For fourteen years, I have stood in front of students — in classrooms in Modasa, in early morning doubt sessions, in WhatsApp groups that never quite sleep — and explained things. Science. Mathematics. How to think. Why to persist. I have watched a student’s face change in the moment something clicks. That moment, I believe, is one of the most sacred things a human being can witness.
And yet, for all those years, I never wrote a single word meant for the world to read.
The reason was simple: I didn’t think I had anything original to say. The IITs had their professors. The internet had its gurus. What could a teacher from a small town in North Gujarat add to that ocean?
“The lamp that sits in a corner still lights the room. It does not need to know about the sun.”
I kept returning to the Bhagavad Gita — as I do most mornings — and I kept finding the same uncomfortable mirror. Arjuna’s paralysis on the battlefield was not about war. It was about the fear of acting when the outcome is uncertain. I recognized myself in it completely.
कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन।
मा कर्मफलहेतुर्भूर्मा ते सङ्गोऽस्त्वकर्मणि॥You have the right to perform your duty, but never to the fruits of action. Let not the results be your motive, nor let there be attachment to inaction. — Bhagavad Gita 2.47
The Gita does not say: act only when you are sure the world will applaud. It says: act because it is your dharma to act. Writing — sharing what I have learned from classrooms, from markets, from failure, from the ancient texts I carry with me — is, I now understand, part of my dharma.
So this blog is not a performance. It is not an attempt to become someone. It is, simply, a place where I will think out loud. About teaching. About building something in a Tier-3 city when the world tells you that real things only happen in Tier-1 ones. About what the equity markets have taught me about patience. About how a single shloka, read slowly, can reorganize your entire morning.
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I teach over five hundred students today. Many of them come from families where no one has gone to an IIT or an IIM. Some of them will. But more importantly — I hope all of them will learn to think. To question. To keep going when results feel distant.
If this blog serves anyone, I hope it serves them. And I hope it serves you — whoever you are, wherever you are reading this — in some small way.
I do not know how often I will write. I do not know whether anyone will read. But I have finally understood that neither of those things is the point.
The point is to begin.
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