an answer or turning affection into anger. The other person has a heart, a choice and a life of their own.
For me, that first experience remains a beautiful memory. I respect the feeling because it was real to me. I respect her, without needing to know what might have been if I had spoken. And I respect the fact that life does not always give us the chance to say everything we carry in our hearts.
My struggles touched many parts of my life. They made education hard, and they stood between me and the courage I needed to speak. But I do not want my difficulties to erase the beautiful things I found along the way. We can acknowledge our pain without denying our happiness. We can accept what never happened without disrespecting what we felt.
I may never know what that chapter could have become. But I know what it taught me. It taught me that emotions can awaken ambition, that admiration can inspire us to improve ourselves, and that growing up means learning to balance the heart with our responsibilities. Above all, it taught me that every form of love deserves respect, the love our families give us and the love we may never get the chance to speak.
I do not carry this memory as a wound. I carry it as a part of my journey, a reminder of a younger me who was learning about life with an inexperienced heart and a head full of dreams.
And whenever I remember that time, I smile.
Because some feelings are not meant to be ours to keep. Sometimes it is enough that they helped us discover a little more of who we are.
Inspired by reported incidents involving vulnerable girls and exploitative marriage arrangements. The characters and storyline are fictional.
“Some dreams are not abandoned. Life simply asks us to survive before we can chase them.”
Some dreams are not abandoned. Life simply asks us to survive before we can chase them.
When I was sixteen, I carried a dream that went beyond watching movies. I wanted to become a film director. I wanted to make films that did more than entertain, films that questioned society, challenged the way people think, and woke them up through stories.
I had no training and no resources. I had only my imagination, the movies I had watched, and a burning wish to tell stories that mattered.
With the little I knew at that age, I wrote about eighty-five scenes for a film. I no longer remember every one of them, but I remember how deeply I belonged to that dream. I even created a character from my own name, because I loved the story so much.
Two ideas stayed closest to my heart:
JAY: A Name of the Universal NIKHA: A Time for Passion
One questioned the walls we build between human beings. The other followed the pain of a young woman whose dreams and freedom were taken from her by circumstances and by the people who controlled her life.
At twenty-four, another door opened. I got the chance to work on a production connected to my dream, and for a while I stood close to the world I had once imagined as a boy. But financial difficulties made it impossible to go on.
Life asked for survival before it would allow dreams.
I could not become the filmmaker I wanted to be, at least not then. But the dream shaped the way I look at society, at human relationships, at power, injustice and hope.
Film Concept 01
Three friends
Three boys grow up together, sharing the innocence and freedom of childhood. At that age they know no names, no titles, no power. They know only each other.
Jay Pal, Jay Ram and Jay Nabh never imagine that the identities they will carry as men could one day place them on opposite sides of a conflict.
They share dreams, laughter and secrets. Before life pulls their families apart, they carry a symbol of their bond: JJJ.
They are simply three friends. Their differences do not matter to them.
But life has other plans.
Three men, three corners
As the boys grow, the world hands each of them a label. Each label sits at one corner of what the film calls the Selfish Triangle.
Jay Pal, the corner of Politics and Power. Jay Pal is Christian and rises to become a powerful political leader, with influence comparable to a US President. He can move millions of people and shape the direction of a nation. His intentions may begin sincerely, but when personal ambition and public duty collide, which will he choose?
Jay Ram, the corner of Nationality. Jay Ram is Hindu and becomes an Indian soldier. He believes in protecting his country and its people, and discipline, courage and duty shape his life. But what happens when the orders he receives collide with the humanity he is sworn to protect? His hardest battle may not be across the border. It may be between blind obedience and his own conscience.
Jay Nabh, the corner of Religion. Jay Nabh is Muslim. As he grows, people who exploit faith and human weakness slowly bend his beliefs, and through calculated brainwashing he is drawn into a terrorist network. But he was not born a terrorist, and his religion did not make him one. He is a human being whose trust and fears were used by people who wanted a weapon.
All three are heroes. Each one truly believes he is standing for something good, and each has his own journey, responsibility and battle within.
When friendship meets power
Years pass. The friends become men of influence, shaped by the worlds around them. Their positions place them on opposing sides of a major international conflict, and politics, nationalism, religious manipulation and powerful systems push them further apart.
Each believes his reason is honest. Yet none of them sees at first how those honest reasons feed the suffering of innocent people.
As violence spreads, their paths cross again. They recognise one another. Beneath the uniforms, the power and the hardened beliefs, they see the three boys who once stood together.
The Selfish Triangle
Now the triangle becomes clear to them. Politics, nationality and religion, however pure their beginnings, can be bent toward selfish ends. Each one asks a person to choose a side, and each one can turn a friend into an enemy.
But at the centre of the triangle is the JJJ symbol, a reminder of what existed before any label did. The three men remember a question they had forgotten: how did three friends who once lived so happily become men who might fight each other?
The real enemy
The three must face more than the war around them. They must question the forces that shaped their choices. Jay Pal must face the cost of decisions made for power. Jay Ram must decide what duty means when innocent lives are at risk. Jay Nabh must confront the people who twisted his faith and pushed him toward terror.
Their journeys differ, but the question is the same: can they see the human being in front of them, even when the world tells them to see an enemy?
The film does not tell us what they choose. It leaves them standing at the centre of the triangle, in front of the JJJ symbol, each with a decision still to make.
What would you choose?
The message
JAY is about how human beings can be turned against one another when power, fear and selfish interest exploit their identities.
As children, we know no names, no titles, no power. We stand together with open hearts. But as we grow, the world hands us labels: a religion, a nationality, a position. Each one can carry a sincere reason. A leader may truly want to serve his people. A soldier may truly want to protect his country. A man pulled into terror may truly believe he is defending his cause. Yet when we look at where these paths lead, we see the harm they bring.
The film does not say any country, religion or community is the enemy. It questions the thinking that makes people hate one another in the name of those identities.
This film does not offer a solution. Its purpose is awareness.
In the end, one word stands above them all: humanity.
“When we were children, we stood together and lived happily. Today, why are we ready to destroy one another? What are we really achieving, and for whose benefit?”
Before the world taught us whom to stand against, we knew how to stand beside one another.
Film Concept 02
A girl with dreams of her own
Nikha is a teenage Muslim girl growing up in Hyderabad. Like any young person, she dreams of education, love, freedom and a future she can choose. Her dreams may look ordinary to others, but to her they mean the chance to live with dignity and independence.
But her family is struggling with money, and that makes them vulnerable to people who promise to solve their problems through marriage and cash.
When a life becomes a transaction
Older men from Dubai arrive, seeking teenage brides from poor families. Marriage is offered as a way out of poverty, and money becomes part of an arrangement the girls have little power to refuse.
Nikha’s future begins to slip from her hands. The adults around her may believe they are being practical. Some are driven by desperation, others gain from the deal. But the cost falls most heavily on the girl whose voice no one hears.
She is taken from the life she knows and placed where her dreams, feelings and freedom do not matter. The promise of a better future turns into a pain she cannot escape.
The pain no one sees
The world sees a marriage completed and a family settled. It never sees the dreams lost along the way.
Nikha longs for simple things: to learn, to speak, to build relationships with dignity, to decide her own future. She is not asking for a life without hardship. She is asking for the right to live her own life.
But the people who should listen see her as someone whose future has already been decided.
A story that asks a question
Nikha’s story does not end with an answer. Her dreams hang in the balance, and the film stops at the moment where her future could still go either way.
The audience is left with the questions. What did she want from life? Why was her voice not enough? What would it have taken for the people around her to listen?
The film does not decide for us. It asks us to decide what kind of society we want to be, and whether we would have listened.
The message
NIKHA is not an accusation against a religion or community. It is about the exploitation of vulnerable girls, poverty, unequal power and the misuse of marriage arrangements. A daughter is not a financial solution, a possession, or a decision to be made without her. Marriage should not erase a woman’s identity. Tradition should not silence her. Poverty should not become an excuse for taking away her future.
This film does not offer a solution. Its purpose is awareness.
She had dreams of her own. The film leaves the ending open, and it is up to us to decide what kind of society we want to be.
Why these stories matter to me
JAY asks whether humanity can survive the divisions we create. NIKHA asks what happens when a person’s freedom and future are sacrificed for the interests of others.
Both came from a young mind that wanted cinema to do more than entertain. I wanted people to question what they accept, to see what they overlook, and to feel the cost of decisions made in the name of power, identity or survival.
I could not take these dreams as far as I once hoped. Financial difficulties interrupted my journey, and the original screenplay is no longer fully in my memory.
But the ideas remain.
Perhaps one day, someone will read these ideas, feel their message, and carry one of them to the screen. If that happens, a dream I held since my teenage years will finally find a life beyond me.
My dream may have remained unfinished. Its message does not have to remain unheard.
“When I had money, food was a choice. When I had nothing, food became survival.”
Sometimes hunger teaches us lessons that no book ever can.
In 2000, I came to Hyderabad with just ₹500 in my pocket. I had heard of a company in Nacharam that made dish antennas, and I went there hoping to learn a trade. Through a reference, I was staying in a small room in Nallakunta.
Within a week, my money was almost gone.
Each morning I packed the leftover rice in a small box and left for Nacharam. One day, when it was time to return, I had nothing left for the journey. I did not have the courage to ask anyone for help. Even asking for five days’ advance felt too heavy to say aloud.
So I started walking back from Nacharam to Nallakunta.
It was about ten kilometres. Night had fallen, and I was new to Hyderabad. Along the way I saw people sleeping on the roadside. Beside the traffic, I saw small children with nowhere to go. I had never looked at life from so close, and I began to worry about my own.
Many times I wanted to ask a passing bike for a lift. But shyness held me back. What if they did not stop? What if they rode past me? That would have felt like an insult, and I could not bear the thought. So I kept walking, one step after another, with an empty stomach.
By the time I reached my room, the rice had spoiled. Water had gathered around it, and it carried a sour smell. I was hungry beyond words, and there was nothing else to eat.
I mixed the spoiled rice with pickle and ate it.
The strangest part is that, in that moment, I could not even recognise the smell. To my hungry mind, it tasted as satisfying as biryani.
And as I ate, a memory came to me. At home, if my mother added a little too much chilli to the food, I used to scold her. That night, sitting with spoiled rice and pickle, I thought of every time I had complained about food made with so much love. I would have given anything for that extra spice.
That night changed the way I understood hunger.
Until then, I had wondered how anyone could eat food that had gone bad. That day I saw how desperate hunger can make a person. When the body is fighting to survive, even food we would normally refuse becomes precious. I also saw that the human body and mind can carry us through situations we never imagined we could endure.
Later, I joined a hotel as a waiter. There, at least, I knew I would be fed. That job was not only a way to earn money. It was a way to make sure I could eat.
Survival, I understood, sometimes has to come before pride. Asking for help is hard, but hunger does not care about our ego. And any work that helps us survive deserves respect, whatever that work may be.
I do not remember that time only as a time without money. I remember it as the time when hunger taught me to understand another person’s suffering without judging them.
When I had money, food was a choice. When I had nothing, food became survival. That night, hunger taught me a kind of humanity that comfort never could.
“The work you do does not define your worth. The way you do it can define your identity.”
The work you do does not define your worth. The way you do it can define your identity.
Life led me through many kinds of work. Some I took because I needed money. Some I tried because I was searching for something that felt right. There were jobs that did not satisfy me, either because the work did not interest me or because the atmosphere around me made it hard to stay.
So I moved on, again and again.
People might wonder why I could not settle in one place. Even I sometimes wondered how long I would keep searching, and where my journey would finally stop.
When I worked as a waiter, I felt shy about the job. I had come from a small town to Hyderabad, and I wondered what people would think if they saw me doing this work. One day, I called a Muslim friend and told him, “Brother, I am working as a waiter, but I am not satisfied. What I want to do is one thing, and what I am doing here is another.”
His answer changed the way I looked at work.
He told me that until we reach a certain stage in life, we have to do some things we do not choose. If you want to find satisfaction in whatever you do, he said, add your own creativity to it. Do it the way you like, the way you think. Definitely, you will begin to like it.
Those words stayed with me. I began to understand that I might not always choose the work available to me, but I could always choose how I approached it.
When I was a waiter, I began presenting food to customers in my own creative way. I tried to make each meal an experience instead of a task. People noticed and appreciated it, and in time I moved from waiter to cashier.
That taught me something: the chance to grow often begins with how we carry the responsibility already in our hands.
Creativity Beyond a Job Title
As I moved through different fields, I kept the same thinking with me.
I created a 3D educational show called 3D Express, to give people a new kind of 3D experience. It let me express my creativity in a way I had not before.
Later, I joined a finance company as a Field Officer and was promoted to Manager within a year.
My approach was not only about creativity. During recovery work, I tried to understand people’s emotions and circumstances instead of relying on questions or pressure. My centres were known for their peaceful atmosphere, even in a field where conflict comes easily.
I believed people were not accounts or numbers. They were human beings with their own struggles, responsibilities and emotions.
These experiences strengthened my belief that any work can become meaningful when we bring creativity, sincerity and understanding to it.
What Matters More Than Money?
Over time, I realised that earning money and finding satisfaction are not always the same thing.
I wanted work that gave me a sense of purpose. I wanted to create something, improve something, or change the way a task was done. That search sometimes meant leaving a job instead of adjusting to it.
I still value that desire. I do not believe a person’s life should be measured only by how much they earn.
But life also taught me to look at the other side of that belief.
The Balance I Understood Later
From the age of twelve, I earned and bought things for my own needs. I learned early to depend on myself.
I was sincere about my work and serious about doing things properly. But sometimes I gave more attention to the work itself than to the financial planning and stability that life also requires.
I kept searching for satisfaction, trying different paths, following what felt right. In that process, I sometimes wonder whether I could have made more practical decisions and supported my family better.
My family had its own difficulties, and so did I. I often felt I had to find my own way, without expecting anyone to solve my problems. Perhaps my family also felt I was not paying enough attention to their struggles. I know how much I carried inside, but I understand that my struggles may not have been fully visible to them.
Today, I sometimes wonder whether a little more adjustment, planning and thought for my family’s needs could have made things better for everyone.
I cannot change the past. But I can acknowledge what it taught me.
Being sincere at work is important. Finding satisfaction is important. Being creative is important. But so are financial responsibility, practical decisions, and the people who depend on us or share our lives.
We do not always have to abandon our values to adjust to life. Sometimes we need to learn to balance them with our responsibilities.
I once believed that finding satisfying work was enough. Today, I understand that a meaningful life asks for more. It asks us to bring our best to our work, to think wisely about our future, and to remember the people who are part of our journey.
“Love cannot always take away suffering. But it can make the time we have together meaningful.”
For years, I tried to manage life on my own. I moved from place to place, believing that keeping my struggles to myself would stop me from becoming a burden to my family. I never imagined how much I would later wish I had stayed closer to them.
One day, my mother was hospitalized in a critical condition. She had grown so weak that she could barely move her hands or legs. But when she saw me from a distance, she somehow managed to sit up.
That moment has stayed in my heart ever since. Even in her weakest hour, the sight of her child gave her strength.
My mother spent much of her life putting her children before herself. She ate very little, gave us the food, and made do with rice and pickle. Even when we gave her money, she saved it, hoping to cook a good meal for us when we came home.
After her illness, my sister and I cared for her like a little child. For nearly five or six years, she was bedridden. I helped her with everyday needs and watched her struggle. It was deeply painful to see the person who had once cared for us become dependent on us.
There were moments when helplessness overwhelmed me. Watching her suffer for so long, I sometimes wondered whether it would be better if her suffering ended. Those thoughts did not come from a lack of love. They came from the pain of watching someone I loved endure so much, when I could not take that pain away.
I was angry, too. I asked why a mother who had sacrificed so much for her children had to walk such a hard final stretch of life.
The doctor told us that our care had kept her with us a little longer. That made those years even more precious to me. We could not erase her illness, but we could stay beside her, care for her, and give her our love.
During those years, I was also carrying a struggle in my married life. It had not been a happy one, and in time my wife and I separated. I hid this from my mother, because she was already suffering and I did not want to add to her pain. I stayed silent for a long time.
Then, on one occasion, my sister told her about it. My mother, already so frail, could not bear to hear it. Within minutes, she passed away.
It is difficult to describe how closely those moments came together. I had been carrying so much in silence, and suddenly the person whose presence meant the most to me was gone.
After losing her, I began to understand how deeply love can touch us. I also learned that loving someone wholeheartedly does not mean losing ourselves completely. Love deserves sincerity, but we must protect our own well-being too.
Even now, I struggle to look at photographs of my mother, because they bring back the pain of her final days. I wish I could remember her without seeing her suffer. Yet I know those hard years were only one part of her life, not the whole of who she was.
I regret the distance I kept from my parents while trying to manage life alone. If I had another chance, I would face my struggles beside them instead of keeping them away. Life might still have been difficult, but I would have had the comfort of being together.
I learned that love cannot always take away suffering, and it cannot always prevent loss. But love can make the time we have together meaningful. And sometimes the greatest regret is not that we could not do everything for someone, but that we did not realize how precious our time with them was until it was gone.
“Marriage is not only about giving someone a place in your life. It is about building a life in which both people have a place.”
A wrong choice in a relationship can cost us more than we ever imagined. Sometimes its consequences touch not only our own peace but also the life of the person we chose to be with.
That is why marriage should never be a decision made merely because of age, social expectation, formality or necessity.
When we marry someone, we invite that person into our life. It is not just a relationship status or a duty to fulfil. It is a journey we choose to share, and it carries responsibility, not only for our own happiness but also for the other person’s peace.
I say this from my own life, not to judge anyone, but because I learned what a wrong decision can cost.
I learned that we should not sacrifice ourselves completely to hold a relationship together when understanding and effort come from only one side. A healthy relationship needs mutual understanding, respect, trust, and a willingness in both people to stand beside each other.
Before you decide to share your life with someone, you should have confidence that these values exist between you, not only in words but in actions.
Marriage should not be an escape from loneliness, an answer to society, or a decision made because time is passing. It should be a conscious choice between two people who are willing to understand, respect, trust and grow with each other.
And if a relationship is not fair to both people, I do not believe in suffering through it, adjusting endlessly, and spoiling two lives. It is better for both to part with respect and begin again.
Marriage is not only about giving someone a place in your life. It is about building a life in which both people have a place.
“That little shoot did not solve my problems. But it changed the way I looked at them.”
There was a time when I believed that, after so many struggles, life was finally giving me another chance.
I reconnected with childhood friends after many years. Their company brought happiness back into my life, and for a few days I felt the joy of having people beside me again. Together we started a business based on interactive technology and events. My friends supported me through a partnership, and slowly I began to believe I could rebuild my life.
But sometimes life changes before we are ready.
During the COVID period, my personal life began to fall apart, I lost my mother, and the business came under financial pressure. These things happened almost together, leaving me no time to recover from one loss before facing the next.
Once again, I was in a deep emotional struggle.
My friends had trusted me and supported our business. I wanted to honour that trust and repay what I owed them. I never wanted their support to become a reason for regret. But the financial pressure made it hard to spend time with them as friends. My attention shifted to earning and settling my obligations, and in trying to solve everything quickly, I made decisions that led to further losses.
For three days, I stayed indoors, unable to see a way forward.
Then, one day, I opened the door.
The plants I had once cared for were almost dry. I had neglected them while fighting my own problems. But among those nearly lifeless plants, I noticed something small: a fresh shoot.
It was such a tiny thing, yet it made me stop and think. If a plant could begin to grow again when it seemed almost finished, perhaps my life could begin again too. Even when we cannot see a way forward, a small opportunity may still exist.
That little shoot did not solve my problems. But it changed the way I looked at them.
I began to observe nature more closely. It gave me a peace I had not been able to find within myself. I decided to travel alone on my scooter from Hyderabad to Sri Kalahasti, a four-day journey through rain, forests, temples and unfamiliar roads.
The journey was beautiful, but not always comfortable. Travelling alone brought loneliness and fear.
Near a dam, the spray felt like mist on my face. Dark clouds covered the sky, black hills stood around me, and in that forest the water and the clouds seemed to merge into one. It was beautiful, but it was frightening. Because of my fear of water, I felt it even more. There was not a single person in sight.
A small bridge lay ahead, with water flowing over the road. I could not swim. One slip, and my scooter would have gone into the water.
At that time in my life, I did not want to go on living. Yet standing there, I felt I had to cross it. So I did.
When I returned to Hyderabad, I felt ready to begin again.
At Triveni Sangamam, where three rivers meet, I had performed a ritual for my deceased parents. I am a Christian, and even today I cannot fully explain why I felt moved to do it. I only know that in that moment, I wanted to express something words could not.
My problems had not disappeared. My responsibilities remained, and so did the trust my friends had placed in me. But my perspective had changed. I no longer expected life to become easy before I took the next step. I decided to start wherever an opportunity came.
A few days later, a friend contacted me about a school development project, knowing I had always been interested in education. It did not develop as expected, but it became another step toward the path I would explore next.
Looking back, I understand that nature did not give me all the answers. It gave me the space to breathe, observe and think again.
Sometimes life pulls us into a deep cut even when we are trying our best to move forward. We may lose relationships, people we love, financial stability and the direction we once believed in. We cannot always control when these things happen.
But we can still look for the small signs that remind us to continue.
For me, that sign was a tiny shoot growing from a nearly dried plant.
Nature taught me that life can be fragile, yet full of possibilities. It gave me peace when my mind was restless, hope when I felt lost, and a deeper respect for the life I still had.
I Wanted to Change the Way Children Experienced Education
Education: Beyond Textbooks
“A student written off by others may only be waiting for someone to believe in them.”
My interest in education was never only about teaching subjects or helping students score marks. I was drawn to school management, and to how an institution could make a real difference in a child’s life.
I often thought about the struggles of my own childhood. I did not want other children to go through the same things without someone understanding them. I believed education should help children discover their abilities, build confidence and learn to face life, not simply prepare them for examinations.
For me, education was not about completing a syllabus. It was about understanding a child.
I wanted students to learn out of interest, not out of fear of punishment or failure. I believed teachers and school management should try to understand why a student was losing interest or struggling, instead of blaming the child at once. I also believed parents needed guidance, because children are often judged without their strengths and circumstances being understood. I wanted schools and parents to talk, so that both could work toward the child’s growth.
My vision was simple: education should prepare children not only for exams, but for life.
Starting from the Ground Level
After COVID, I deliberately looked for schools that were struggling. Instead of searching for a successful institution, I wanted to understand why a school was in difficulty, where the problems began and what could be done. I wanted to work from the ground level, find practical solutions and help an institution stand on its feet again.
I got that opportunity. With sincere effort and a different approach, I contributed to the school’s recovery. Seeing an institution improve gave me deep satisfaction, because I felt my work was making a difference.
But as time passed, internal differences and management challenges made it hard to continue the way I believed was right. Recognition did not always reach the people who had done the work, and eventually I left.
It was disappointing. But it taught me the difference between doing meaningful work and being recognised for it. I still believed in my approach, and I did not want to change my principles just to win appreciation or protect my position.
A Classroom Called a Lost Cause
Later, I joined an intermediate college. I had limited experience with students of that age, and I knew guiding them would need a different approach. I was expected to guide students, though admissions were also an important concern for the institution. But I wanted to do more than bring students in. I wanted to help them understand why education mattered and give them a reason to believe in themselves.
I took charge of an MEC batch of 27 students. The batch had a poor academic reputation, and usually only three or four students would pass. Some people had already decided what those students could achieve.
I did not want to accept that judgment as their final identity.
Instead of treating them as weak students, I tried to understand how they learned and what was holding them back. I used motivational sessions, regular monitoring, simple study methods and focused exam preparation. I encouraged them to speak and ask questions instead of staying silent out of fear.
In the classroom, I spent as much time on life as I did on books. I shared other people’s experiences and talked about how to make decisions, how to build emotional intelligence, how to stay stable in any situation, and how to handle anger instead of reacting to it. I believed that once students felt how important and serious life is, they would naturally begin to see studies as important too. Instead of telling them directly to study, I showed them what life asks of us, and their interest in studies grew on its own.
Of those 27 students, 22 passed. My students gave me a name: the “Life Teacher.”
The next year, I was given a CEC batch of more than 200 students. With the same approach, that batch achieved the highest pass percentage and the highest marks in the college.
But for me, the real achievement was not the title or the numbers. It was seeing students who had been written off begin to rise.
I did everything I could in that college. But I wanted to do more, and I felt a pull to build something of my own. The salary there was also not enough to support the research I wanted to do. That was the only reason I moved on.
The Richness That Money Cannot Buy
The love and affection a student gives a teacher is a beautiful feeling. It brings a different kind of pride and satisfaction to life.
I still remember the first time a student came up to me and asked to take a picture with me. That moment was priceless. It made me pause and wonder: from where I started to where I am today, how did I earn this kind of love and respect?
Financially, I may not feel rich, but moments like these make me feel wealthy in another way. Money can buy many things, but the genuine affection and respect we earn from people cannot simply be bought.
Perhaps I am not rich in money, but I am rich in moments that money can never buy.
When the Same Pattern Repeated
Later, I met a different situation. Some institutions approached me for motivation classes and for caring about their students. But slowly the real expectation would show itself: they wanted me to bring in admissions.
That was against my policy. I believe admissions should come from the growth of the students, from the way school management and academic heads work with them. It should never be the job of a third party to bring admissions.
I could not control the decisions of the institutions I worked with. What I could control was the sincerity, effort and values I brought to my work. And I chose to stay true to my policy, even when it meant I could not continue.
I do not want to judge any person or institution by these experiences. Every organisation has its own circumstances and challenges. But they made me ask whether I could keep working in the education system without compromising the principles that mattered to me.
The Responsibility I Could Not Ignore
For me, education was never just a job or a salary. It was a responsibility toward students whose confidence, opportunities and future can be shaped by the environment around them. I wanted schools to recognise that a student who struggles academically is not a student without potential.
But I also had to face a hard truth: good intentions alone cannot overcome every organisational problem. To keep contributing, I needed an environment where I could work by my beliefs and also build a stable life.
Eventually, I felt I could no longer survive in the education system the way I had hoped. The same challenges kept returning, and I could not see a sustainable way to continue without moving away from my approach.
But leaving education was not the same as losing my belief in it.
I still believe children deserve to be understood before they are judged, encouraged before they give up, and prepared for life, not only for exams. My journey taught me that a student’s direction can change when someone gives them the right guidance and a chance to believe in themselves. It also taught me that making a difference needs more than passion. It needs the right environment, mutual understanding and the ability to sustain the work.
I entered education hoping to change the lives of students. I left with a deeper understanding of their potential, and of the challenges faced by those who try to support them.
I may have stepped away from the education system, but I never stopped believing in its purpose: to help people discover who they can become.
“Loveroot was not simply an idea for a business. It was an attempt to bring my interest in people’s well-being into practical life.”
My journey toward Loveroot Wellness did not begin with a business plan. It began with a case study of children at a pre-primary school.
While working in education, I was interested in understanding children beyond their academic performance. I wanted to observe their behaviour, their development, and the things that shaped their everyday lives. That interest led me to look more closely at the children and the challenges they faced.
The case study became the starting point of a deeper journey of observation and learning. It encouraged me to look beyond what was immediately visible, and to ask questions about the factors that influence a person’s well-being.
Over time, my experiences, my mother’s suffering and my growing interest in food and health began to connect in my mind. I started looking for a way to turn what I was learning into something useful in people’s everyday lives.
That search slowly led me toward natural food, product quality, transparency and health awareness, and eventually toward Loveroot Wellness.
For me, Loveroot was not simply an idea for a business. It was an attempt to bring my interest in people’s well-being into practical life.
But the real story begins with that first case study: what I observed in those children, what questions it raised in my mind, and how it changed the direction of my thinking.
Somewhere along the way, many of us started treating everything in life like a transaction.
Relationships became about benefits. Friendships became about expectations. Marriage became about convenience. Even emotions, trust and human values began to be measured by what we could gain in return.
Money is important for survival. But when everything becomes about money, we slowly lose the quality of our relationships, our work and even our lives.
Perhaps this is one reason we keep suffering from the same problems. We recognise the damage, yet we return to the same cycle of giving and taking.
Not everything needs to make a profit. Not every relationship needs to offer an advantage. Some things deserve to exist because they bring love, meaning, peace and value to our lives.
A business loses quality when profit matters more than the product. A relationship loses quality when benefit matters more than the person. A life loses its meaning when earning matters more than living.
We should earn to live, not live to earn.
Life is not only about what we receive from others, or what we gain from every experience. It is about what we learn, how we grow, how we care, and how we transform along the way.
My destination
My goal is simple: to offer natural products for a healthy life. Loveroot is my destination.
I do not want to chase profit at the cost of quality. If I work with sincerity, the benefits will follow. I cannot force them.