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 Copyright © Aditya Sharma, 2025

Aditya Sharma has asserted his right under the Indian Copyright Act
to be identi ed as the Author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or any information storage or
retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the
publishers
This book is solely the responsibility of the author
The author and editor regret any inconvenience caused.

Designed and Edited by [email protected]

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This book is dedicated to my mother, who planted
these lessons in me, and to Oindrila Ma’am,
whose encouragement inspired me to bring them
together. I hope these pages help you stand tall
through every up and down—and remind you to
live fully, with courage, gratitude, and grace.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A graduate of VIT Vellore with distinction, the author

completed a capstone on soil mechanics and its
applications in earthquake engineering. He has
appeared in three UPSC Civil Services Interviews,
taught at multiple civil services institutes, and later
founded Karmayogi IAS, a learner- rst academy with a
community of 100,000+ students across Telegram,
YouTube, and Instagram. He has personally coached
50+ civil servants, including several in the top 100
ranks.

An avid reader and motivational blog writer, he

distills lessons on resilience, purpose, and service into
practical guidance for aspirants—principles that shape
both his classrooms and this book.
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 CHAPTERS

1. From Cursed to Blessed: A Journey of Transformation

2. The Most Beautiful Things Are Free
3. The Biggest Inspiration of My Life
4. Some Days Shape Who You Truly Are
5. The Journey Matters More Than the Size of the Achievement
6. The Biggest Lesson Life Taught Me: Hard Work Wins
7. The Hidden Cost of Growth: A Lesson from Delhi & Civil
Services
8. Son, I Am Proud of You
9. Slow Growth Is Strong Growth
10. The Secret to True Success: Beyond Business Schools to Inner
Peace
11. Two Lessons My Mother Whispered for Life
12. When Grief Walks In, and Strength Walks With It
13. Fathers Are the Biggest Superheroes
14. A Mother’s Wisdom
15. The Real Alpha Male
16. “Bana hua Shah Rukh Khan sabko pasand hai, banta hua kisi
ko nahi.”
17. Validation Is a Poison
18. There Is Always a New Beginning
19. When Strength Becomes Weakness: A Lesson in Humility
20. Failures and Success Arrive When You Least Expect Them
21. Four People Stood Together, Yet None Were Happy
22. Be Proud of Your Own Story
23. The Best Things in Life Are Built on Truth
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24. Your Peace Matters More Than Their Opinions
25. “The exam is a war of mind, not just books.”
26. Maybe
27. We Always Have a Choice
28. Live So You’re Remembered Right
29. The Glass, the Wind, and the Wisdom
30. Unlearning the Chains

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1.
From Cursed to Blessed: A
Journey of Transformation
For the first twenty-three years of my life, I complained. I wore
self-pity like a second skin and called it bad luck. Whenever
something slipped through my fingers, I took it as proof: my life
was cursed.
Then, one ordinary journey untied that knot.
I had just appeared for my first Civil Services (CSE) interview and
was travelling through Tamil Nadu to meet a professor about
admission to a university in the United States. After the meeting, I
reached the platform for a train to Chennai and ran into a
batchmate—Giri Dharan. He was headed the same way. We found
seats across from each other, the carriage filling with the usual
music of vendors and announcements. Somewhere between two
stations, he told me about his foundation, Third Hand—a small,
stubborn effort serving the homeless and the elderly who had been
beaten, abandoned, or simply forgotten by their own families.
I listened, then fell quiet. There are some truths you don’t argue
with; you just carry them for a while.
“Come with me tomorrow morning,” Giri said. “When is your
flight?”
“Tomorrow evening,” I replied.
“Good. Come before you go.”

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I went.
At first light we stepped into narrow lanes where the day wakes
slowly: a kettle boiling, a door creaking open, the shuffle of tired
feet. What I saw pressed something tender in me. Old men who
could no longer see well enough to thread a needle; women whose
legs trembled under the weight of years; clothes ripped thin by
time. Some were crying softly. When Giri offered a shawl, a packet
of medicine, a few clean clothes, they folded their hands as if he
were a deity. That simple gesture shook me. Tears came without
permission. I felt suddenly, fiercely grateful for things I had never
noticed—a strong back, a hot meal, a door with my name behind it.
In that moment, a sentence formed inside me, quiet but firm:
What I thought was my right was the luxury of many.
By the time we walked back, my plans for America felt different—
like a suit that no longer fit my shoulders. I cancelled the idea. I
didn’t make a speech about it; I just knew the road had turned. The
scene of that morning would not leave me: two hands raised in
thanks for a thin blanket, eyes bright over a steel tumbler of tea,
the relief of being seen.
I joined Third Hand in the small ways I could—time, money,
presence. It wasn’t grand. It was honest. And it gave me something
I had been chasing in all the wrong places: strength. From that day
on, whenever I met a setback, I returned to those lanes in my mind.
The memory steadied me more than any success I had claimed
before.
Looking back, I realise the transformation wasn’t sudden. It was an
accumulation—the way water, drop by drop, wears new paths into
stone. I began the habit of gratitude, beginning each morning with
a quiet prayer to Lord Hanuman, thanking him for the thousand
ordinary blessings I had once ignored. The world hadn’t changed. I
had. The same life, seen with a different heart, became a blessing.

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If my early years taught me how loud a curse can sound inside
your own head, that morning taught me how powerfully a single
act of service can answer it. The years that followed were still
hard; nothing dramatic fell from the sky. But I was no longer
running from difficulty. I was walking toward purpose.
This is where my journey truly began—not with a result, not with a
medal, but with two folded hands, a borrowed shawl, and the
knowledge that I had more to give than I had ever allowed myself
to believe.

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2.
The Most Beautiful Things
Are Free
As a child, I thought beauty came with a price tag. A new watch, a
shiny pair of shoes—surely joy lived inside the box. It did—until
the thrill wore off. Then the want returned, a little louder each
time.
Exams changed my hours. I was a night owl forced into mornings.
One day, half-awake, I stepped out just as the first light broke. The
sky blushed, quietly. No receipt, no discount code—just grace.
Unlike things I bought, its beauty never faded the next week or the
week after.
On other nights, the terrace became my window to the moon. I
watched it wax and wane, becoming itself again and again. When it
hid, the sky felt incomplete—like a mountain without a river.
When it returned, it brought a calm only the patient know.
Once, during an evening walk, two street puppies tumbled across
my path—tiny bodies, oversized courage, eyes full of innocence.
They didn’t own anything. They didn’t need to. Their play was a
prayer I understood without words. I stood there longer than I
planned, lighter than when I came.
Slowly, the lesson arrived. Some joys are immediate and noisy;
others are quiet and durable. The quiet ones require no purchase—
only attention. Dawn, the moon, a passing breeze, a kind word, a
shared silence: none of them cost a coin, all of them change a day.
I began to see how I had been pricing my life wrong. I was paying
for excitement and overlooking value. When I started counting
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sunrises instead of sales, I felt rich in a way money could not
measure.
In time, it became a simple truth I could say without ceremony:
The best things in life are free. The second-best are very, very
expensive.

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3.
The Biggest Inspiration of
My Life
When I think of courage, I see my maternal grandfather—my
Nana ji. His life began with loss. Five days after his birth, his
father passed away. His mother, stunned by grief, slipped into a
long silence. Relatives seized the family’s ancestral land, harassing
a young widow who had no one to defend her. A mother is still a
mother, though; she began working in other people’s homes so her
son could eat.
He, meanwhile, wanted to study.
At seven, he found work binding books. The payment was small,
but the permission was priceless: he could read. Every stitched
spine became a doorway. He made books his best friend—a
friendship that never left his side.
In 1958, he topped the entire district in Class 10. Only one student
in the district earned a distinction in English—that student was
him. After school, he took a job as an accountant in a
moneylender’s office. With that income he told his mother to stop
doing helper’s work. He kept studying—topped Class 12, then
graduation—and kept climbing, step by step, until he became
Chief General Manager at the Head Office of Punjab National
Bank.
Success never narrowed his heart. He joined the Ramakrishna
Mission, serving quietly where service was needed. Before leaving
this world, he donated all his savings and property to build
computer labs in ten villages and to establish a home for widows
—a place where 250 women could live with dignity.
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He shared his name—and some of his virtues—with India’s first
President: simplicity, integrity, and a life anchored in service.
His story taught me what wealth truly is. It is not land you inherit
or titles you collect. It is the habit of learning and the duty to lift
others. Because of him, I too made books my best friend—and I
carry his example like a lamp, lighting the road ahead.

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4.
Some Days Shape Who You
Truly Are
CSE Mains, 2019. I had just finished GS-1 and GS-2, eaten
quickly, and sat down to rest. A sharp ache began in my abdomen.
It grew, minute by minute, into something I had never known—
pain that bent breath and thought. My parents watched, helpless;
my mother in tears, my father asking softly, “How will you write
tomorrow?”
“I will go,” I said.
Night offered no sleep. Two paracetamols did nothing. By
morning, resolve was all I had left. My father tried again—life is
bigger than an exam—but some decisions are quiet and final. I
took two more painkillers and walked into the hall.
As I wrote, tears ran without drama. The invigilator came over and
whispered, “Please leave the exam.” I kept my head down and kept
writing.
GS-3 was a blur. The Ethics paper was worse. I leaned hard on the
desk, willing my hand to move when the body would not. When
the bell rang, I went straight to the hospital and was admitted. Tests
followed; the diagnosis came: a multi-drug-resistant intestinal
infection.
My mother was bedridden then, so I had been eating outside during
the exams. Perhaps that is where it began. I spent three days in the
hospital. There was no revision for my optional. Still, somehow, I
showed up for the paper.

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The results arrived. I had cleared Mains—but missed the final list.
I scored 71 in GS-3, the paper written almost entirely on
willpower.
People often ask what that felt like. Disappointing, yes—but also
defining. That week taught me something no classroom could: that
I could walk through pain and still choose the work. A small flame
was lit in that hall, and it has not gone out since.
Some days you measure yourself against a mark. Some days you
meet the person you are becoming. This was the latter.

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5.
The Journey Matters More
Than the Size of the
Achievement
I grew up in a single rented room where three families shared one
toilet. No kitchen. No space. My mother left early and returned
late, working through migraines that dimmed the light in her eyes
but not her will. My elder brother went to school; I waited for
evenings. We had one luxury—a small TV. On DD National,
Chamatkar, Baadshah, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai stitched a little
window into a bigger world.
Life moved. From that tiny room to our own house. From there to
a flat that felt almost unreal. But the distance between those walls
taught me something the walls themselves could not: happiness
lives in small moments. I remember my mother pausing outside a
restaurant we could never afford, looking a second longer than
usual. Years later, I took her there. It wasn’t the food; it was the
circle closing.
I work the way I do because I watched my father search for work.
When life opens a door, you don’t walk through it—you run. As a
child, Shah Rukh Khan’s films were an escape and, in a quiet way,
a lesson in momentum. One day in Delhi, I saw him shooting for
Main Hoon Na. He spoke about something his mother told him:
“Jitni chadar hai utne pair failao is wrong. Chadar badi karo aur
pair failao.” Don’t shrink your dreams to fit the blanket; make the
blanket bigger. It landed inside me and stayed. Funny thing—my

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first rented house stood not far from where he once studied.
Perhaps that’s why he still feels woven into my childhood.
Over time I learned to measure achievement differently. Becoming
a billionaire when your father is a millionaire is arithmetic. But
when the son of a daily-wage worker becomes a clerk—that is a
revolution in one household. The journey is the story; the title is
just the last line.
If there is a rule I trust now, it is this: hold on to the small joys,
keep widening the blanket, and never forget where the road began.

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6.
The Biggest Lesson Life
Taught Me: Hard Work
Wins
All through school, until Class 12, I coasted. A sharp memory
carried me through quizzes and Olympiads. I did little and still
stood out. Somewhere inside, I decided hard work was for others.
Life corrected me.
JEE was the first crack. Chemistry didn’t care for cleverness; it
demanded effort. I hadn’t put it in—and I paid the price. For the
first time, I met the truth without excuses: talent can open a door,
but only hard work keeps you in the room.
College made that lesson louder. I struggled. I wasn’t used to
pushing myself; the old shortcuts didn’t work. Some days I felt
broken. That’s when a quiet decision formed: I will not let a day
pass without learning something.
Twelve years have gone by. The rule stayed. Hospital bed, train
berth, late night—still a page read, a note written, a small
improvement made. Five quiet minutes done daily beat one loud
plan done never. Consistency over intensity.
Slowly, everything changed.

My notes for students got sharper each year.

My YouTube videos gained clarity, then confidence.

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The difference between my first video and now is visible—because
the work behind it is.
The biggest shift wasn’t in output; it was in ownership. I stopped
blaming luck. When something went wrong, I asked, What can I
do better? Then I did it—again tomorrow, and the day after.
If there’s one thing I can offer you, it’s this:

Take charge. Do the work. Learn every day, even a little.

Results will come when they’re ready. But you will change right
away—stronger, steadier, surer of yourself.
Hard work wins. Not because it makes life easy, but because it
makes you equal to life.

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7.
The Hidden Cost of Growth:
A Lesson from Delhi & Civil
Services
I grew up in a Delhi of clear mornings and quiet roads. Kamla
Nagar, Defence Colony, Model Town—modern comforts with a
familiar soul. Two decades later, the city’s GDP has tripled, but the
air stings, drains drown the roads, and the old calm feels like a
rumor. We grew, yes—but at a cost too high for breath to pay. Was
it worth it? No.
Ambition can make a person repeat a city’s mistake.
I’ve seen it up close. A young IRS officer with a spine that
wouldn’t let him sit. An IAS friend living on anxiety meds, asleep
only when the pills say so. Civil services don’t fix life; they
rearrange its pressures. After the first applause come files, fires,
politics, and the kind of fatigue that clings to your bones.
Appreciation is rare. The stress is not.
If you spend health to buy success, your 30s will feel like your 50s;
your 40s like your 60s. You will live—but not fully.
Grow, but don’t outgrow yourself. Let the result arrive on the
strength of a body that sleeps, a mind that breathes, a schedule with
room for sunlight and silence. The work will still be there
tomorrow; make sure you are, too.
What I learned:
• Build without breaking.
• Win without withering.
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• Do your duty, but keep your body.
Let success come—but not at the cost of your body and mind.
Health is non-negotiable.

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8.
Son, I Am Proud of You
In a middle-class home, a boy often grows up chasing one
sentence: “Son, I am proud of you.” I did too. When I began
preparing for the civil services, that dream wasn’t mine alone—it
carried the weight of my father’s unfinished story.
Years earlier, my father had wanted the same road. The times were
different—early marriages, strict family rules, duty before desire.
My grandfather allowed him two years to prepare. He worked
hard, held his hopes tight—and then fate struck.
A bus he was travelling in plunged off a forty-foot bridge into a
river. Everyone died—except him. He survived, but six months in
bed ended his preparation. Soon after, he married and took the first
government job he could find. Dholpur House slipped out of reach,
but the dream did not die. It moved into me.
“Just enter Dholpur House,” he told me once. “That’s all I want.”

I reached there sooner than either of us expected—twenty-three

and a half, second attempt. Outside the gates, he hugged me and
said, “Son, you’ve made me proud. You fulfilled what I couldn’t.
Whatever happens now, I am content.”
I went on to enter Dholpur House three times. Each time, I carried
his voice with me.
My father loved to tell the story of his cricketing idol, Vinoo
Mankad—the man who helped script India’s first Test win, was
dropped unfairly, then returned to bowl more than seventy overs,

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take five wickets, and score a century in the same match.
Resilience not as a line in a speech, but as a way of living.
That is what I learned from him: when life knocks you down, you
rise—again and again, until standing becomes your nature. The
hug outside Dholpur House, the pride in his eyes, the quiet finished
sentence—“Son, I am proud of you”—are etched in me forever.

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9.
Slow Growth Is Strong Growth
There are seasons when you’re giving your best and still feel
success slipping through your fingers. Others seem to sprint ahead
on half the effort. It stings. You wonder if you’re falling behind.
Slow growth answers softly: I’m building what lasts. It lays roots
—resilience, steadiness, grace.
I’ve seen both roads up close. Some friends cleared the civil
services on their first attempt and basked in quick glory. One now
faces a heavy departmental inquiry. Another spiralled into
depression when the applause faded. Meanwhile, those who made
it on the fifth—or last—attempt wore success lightly. They didn’t
shout. When life threw transfers, criticism, or fresh failures, they
stood their ground with quiet strength.
Think of Hrishikesh Mukherjee. Early on, people called his films
“too ordinary.” He kept going, step by step, and became the master
of middle cinema. Gol Maal spoke to unemployment without
noise; Anand held the fragile emotions of terminal illness with
dignity. These weren’t trends. They were truths. And truths endure.
Slow growth teaches you to endure, adapt, and shine when it
counts. It makes you the kind of person success can safely sit on.
Don’t fear growing slowly; fear standing still.

Your journey is your timing. Trust the process. Keep moving.

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10.
The Secret to True Success:
Beyond Business Schools to
Inner Peace
When Mark Zuckerberg once asked Steve Jobs for advice, Jobs
didn’t say “enrol in a program.” He said: go to an ashram in
India. Why? Because some things a classroom can’t teach—quiet,
clarity, and a mind that obeys you.
The Bhagavad Gita calls it sthitaprajña—steadiness of mind. A
calm mind sharpens intellect; a restless mind blurs it. You can be
gifted, trained, even brilliant—but if the mind is agitated, judgment
wobbles and action suffers. Business schools teach models; the
Gita teaches mastery of the mind.
There is another secret the Gita repeats: abundance is a mindset,
not a bank balance.

If you live from deprivation—I don’t have enough; I am not

enough—you drift into boredom, frustration, and envy. Live from
gratitude—I already have something to give—and energy returns.
Even Sudama, poor in coins, was rich in heart. The richest can feel
deprived; the simplest can feel full.
Then comes dharma—your right work. Identify what you love
enough to serve beyond yourself.

Don Bradman played for the love of the craft, not headlines. Ustad
Bismillah Khan offered music like prayer. Einstein gave his life to
the beauty of truth. When the work is larger than ego, selfless
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action follows naturally. Eric Liddell ran not for applause, but
because “God made me fast.” The medal became a by-product.
Finally, the Gita’s most practical line: you control action, not
outcome. Do the work with full sincerity; release the result. This is
karma yoga. This is the true sannyasi—not one who escapes the
world, but one who is independent of the fruit of action while
standing in the middle of life.
What I carry from it all
• Quiet the mind; clarity will do the rest.
• Choose gratitude over scarcity; it fuels creativity.
• Find work you can love beyond yourself; serve it fully.
• Act with discipline; detach from results.
Success then stops being a chase and becomes a state—a calm,
steady excellence that no exam, market, or opinion can shake.

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11.
Two Lessons My Mother
Whispered for Life
In the quiet of many evenings, my mother would sit beside me and
say things I didn’t fully understand. The words waited—then grew
with me.
Lesson One: Be proud of how you carry yourself.

“Never be proud of your marks, money, or status,” she’d say. “Be

proud only of how you carry yourself. That is self-respect.”

I learned the difference later. Pride makes you loud; self-respect

makes you steady.

“God has given everyone dignity. If someone tries to take yours,”

she added, “don’t argue. Walk away. Don’t meet them. Don’t greet
them. Forget them.”

Her silence was not surrender—it was strength.

Lesson Two: Bring warmth, not wounds.

“When you meet people, don’t burden them with your sorrows,”
she told me. “Everyone carries their own. If all you do is pour out
problems, you’re not meeting them—you’re unloading on them.”

A conversation, she believed, should leave both hearts lighter.

I began to measure days not by applause but by composure; not by
how much I spoke, but by how gently I left the room. When faced
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with disrespect, I chose distance over noise. When faced with a
friend, I brought presence, not weight.
Her refrain remains my compass:

Respect yourself, and others will learn to respect you.

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12.
When Grief Walks In, and
Strength Walks With It
I was narrating a story of resilience when a message arrived that
stopped me mid-sentence:

“Sir, I’ve lost my father. My exam is in five days.”

My hands trembled. Words felt small. Before I could reach for
comfort, she reached for courage.
Five days later, she walked into the exam hall—steady on the
outside, carrying an absence on the inside that no one could see.
She wrote because that is what resolve does: it keeps moving when
the world wants to freeze.
Then life tested her again. Within months, her mother was gone
too. A house turned into echoes. Grief filled the rooms. She did not
surrender.
She prepared, showed up, and sat for one of the toughest
interviews in the country.

She cleared it. IIM Ahmedabad opened its gates.

What most will never see is what she did quietly while others
studied: answering doubts at odd hours, structuring sessions,
holding the thread of learning when it frayed, standing behind the
mission when the rest of us were tired. If the words “CSAT Nahin
Rukega” ring with certainty today, it’s not only because I said
them—it’s because Oindrila Ganguly Ma’am lived them.

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She is not just a name. She is a lesson.

That even with a heart in pieces, you can still be the reason
someone else keeps going.

And that, to me, is the purest form of strength.

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13.
Fathers Are the Biggest
Superheroes
We write endlessly about mothers—poems, shayari, tributes to her
love. Fathers rarely receive the same praise. Yet their love is no
smaller; it is simply quieter.
When festivals arrive, he buys new clothes, gifts, sweets—for
everyone else first. His own wishes stand at the end of the line. He
spends on our education without blinking—selling land if needed,
taking loans if that’s what it takes. He wants our life to be larger
than his.
He also carries the hard duty of shaping discipline and morality. To
do that, he is sometimes firm. How difficult it must be to be strict
with the person you love most. How heavy it must feel to hide
emotion when your heart is overflowing.
I remember my father during my Mains—five rainy, humid days. I
told him I would manage. He stayed anyway, waiting outside,
soaked and stubborn. His love spoke in actions, not in speeches.
If there is one person who absorbs pain, hurdles, and sorrow so you
can stand taller—and still wants nothing but your success—it is a
father.
He may not wear a cape. But he is, quietly and completely, a
superhero.

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14.
A Mother’s Wisdom
Growing up, my mother was my quiet North Star. In a time that
was unkind to educated, working women, she finished her
graduation, cleared a government job—and then chose us. She set
her own dreams aside so ours could stand upright. What she never
surrendered was her hunger to learn.
Our home was a small library disguised as a living room.
Newspapers and magazines piled up—recipes beside business, art
beside science. She would sit with them for hours, turning pages
with the same attentiveness others reserve for prayer. Discovery
and BBC Earth filled our evenings with the Serengeti and Saturn’s
rings. Even when illness left her bedridden, her curiosity refused to
lie down. She learned voice search, browsed e-commerce with
ease, and made me teach her every new gadget as if it were a new
word in a language she loved.
One afternoon during the Delhi elections, a journalist dropped by.
He asked sharp, political questions, expecting simple replies. My
mother’s answers—precise, nuanced, unhurried—stopped him
cold. He couldn’t believe she was a homemaker. I could. I had
watched that mind gather the world, piece by piece, without
leaving the house.
We underestimate homemakers because we mistake quiet for
emptiness. But some of the deepest wells make the least noise.
Millions of women like her gave up professional ambitions so their
children could dream beyond the ceiling of their time. The

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victories of today’s girls rise on foundations poured by those
uncredited hands—resilience, wisdom, love set like stone.
If I carry any compass from her, it is this: keep learning; wear
dignity even when no one is watching; let curiosity be an act of
courage; and remember that the future is often built by those
whose names never appear on the plaque.

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15.
The Real Alpha Male
These days, the internet is loud with labels—alpha, sigma, lone
wolf. Strength sold as swagger. But on a small street near my
home, I kept noticing a man who never said a word about strength.
He simply showed up.
He was differently-abled, running a tiny pani puri stall. For almost
a year, I never saw the shutter down. Morning heat, evening rush,
rain that turned the road into a mirror—he was there. Calm. Steady.
Present.
One evening I stopped.
He told me his story without drama. His father died when he was
very young. His mother raised three children alone; he was the
eldest. Born with a disability, life asked more of him than of
others. At fourteen or fifteen he became a helper at a pani puri
stall. He saved in stubborn handfuls and, one day, opened his own.
Then he said the line that stayed with me:

“I have only one daughter. She studies in a private school. I

don’t want her to suffer the way I did. Being a father means
giving her a better future.”
That was it. No speeches about grit. No hashtags. Just a vow a man
makes to his child and honours every single day.
I walked away understanding something simple and large: being
progressive isn’t a degree or a designation. It’s a daily choice—to
rise from hardship, to work without complaint, to dream bigger for
the next life after yours.
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We pass such people all the time—shoulders squared against the
weather, hearts set on a child’s tomorrow. If the world needs a
definition of “alpha,” let it be this:
Show up. Shoulder the load. Choose gentleness. Build a future
you may never fully enjoy, but your child will.

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16.
“Bana hua Shah Rukh Khan
sabko pasand hai, banta hua
kisi ko nahi.”
We love the finished product—the polished star on the poster. But
the making is messy. Personalities are forged in struggle: when you
question yourself, strip away excuses, and do the small, stubborn
things that quietly change the situation. That is how improvement
happens—not in leaps, in layers.
We live in a world of trademarks and tags—IIT, IIM, Civil
Services. Yet look around: a school dropout built a company the
world watches; a boy who didn’t clear board milestones became a
legend with a bat; a child who once sold tea rose to the nation’s
highest office. The point isn’t to romanticize hardship; it’s to
remind you that labels are not destinies.
Don’t let other people’s timelines make you feel left behind.
Today I read about Akashdeep—yes, the same young fast bowler
who turned a match on its head. As a teenager, some relatives
called him “awara.” There was little support, many closed doors.
The same boy is now an idol in Sasaram—proof that the world
often laughs at the becoming before it applauds the become.
Remember this:
Jab lage ki sab khatam ho raha hai,

shuruaat wahi se hoti hai, mere dost.

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When it feels like everything is ending, that’s exactly where many
great beginnings start. Keep becoming.

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17.
Validation Is a Poison
The slide is gentle at first.

You wear what gets praise, eat what draws approval, post what
wins likes.

Soon your choices become a mirror of reactions—and when the

applause fades, so does your sense of self. You weren’t living; you
were performing.
Ask yourself: What is my why?

For some, it’s writing.

For others, building something useful from scraps, or playing a

sport until the body learns honesty.

When you chase validation, you don’t just lose originality—you

lose you.
I’ve met thousands of civil services aspirants. Too many study for
the gallery—parents, peers, strangers online—waiting for a rank to
make them feel real. It’s a fragile life: one algorithm change, one
bad paper, and the ground trembles.
Trends tempt all of us. A singer’s audience surges after a high-
profile moment; friends go for the buzz, post the story, call it joy.
Maybe it is, for a minute. But a life built on minutes of approval
cannot hold you for years.

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Pause. Breathe. Is this how you want to live—chained to the next
spike of attention?

Or do you want to live your truth—the work that brings quiet,

durable joy?
What helps
• Name your why in one sentence. Keep it where you can see it.
• Create before you consume. One page, one practice session,
one small build—daily.
• Measure inputs, not applause. Hours trained, pages written,
problems solved.
• Keep some wins private. Not everything needs a post to be real.
• Choose your audience of three. Mentor, peer, friend—people
who tell you the truth, not clap by default.
• Schedule no-post days. Let your nervous system remember who
is in charge.
Applause is dessert, not dinner.

Let the work be the meal.

When no one is watching and you still show up—you’re free.

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18.
There Is Always a New
Beginning
First year of college, I was terrified of stages. A talent hunt was
announced; I kept my head down. My math teacher—someone I
deeply respected—asked, “Why not?” I mumbled something about
not being ready. He said quietly, “If you keep hiding behind fear,
you’ll never unlock your true potential.”
That sentence followed me home. By morning, it had become a
dare to myself. I signed up.
When my name was called, my palms were wet, my throat dry. I
chose an old, forgotten song—safe, simple. The first note
trembled; the second found its footing. Somehow, I reached the last
line. The hall clapped. More importantly, I could finally hear my
own heartbeat without panic.
That small step changed my map. I joined the college music band.
Stage fright didn’t vanish overnight—but it shrank each time I
faced it.
Here’s what I learned: fear stays until you face it. Motion is the
antidote; action is the cure. Don’t wait for courage to arrive—
invite it by stepping forward.
Every beginning is new. Most are small. Start anyway.

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19.
When Strength Becomes
Weakness: A Lesson in
Humility
“Life goes full circle” was just a phrase—until I lived it.
Mathematics was my fortress. Olympiads, state quizzes, full marks
in Class 10—paper after paper, math felt like home. No exam
frightened me when numbers were involved.
College changed the grammar of that comfort. Math became less
about calculation and more about derivation and proof—still
familiar, but different. My interactions with the professor were
uneven; I questioned, suggested, and something in that rhythm
didn’t land well. Around me, everything shifted—Delhi to Tamil
Nadu, new food, climate, language—along with a stubborn bout of
ill health.
Days before the math exam, I was in the hospital. I went in under-
prepared and came out just strong enough to attempt 70–80 marks.
Results were announced while I sat outside my hostel block—
ironically named after Srinivasa Ramanujan. I logged in. Logged
out. Tried again.
I had failed.
The subject that had carried me for years dropped me without
warning. Disbelief. Then a quiet, hollow stillness. Re-evaluation
said I was one mark short. The professor did not reconsider. The
result stood.

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That afternoon reset me. I learned the hardest truth: your greatest
strength can become your greatest weakness if you take it for
granted. Nothing is permanent. Nothing is guaranteed. The only
safe posture is humility—show up, learn, earn it again tomorrow.
Years later, I rebuilt. I worked, and then worked some more, and
scored among the highest in the CAT. But the grade I remember
most is the F. It was my real teacher.
Life humbles you when you least expect it.

Stay grateful. Stay prepared. Keep learning.

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20.
Failures and Success Arrive
When You Least Expect
Them
As a child, my biggest dream was to make the school football
team. On trial day I tried too hard—fancy touches, forced runs,
nerves louder than the whistle. I crumbled and was rejected. At ten,
that felt like the end of the world.
Fifteen days later, the inter-school tournament began. Two players
were injured. I was called in—unexpected selection, unexpected
second chance.
I warmed the bench for two matches. In the third, we trailed 4–0 at
half-time. The coach sent on three attackers, including me. We
played with nothing to lose. 4–1. 4–2. 4–3. In the 88th minute, a
loose ball fell kindly; I struck it clean. 4–4. From a rejected kid to
the one who rescued the match.
What changed? Not my talent. My grip did. I stopped clutching
and started playing. Desperation had made the ball heavier; a
calmer heart made it simple again.
I’ve learned this pattern repeats. The tighter you cling, the faster
things slip. Show up, do the work, keep your palms open—and
success often walks in from a side door.
It happened off the field too. At one of my lowest points, I met one
of the finest people I know—by chance, or maybe by grace. The
right presence, at the right moment, changed my road.

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So I live by this now: trust the plan, do the work. Pray with
humility, prepare with honesty. Failures will surprise you; so will
victories. Both arrive unannounced. Keep moving, and sooner or
later, you will be blessed.

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21.
Four People Stood Together,
Yet None Were Happy
A policeman watched a luxury car glide past and envied the
businessman inside.

Beside him, a poor man polishing the policeman’s shoes wished he

could afford even those shoes.

A daily wager in worn-out slippers longed for a pair like the

polisher’s.

And a man with no feet looked at them all, knowing he could not
wear shoes at all.
The ladder of comparison has no top step. Climb it, and you carry
emptiness with you.
We forget: the deepest poverty is not of money, but of health, love,
and dignity.

A full wallet cannot steady a failing body, replace a lost parent, or

buy respect in a cruel room.
The key is simple and difficult: gratitude.

Count what you have—breath, hands that work, someone who

cares, a mind that can learn—and the ground steadies beneath you.
Without gratitude, no achievement feels enough.

With it, even small things become a life.

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22.
Be Proud of Your Own Story
You are not a passenger in your life; you are the architect. Every
thought, every feeling, every small action lays another brick. Plans
fail, detours appear, results wobble—but the very act of trying
reshapes you. The journey may not always give you what you
want; it will, if you let it, make you who you’re meant to be.
No one else carries your mix of scars and strengths, your angles
and echoes. You don’t need a borrowed voice or a secondhand
dream. Treasure your difference—it is the one gift only you can
bring.
Think of Srinivasa Ramanujan. His mathematics didn’t arrive in
the standard package. It was raw, luminous, unorthodox—and easy
to dismiss because it didn’t fit the mold. Then G. H. Hardy read
his letters and recognized the signature of genius. A door opened.
The world shifted a little to make room for what only Ramanujan
could see. His story reminds us: if you honour your uniqueness, the
right eyes will find it—or your courage will create the stage it
needs.
So stop shrinking to fit rooms that were never built for you.

Stop measuring your pace with someone else’s clock.

Stop apologizing for the way your mind works when it is the very
thing you were given to serve the world.
If you must compare, compare yourself with yesterday: a quieter
fear, a kinder word, a page more written, a skill one shade sharper.
That is enough.

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Be proud of your path—not because it is perfect, but because it is
yours.

Walk it with steadiness. Work it with love. Tell it with honesty.

The world doesn’t need more copies. It needs originals who are
willing to stand where they truly belong. You were never meant to
follow someone else’s road.
You were meant to make one.

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23.
The Best Things in Life Are
Built on Truth
When love rests on truth, it frees you.

Not because truth is easy, but because it is solid.

True love isn’t measured by how much someone can give you back
—money, attention, touch. It’s the love that stays even when the
other cannot return it. Think of John Nash—a brilliant mind lost,
at times, inside delusions. At his worst, his illness put his family at
risk. Almost everyone stepped away. Alicia didn’t. She stood like a
rock. Years later, when his work was recognised, he acknowledged
what the world often misses: it was possible because she stayed.
She went on to support others walking the same hard road. That,
too, is love built on truth.
So be careful when social media tries to sell you fear—one
headline is not the whole story. One bad incident is not proof that
love is fake. Good people exist everywhere; quiet courage lives in
ordinary homes.
Anything built on lies—relationships, goals, even nations—doesn’t
last. You can sprint on falsehood for a while, but sooner or later the
ground gives way. Fast starts built on hate or hype collapse under
their own weight.
Truth, on the other hand, stands. Sometimes alone. Sometimes
without applause. But it stands.
Choose it—

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in what you say,

in whom you love,

in the work you do.

The best things in life are built on truth. And because they are, they
endure.

Page 50
24.
Your Peace Matters More
Than Their Opinions
Stress visits everyone—especially when you’re reaching for
something that matters. In a world of constant updates, it’s easy to
feel small when others post wins, power, or glossy lives. If
someone close achieves what you wanted, the sting you feel isn’t
weakness. It’s being human.
But there’s a line we keep crossing: we push long after the mind is
tired and the body is asking for rest. People around you may say,
“Keep going. Take more exams. Work harder.” What if your heart
isn’t in it? What if your nervous system is waving a red flag? The
world might not notice—but you must.
First, name it: I am stressed. I am tired.

Clarity is the first kindness. Without it, you’ll sign up for six exams
and fail them all—worse, you’ll fail your health. Burnout punishes
effort; it does not reward it.
Our society often honors a narrow script—only a few careers are
“great,” the rest are dismissed. That’s noise. Your life isn’t a
polling booth. You don’t owe your peace to public opinion.
Choose the path that fits your mind and body. If a slower lane
steadies you, take it. If one exam is enough this year, that’s
enough. If a different calling lights you up, follow it. There is
courage in staying with what brings you alive.
Remember:
• Rest is not quitting; it’s maintenance.
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• Saying “no” to the crowd is saying “yes” to yourself.
• Comparison starves joy; gratitude feeds it.
People will talk. They always do. Let them.

Guard your inner weather. Find your quiet. Be kind to the person
you must live with the longest—yourself.
Your peace matters more than their opinions.

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25.
“The exam is a war of mind,
not just books.”
25 May is close. It’s normal to feel afraid, confused, tired.
Remember: this paper isn’t only about facts. It’s about how calmly
you think when the paper tries to shake you.
They will set unfamiliar questions to rattle your confidence.
YouTube hacks may not land. Don’t flinch. A steady mind with
simple knowledge often beats a restless mind with notes piled
high. Ask any fighter pilot or astronaut—the edge is calm.
And if someone says, “It was so easy,” smile and move on. Many
say that to make others feel small. The truth: even hardworking
people miss out sometimes. Luck sits at the table too. That doesn’t
make you less; it asks you to be patient.
No one in bureaucracy is born with a magic gene. If genius alone
ran the world, our problems would be solved by now. What carries
people through is nerve—to breathe, to think, to choose the next
right step when the clock is loud.
There are countless stories of people once rejected who later taught
the very people inside the gate. Rejection is not a verdict; it’s a
reroute.
So go with the flow. Trust your preparation. As the Upanishads
teach: be calm, be ready. What is yours will come—if you meet it
with a quiet mind.
Exam-day compass
• Breathe slow for 30 seconds before you start.

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• Scan the paper; begin where your mind feels warm.
• When stuck, mark, move, return—don’t bleed time.
• Protect your pace; protect your mind.
• Finish strong: review, guess only when it helps, close the paper
with dignity.
Hold your nerve. The real test is not the question paper.

It is your mind.

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26.
Maybe
It’s easy to stamp life as good or bad.

But life is more fluid than that.

A humble farmer had a strong, faithful horse that helped him till
his land.

Villagers said, “You’re so lucky to have such a wonderful horse.”

The farmer smiled: “Maybe.”

One day, the horse ran away.

“Terrible news,” the villagers cried.

“Maybe,” he said.
Days later, the horse returned—with ten wild, untamed horses.

“Incredible fortune!” they gasped.

“Maybe,” he answered.
While taming one, the farmer’s only son fell and broke his leg.

“How awful,” the villagers mourned.

“Maybe,” the farmer replied.

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A week later, soldiers came to recruit every able-bodied young
man for war.

The farmer’s son, with his broken leg, was left behind.

“Your son is safe! How lucky you are!” they cheered.

The farmer looked up, eyes gentle: “Maybe.”

In that quiet word lies a truth we forget:

what looks like a curse may be a blessing in disguise,

and what looks like fortune may carry a storm.

Breathe. Observe. Flow.

Let life unfold before you judge it.

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27.
We Always Have a Choice
Greatness is expensive.

It asks for your best—today, tomorrow, and the day after.

You will fail. You will doubt. You will want to turn back.

That is the price of building something that matters.

Mediocrity is cheaper.

It lets you settle—for what’s easy, expected, convenient.

It keeps you in the job you dislike, the routine that drains you, and
then asks why your days feel empty.
Your work will fill a large part of your life.

Real satisfaction comes from work you believe is worthy—and the

only way to do worthy work is to care about it.

If you haven’t found that yet, keep looking. Don’t accept a smaller
life because it’s safer.
For me, the answer was freedom.

I walked away from high-paying roles to build my own path—to

create, to innovate, to be accountable to my values.

Uncertainty came with it. Meaning did too.

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What sustains me isn’t comfort or salary. It’s purpose.
So don’t choose by other people’s applause.

Don’t pick safety over soul.

Choose the work that is truly yours—even if it demands more of

you than anything has before.
Make it your belief. Make it your mission.

Every day, the choice returns: become great, or remain average.

Choose.

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28.
Live So You’re Remembered
Right 🌿
When jealousy rises, when anger bites, when the urge to hurt
appears—pause.

Life is fragile. Headlines change in a heartbeat. None of us knows

how many pages are left, so why spend them carrying poison?
Even if you become powerful—IAS, IPS, anything—what is the
use if your presence wounds people? Money won’t walk with you.
Perhaps seven generations may enjoy it; you won’t. What will
remain is how you made others feel.
Remember Dr. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam. A journalist once criticised
him harshly. Years later, as President, Kalam didn’t retaliate. He
invited him in, offered food, asked about his family. The man wept.
Kalam chose dignity over ego—and that’s why his name still feels
like light.
You don’t need a title to leave a mark.

I remember Dilwan, our school peon, handing out water in Delhi’s

blazing heat—kindly, quietly, beyond duty. When he retired, the
whole school cried. No office, no convoy—just humanity. And it
was enough.
We are all passing through. As the poet reminds us, a life can be
only “pal do pal”—a few moments.

So use your few moments well:

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• Let kindness be your default.
• Let silence answer small insults.
• Let generosity outlive your name.
Live so that when people speak of you, they soften—

not because you were powerful,

but because you were good.

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29.
The Glass, the Wind, and the
Wisdom
Diogenes—the philosopher who chose almost nothing—owned
only a small glass and a piece of cloth. One day, even the glass was
stolen. People pitied him.
He smiled. “Because of that glass, I had worries. Now even those
are gone. I’m free.”
Later, Alexander the Great came to see him. Diogenes was lying
under the open sky. Alexander stood over him.
“Please move a little,” Diogenes said, looking up, “you’re blocking
the sunlight.”
Amused, Alexander replied, “I admire your philosophy. May I join
you?”
“Then leave behind what you carry—wealth, titles, ambitions—
and lie down like me.”
“Not now,” Alexander said. “Let me conquer the world first.”
“You may conquer the world,” Diogenes answered gently, “but you
will never conquer yourself.”
The exchange became legend: peace does not come from
possession, but from renunciation—from needing less, not
owning more.
When Alexander died, stories say his hands were shown empty—
not as a final command, but as a symbol. The conqueror left with
nothing.

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The lesson
The ego builds the illusion of ownership. We clutch the glass and
forget the sun; we guard a trinket and miss the wind. Real joy
begins when we stop clinging and start living.
Let the glass go.

Feel the wind.

Step back into the light.

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30.
Unlearning the Chains
Most of what we’re taught as children is a script: good/bad, do/
don’t, stay in line.

Dogmas. Divides. Rules that tame curiosity. Control masquerading

as culture.
You are reborn the day you see the cage.

No establishment wants truly wise citizens—wisdom is disruptive.

And wisdom isn’t topping exams; it is knowing yourself and
unlearning what was installed without consent.
I’ve met brilliant officers who turned into parrots—rote on the
tongue, prejudice in the marrow. It happens elsewhere too: doctors,
engineers, professionals who chose the badge over the work. When
the entry ticket is status, disengagement is the destination.
Society, meanwhile, claps for pain and questions joy.

Fail—and they sigh, “What a tragedy.”

Succeed—buy a home, build a life—and whispers start: How did

he get this? Is he even honest?

After every disaster, there are stories of looting; after every birth,
the same world lectures on morals. We forget our common ending.
None of us is immortal.
Designations, money, posts—these are props, not purpose.
Hierarchies make some feel tall by making others small. In feudal

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cultures, many chase “IAS” not to serve, but to be saluted. When
the goal is perks, passion withers; the file moves, the soul doesn’t.
Choose differently.
What to unlearn
• That approval equals truth.
• That rank equals worth.
• That loud equals right.
• That obedience equals wisdom.
What to reclaim
• Your why.
• Your attention (what you read, who you listen to).
• Your time (work that matters, rest that heals).
• Your courage to walk a path without applause.
You were born free. Then you were programmed.

At least—do not die in chains.

Know your worth. Know your why.

Know your self.

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