At thirty, my bank balance rivaled that of overseas engineering graduates-yet I hadn’t spent a single rupee to start or run my business. I built it from home through relentless work, without a degree, without guidance, and without stepping outside for seven straight years. I pushed through thirty-six-hour stretches, collapsed for eight, and repeated the cycle. My family devoured every rupee. They would have done the same even if I’d held the degree they worshipped. To them, I was nothing more than a racehorse they had wagered on. At twenty-three they had already written me off-declared me dead, not for failing as a human being but for failing to be profitable. In the following seven years I earned their counterfeit respect, and it vanished the moment my earnings slowed. Whatever capital I needed to grow, they consumed as if entitled to it. Then my mother died. For fifteen years-from the day my sister eloped to the day my father had his heart attack-I stood by them without expectation. Even so, I was abandoned to ruin. No one asked how I was, and no one tried to mend what they had broken. Then came the darker days. A whore with her finger in her nose and a dick in her ass-lost in her own chaos-tried to preach philosophy to me while my world collapsed. The bodybuilder I once was withered under alcohol until I landed in rehab. At home, the Surpanakhas and Vibhishanas of my extended family lectured my father about their lofty moral standards, staging their righteousness while I drowned in silence. Since I could not control anyone, I claimed the only kingdom left to me: my body and my mind. Read more from here...