Chapter 1 — My Introduction to Life

To everyone who read my first piece and gave me a second look — thank you so much. And to everyone who is new here — welcome to my journey of failures and learning.

In the last three decades, the most important thing I've learned is this: when you fail, you don't always need advice. Sometimes you just need to know that it's okay — and that you are not alone.

My journey started in the summer of 1990, in a small town in India called Mathura. My parents lived in Agra, about 40 miles away from my new home — or what I'd now call my Theater of Purpose — my boarding school.

The day I left for boarding, I was genuinely excited. I thought I'd finally get away from the routine. I'd have my own space — and more importantly, the power to make my own decisions. If you connect that to today's context, it's not very different from what teenagers feel and talk about openly now. But for me, there was one emotion quietly hiding behind all those big thoughts — and that was excitement. Pure, naive excitement. I had no idea how the human brain plays tricks on you, especially when you don't yet know how to decode it.

When I arrived at school, there were so many people. Some kids were crying, clinging to their parents. Some were putting on a tough face. Some had come together with friends from their hometown. And then there was me — just soaking everything in, feeling completely in control.

But like any honest life lesson, that feeling didn't last long. It flew away as the night began to approach.

For the first time in my life, everything was a competition. Filling your water bottle. Getting to your bed in the dorm. Keeping your things to yourself. And worst of all — getting dinner. I mean, I had never had to get my own dinner. My mother or grandmother always did it for me. They were perfectly happy to feed me while I was busy doing nothing. They'd cook something different just because I didn't like how a dish looked. And now, here I was — running, pushing through a crowd ranging from 10-year-olds to 16-year-olds, just to eat.

This brings me to the very first incident I remember — my first real encounter with something that looked, felt, and stung like failure.

On day one, all of us made our way to the canteen for dinner. Some older kids were helping serve. And there I was — sitting with an attitude, in my own little world, waiting for my plate to arrive as though it was my birthright. When the food came, a thousand questions exploded in my head. Do I even like any of this? Why is the roti so cold — and where's the ghee? Is there no dessert? Why isn't there a water glass on the table? No juice box?

Just then, one of the older kids came and added a spoonful of ghee to my food — without asking. And somehow, that made it worse. I love ghee. But it was the how that got to me. Nobody asked. Nobody checked. Nobody cared what I preferred.

My reaction was immediate. I got up, walked away from the table — exactly like I used to do at home — and waited. Fully expecting someone to come after me. To call my name. To fix things. To make me feel seen.

Nobody came.

Not one person looked at me. Not even to fuel my indignation. Within seconds, another kid spotted the empty seat and sat right down. Life moved on without even noticing I'd left.

I sat outside, glancing sideways, waiting for someone — anyone — to notice.

Now, from the outside, this wasn't really a failure. It was just a 10-year-old adjusting to a new reality, bumping up against the difference between expectation and life. But for that boy, in that moment, it felt like a question of life and death. A profound disrespect — even though he didn't quite have the word for it yet.

What he didn't know was that the whole scene was being watched.

In the corner of the canteen sat the warden — a man of about 70, calm and unhurried, the kind of person who had probably watched this exact emotional circus play out on every first day for decades. He waited. Then he calmly walked over and sat beside me.

In a quiet, measured voice he asked what happened. And like any self-respecting 10-year-old, I unloaded — blaming everything and everyone. The food. The ghee. The chaos. The indifference.

He listened. Then he looked at me and said:

"Today is the first day of your boarding life, and so I understand that you have a lot to learn. That is why I am sitting here, asking you to come back and eat. If you don't want to — you may go back to bed."

That was it. No lecture. No sympathy. No negotiation.

And I'll tell you — I didn't need much convincing. I walked straight back to the canteen and ate whatever was on that plate.

What a 10-year-old boy quietly understood that evening — not fully, not in words, but somewhere deep inside — was this:

No one is obligated to please you. What puts you in uncomfortable situations is your expectations. And what brings you out of them is acceptance.

That doesn't mean expectations are bad. It means: give before you expect.

The journey continues — with many more lessons, many more failures, and a slow unfolding of how the patterns I started building that night led to even bigger stumbles down the road.

Stay tuned.