The Miracle

Why I'm Telling This Story

For a long time I did not write this. I would begin, then find a reason to stop. It gets personal. Probably too personal. But every time I closed the file, the same thought came back and sat with me until I opened it again.

Somewhere tonight, someone is sitting alone in a room the way I sat in mine. Certain that it's over. Certain that nobody would understand it even if they tried to explain it. I know that room better than I know anything else in my life. So this is me walking into it and sitting down beside you. If it reaches thousands of people, good. If it reaches one person on the night that matters, that is enough. It was written for you.

There is a second reason. I'm building something, and if it becomes what I believe it can become, this page will stand as the record of why I built it.

I'm almost thirty. About a year ago I picked myself up and started my life again. Before that I spent close to half a decade in isolation, fighting what I called the voices. I was probably on the same road as Kurt Cobain, Chester, or Avicii. I use their names because I came from that world too. If you've explored my website, you probably already know that I was into music. So from an artist, to nearly ending up in a psychiatric ward, to building a tech company. I have come a long way.

I could make a flex out of that. I could tell you I worked hard, that I never gave up, that if I did it you can do it. It would be a lie, or close enough to one. The truth is that what happened to me, and the tech part especially, is a miracle. I didn't climb out of that room. I was carried out of it.

That's why this story is important, and why I'm telling it the way I am. I said it already. This is me walking into that room and sitting down beside you. That's all this is.

Now understand what I mean by a miracle, because it isn't a phrase I'm using to sound nice.

The Life Before

For almost a decade, I was a professional artist. A music composer. But it started long before anyone paid me for it, back in my early teens, with a guitar and playing my favourite songs.

I learned by doing covers. I still remember my favourites. The intro riff from Tears Don't Fall. Kirk Hammett's solo in Master of Puppets. The guitar pieces from the album Rock On. I had a band, and we used to perform live. Headbanging, screaming, walking out to the edge of the stage to play the solos. Full rockstar vibes, dude.

Then slowly I started writing my own songs. I learnt music production, arrangement, recording. I even built a mini studio at the back of my home with the help of my friends. It started with a software called Logic Pro. Oh, the tracks, the buses, the aux channels, the colour codes. Mixing and mastering. Wuff. I miss it already, just writing that sentence. I used to spend hours exploring new sounds and plugins. I still remember the Waves plugin pack I had downloaded off a torrent (sorry, lol). In a few years' time I had started producing complete tracks. You can find a few of them in the Music section, from around 2013 and 2014. One of them kind of did well.

Somewhere along the way I also taught myself cinematography, editing, and colour grading. I was addicted to the process of making music videos as a whole, and in the later years I tried to go deeper into filmmaking itself. Because I used DaVinci Resolve, I knew it worked beautifully with the BRAW format. And just to have that format and play with the 12-bit colour spectrum, I bought a cinema camera. I don't remember the exact details now, it's been years, but it was called the Blackmagic Pocket 6K. And the obsession didn't stop there. To get the colour monitoring right, I went ahead and bought a flat colour monitor. Let me add one more layer of madness to it, a colour calibrator for that flat monitor. Anyway, I'm sorry, I get carried away with the flow, especially with the technical details. But you get the idea. I wasn't just an artist. I was a nerd.

It was every bit as long and as obsessive a road as the music was. What it added up to is this. By the end of it, when I was writing the lyrics of a song, I could already imagine which frame, with which colour grade, would suit the feel. Hell, I have even tweaked the composition of a song just so it could be shot more comfortably. Oh damn, I'm going with the flow again, eh? Well. You can check out the Music and Films sections on this website, and you'll know.

I moved to Mumbai later, to be where the dream was.

It moved faster than I had any right to expect. Within a few months of landing I was doing background scoring for television. Daily soaps, on Colors, on Star, on Zee, on Sony. It was truly something, to hear my music playing on TV.

Then the most unexpected thing happened, about a year later. I had done the music production for a film track, and it was recorded by Sunidhi Chauhan. Oh yes. The Sunidhi Chauhan, in the studio, singing over a track I had programmed. The song was for a film that never got made, so it has never been released. If it ever comes out, it goes up on this website with everything else. If it doesn't, I might ask the owner whether I can put a snippet up. It was a good song. I later got the chance to work with very respected artists, Asees Kaur, Krsna Solo, Shahid Mallya, and many more. All of those tracks are in the Music section of the website, which you can check out later.

I won't pretend I was anything but ambitious. I grew up looking up to Kurt Cobain, Metallica, Linkin Park, Bon Jovi. I wanted to be a recording artist, and I won't lie to you, I was very close to getting there. One of the best composers in the Bollywood industry offered me a job. I declined it, gracefully I hope, because a job was never the thing. I had to be a recording artist. A rockstar. Like Bon, like Kurt, like Queen.

In the Music section of this website there's a track called Milkha Sitare. It wasn't a commercial hit. But the whole of it, the writing, the producing, the recording, the direction, the cinematography, the edit, the VFX, the colour grade, was done by three people. Me and my two friends, Sharan and Tejas. I want you to go and look at it. Listen to the sound. Watch the visuals. That was a complete commercial product, finished, start to end. And we were what, twenty years old, running it like we owned a production house. It's alright that it didn't do well. What I still think about is what we would have made if we had kept going. My own guess was two years, maximum, before something broke open.

I'm sorry, I've gone into more detail than I meant to. The flow took me. But now you'll understand what I mean when I say I was on the verge of living my dream. Not through luck. Through skill, and through work.

A month later, everything stopped.

Why It Hit So Hard

Before I tell you what the collapse looked like, you need to understand why I was climbing in the first place. Because losing music didn't only cost me a career. It took away the only answer I had ever found to a much older problem.

I didn't make music only because I loved it, though I did love it. I made it because I needed to prove something.

Life was hard from the very start. Bullying. Public humiliation. Loneliness. Very few of you will be able to imagine what that does to a person at that age. Outside my home I was a laughing stock. Inside my home there was nothing but pain. There was nowhere to go.

People who grow up like that do drugs. I somehow did music instead. I thought it was the healthier place to put the pain. And somewhere early on I decided I would become someone big enough that none of it could reach me again, and music was how I was going to do it.

That is what was actually on the line. Not a career. The whole plan.

So music took the place of drugs, and I went all in. I called it workaholism. It sounded better than what it actually was. But something else came along with it.

I turned into a maniac, if that's the word, and I think it's close enough. Life had been cruel and bitter, music was the way out, so I did it twenty four hours a day, and somewhere in there I forgot how to be a human being.

My pain was my responsibility. Mine. I should never have put it on innocent souls who tried to know me later in life. I didn't notice it happening. But somewhere along the way I had stopped being the victim and become the aggressor myself. And the moment I saw that clearly, I understood I had turned into the very thing that had broken me.

And I paid for it. Loneliness. So much of it, and so much agony that I am carrying even today. I understand all of it very differently now, but that comes later. There's nothing more I want to say about it here.

The Tsunami

I've thought about this part a hundred times before writing it. Is it important? Is it important for the purpose I'm writing this for? The answer is yes. Anyone who knows OCD, or knows about the kind of mind I'm describing, will recognise it instantly. It goes into too much detail. But that detail is the only way you'll understand how deep the darkness actually went, and therefore what kind of miracle it is that I'm sitting here writing to you. I know what the light is because I know exactly what the darkness was.

It started with COVID.

When the first lockdown came, it seemed fine. Everyone was inside. So was I, and my work had always been isolating anyway, so at first it felt like nothing had really changed. I was working on the next singles I was going to release. I was sharpening my production, and with all that time on my hands I went deep into DaVinci Resolve. I remember thinking, fine, this passes, and I come out of it better than I went in. Then something in me came loose, and I have never been able to point at the exact day it happened.

I became afraid of everything. The sound of vehicles. The sound of footsteps outside. I built whole scenarios in my head about people conspiring to harm me, worked out in detail, with names in them. Today it almost sounds funny. In those moments it was completely real, as real as this sentence is to you. And the voices, once they started, did not stop. They ran all day, and they were strong enough to make me do things.

There was a guy I hadn't seen in ten years. So I made a LinkedIn account for the sole purpose of finding him, messaged him, and apologised for a fight we had a decade ago, an ordinary fight, from another life, that neither of us should have remembered. He must have thought I'd lost my mind. And I felt relieved for hours afterwards. That was my brain in those years. And understand me, that was a good day.

If I had an argument with someone, or not even an argument, something small and silly, a spiral would start in my head and convince me that the other person was now going to hurt themselves. That whatever was happening to me would happen to them too. So I started apologising to everyone. Sorry, sorry, sorry, until people got fed up with the word itself. I said sorry to people who were insulting me. I said sorry to people who told me I should go and die. Why sorry? Because I believed my mess was leaking into their lives. I hadn't harmed anyone. I had only asked for support. And even the noise of my suffering reaching them made me apologise for existing near them.

Then there was the OCD. The vacuum cleaners and the slippers. This is what the list actually felt like from the inside. Disinfectant for the doorknobs, because I was certain they carried something. Gloves I threw away after wiping my phone, my watch, my glasses, every single day. I was afraid to sit on my own sofa because of the dust. I don't fully know why, but to walk on the terrace of my own house I kept a separate pair of pants and separate slippers, and the second the walk was over I changed back into my normal ones. I was frightened of every single thing. I believed I would be lynched by a mob. I believed the government would pick me up and torture me. And hear this one out. I was convinced my phone was tapped, that the intelligence agencies were listening to everything, and I lived my days accordingly.

Self harm was a norm, really. And if a memory of my old life surfaced, a session, a studio, a song, a sharp metallic pain would go through me, physically, like something had been struck inside my chest. Those years showed me the truth about the world in a way nothing else could have.

And then that day came. The day I sold my equipment.

The speakers went first. Behringers. I'd had them since the very start of my career. Then my headphones. I gave away my condenser mic. I gave away the acoustics I had built myself, panel by panel, DIY, so that the room would be right for recording and mixing.

I have tears in my eyes writing this, because that was the day it became official. Whatever else was happening to me, some part of me had still been holding on to the idea that this was a phase, that it would lift, that I would go back to it. Selling the equipment took that away. There was nothing to go back to anymore. A decade long career, gone in a matter of months, and I had no idea what to do with myself.

And here is the part that cut deeper than the illness ever did.

I went through all of it alone. There was nobody to listen. Everyone decided I had gone crazy. I wasn't only left without help, I was blamed for what was happening to me, and rejected almost daily. When that happens, a spiral starts. You begin to believe it is all your fault. That you are the mistake. That your existence itself is the problem.

I believed with total certainty that I would never recover, that this was simply how I was going to die, and that it wouldn't take long. And I came very close, more times than I'm willing to put on this page.

I told you earlier that I was on the same road as Kurt, Chester and Avicii. I have to say something about that, because if I don't, some of you will think I was comparing myself to them as an artist. I wasn't. They are legends. I'm not. I had a decent run in the industry and that's the whole of it. I brought them up for two reasons. One, because I cannot bring myself to write the word itself. And two, because through them you'll understand the size of the storm I was in, and how close to the edge I was standing.

So What Does a Man Do

So much pain. So much agony. And on top of it, financial debt, which is its own kind of noise, the kind that stops a man thinking clearly about anything at all. What does a person do in a situation like this? Nothing but the end.

I remember telling someone that I felt like an injured stray dog lying at the corner of a road, waiting for its end to arrive. Everything taking shape around me was pointing towards a miserable end.

And when every human door has shut, I think it is natural that a man turns towards the unseen.

It was not easy for me to turn anywhere near it. I had always been an atheist. I used to laugh at people who carried religion and God in their hearts. I made fun of them. I was a practical guy. Science is truth. Scientific progress is reality. How could a thing called God be true?

Well. With no human help left anywhere, I started to feel a connection with the unseen. A strange one. And it began with a single conscious decision, to stop eating non vegetarian food. I don't know where it came from. I stopped because I knew what it was to be hurt, and I didn't want to be the reason anything else was.

Slowly I started going to the temple. I remember chanting the Hanuman Chalisa every single day. The pain was still there. All of it was still there. But something like an anchor had arrived. An unseen energy that gave me one percent of hope that there is something beyond this. And I went along with it. I started to read. I started to believe. I started to have faith in Hanuman Ji.

The arrogant, practical man who used to make fun of God and the people who believed in Him was now being saved by that same God. The injured stray dog lying at the corner of the road was picked up by the very God he had laughed at. Given hope by the God he had mocked.

And I was healing. Slowly. I could feel it. The nightmares were no longer what they had been at their worst.

Little did I know that a new journey had already begun, and that what was coming next would change everything, in every way.

The Night I Left

While all of this was happening, the leaning towards spirituality was gaining ground every single day. It was like being on a medicine that was slowly working. That's the closest way I can put it, the feeling of getting better, day by day, even though the disease itself was still at its absolute peak.

And then, somehow, Hyderabad called.

If I ever get the chance to tell you the full story of how I ended up in Hyderabad, I will, because that too is part of the miracle, part of the whole transformation. For this writing, I think it's enough for you to know one thing. Getting to Hyderabad was not something I decided. I was put there.

And when I say put there, I mean it was that unseen energy doing its work. In Hindi we have a word for it. Leela. Prabhu ki leela. His play, His doing, unfolding through me while I thought I was the one making the choices.

I only came to know about that leela two months later.

Hyderabad

I reached Hyderabad in the morning and, through a broker, I found a place. And let me take a minute on this place, because I still can't fully believe I got it.

It was a penthouse. Fourth floor. The deal included half the terrace, so the whole thing was half room and half open sky, a studio apartment with a terrace stitched onto it. From up there you could almost see the whole of Hyderabad. There was a stretch of forest, green and wild, and beyond it the big buildings rising up in the distance. It looked like something out of a movie. And the best part, in terms of money, was that the deal was genuinely good. Sixteen thousand, if I remember right.

I told the broker, dude, I love this. I don't know how to explain it any better than that. Standing there, I could just see a future happening in that room. It felt like the change I needed, to be out of my hometown, to be in solitude. Because back home I was afraid to even step out of my own door, for all the reasons I've already told you. This place, this city, felt like a clean next chapter. I could feel it. And that is exactly what it turned out to be.

The broker, by the way, turned out to be a genuinely good man. Still is. I told him on the spot that I wanted it, we went to the owner's house, I paid the token, and I promised I'd be back in fifteen days.

I didn't know it standing on that terrace, but that room was where everything was about to turn. That was the place He had been walking me toward the whole time.

The Move

About fifteen days later I came to Hyderabad. I believe it was November 2024.

The first day was strange. There was nothing in the apartment, obviously. So I put a bed sheet down on the bare floor and slept on that. I still remember the first night, lying there listening to Premanand Ji Maharaj's lectures on my phone.

A few days went by. It took me some time to settle, to get comfortable. And then, about four or five days in, maybe a week, the memory is blurred, I searched for temples nearby. Back home the only place I ever really went was the Hanuman temple, so even here, carrying all the same anxiety, I thought, let me just find out if there's a temple somewhere.

And here's the thing I want you to feel, because it mattered more than it sounds. This was a new city, and for the first time in years I was excited. Positive, even. I actually wanted to step out of the house and explore, to go here and there, to have one shot at experiencing life like a normal guy.

And it was good. It was so good just to walk a little. To sip a cup of tea somewhere. To sit in a small cafe and eat a plate of pasta with people around me. I know how ordinary that sounds. For most people it's nothing, for me it was a new birth. That is not too strong a word. Just to sit somewhere, out in the world, and not be afraid, was everything. It was nice. It was so nice.

Anyway. This article has already run long, so let me get back to the point.

Like I said, on Google Maps I found one 0.8 kilometres away. I looked at it that night, and the next morning I booked a Rapido and went.

The Temple

I reached the temple around eight in the morning. The Hare Krishna Golden Temple. And I felt something the moment I walked in. I don't know how else to say it. A kind of quiet I hadn't felt in years.

Just inside there was a goshala, cows, and something about that was instantly calming. Further in, a senior devotee was sitting and teaching a portion of the Gita to a small group of people. And here, in this beautiful place, were the deities. Radha and Krishna. Sri Narasimha.

Now here is what I want you to notice, because I didn't notice it myself for the longest time. I had gone looking for a Hanuman temple. That was who God was to me. That was all I knew, that was my whole idea of God. And yet the nearest temple the map handed me, 0.8 kilometres from a room I had found by accident, in a city I had been placed in by accident, was a Krishna temple.

Now you understand what I meant when I called it God's leela. His play. His doing.

That first day I didn't do much. I prayed. I ate something on the way back. I went home. That was it.

But the place stayed with me. It was so beautiful, and I mean that plainly, if you are ever anywhere near it you should go and see it for yourself, that I found myself thinking, I should come here more often.

And "more often" quietly turned into every single day.

Wake up. Work. Temple. Come home. Sleep. That became the whole shape of my life. I didn't understand what I was doing there, or what I was supposed to do, or why I kept going back. I just went, especially for the evening aarti. There was a pull I could not explain and did not try to. And remember, through all of this, the illness was still with me. I was still sick. But every day I walked into that temple, and every day something in me eased by a fraction I could barely measure.

It went on like that for about two or three months.

The Lecture

Then one day a devotee finally asked me the question I suppose he'd been holding back. You come here every single day, he said. What's going on with you? I didn't tell him. I couldn't have explained it if I'd tried. But he asked if I'd come to a lecture, something that would give me the concepts behind the Gita and Krishna. And I said, why not.

And I went in.

The lecture was essentially the Gita in depth, the philosophy of Krishna laid out properly. And one line from it hit me harder than anything else. You are not the body. You are the soul.

Now here is the thing about me. I am a deeply practical man. I don't accept things because they sound nice. I accept them when they check out. And what I started noticing was a pattern I couldn't ignore.

Everything that struck me in that lecture, I had already heard somewhere else. From Premanand Ji Maharaj, on the lectures I'd been listening to on my phone. Two completely separate sources. A saint on a screen, and a room full of devotees in a temple, who had nothing to do with each other, saying the exact same things. They ran to the same origin. The Gita. When two independent witnesses, who don't know each other, tell you the same truth, a practical man stops arguing and starts listening.

The clearest example was Naam Japa, the chanting of the Name. Premanand Ji Maharaj had always said it was the single most important thing a human being can do. But honestly, back then it didn't move me. I didn't understand it. Why would a person just sit and chant a name? What could that possibly do? So I never really practised it.

Then in this lecture, they said the same thing. Naam Japa, above everything, the most important practice there is. And that was what finally did it. Not because I suddenly understood the mechanism, I didn't, but because now two completely separate sources, both rooted in the Gita, were pointing at the exact same thing. For a practical man, that is enough. That was the push. That was the day I actually began to chant.

And here is what I slowly came to see, though it took me a long time. Krishna had been in my life long before that lecture. Long before that temple. He was the one who put it in my head to go to Hyderabad in the first place. He had seen me, the injured stray dog lying in the corner, waiting to die, and He had quietly picked me up and carried me under His shelter. I just hadn't noticed. That is the whole thing about His leela. You only see it looking back.

The Healing

What the devotees taught was simple. So simple that it almost feels wrong to say it saved my life. But it did.

There were two parts to it. First, avoid the four things that damage a person. Meat eating. Intoxication. Gambling. Illicit sex. And second, chant. Chant the Holy Name.

Premanand Ji Maharaj had always spoken of chanting the Radha naam. Here, at the temple, they asked us to chant the Hare Krishna Mahamantra:

Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare
Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare

This is called the Mahamantra. Now, I could sit here and explain the logic behind it, but I won't, because I am not the person to hand out knowledge that important. I'm not learned enough, and I'm not authorised to tell anyone what to do with something this sacred. The only thing I'll say, and only because it comes straight from the Gita, is this. We are living in the age called Kali Yuga. And in this age, the one thing that can connect you to God is the taking of His Holy Name. This is the way meant for our time. That much I can tell you. Nothing beyond it.

I could also give you a hundred analogies, dress it up in scientific theories about what chanting does to the mind. I'll spare you all of that and just tell you the plain result. It purifies the mind. It truly does. I know, because I watched it happen to mine.

There was one more idea that came with the Gita's teachings, and it landed hard. Karma. Action and reaction. It works like planting seeds. Plant good ones, water them every day, and something good grows. Plant bad ones, water them just as faithfully, and then act surprised when the thing that comes up is ugly. I had watered a lot of bad seeds in my life. For the first time, I understood that math.

So I just followed. I kept going to the temple every day. I kept chanting the Name. And this went on for months. And I'll tell you exactly what happened.

Remember the OCD? It began to heal. Every single day, a little more.

The dustbin that used to fill with sanitizer bottles came down to one small bottle, used now and then. I stopped needing the vacuum cleaners. I stopped keeping separate slippers and clothes for the terrace. What's left of it today I don't even call OCD anymore. I still wipe my phone and my glasses each day, but it isn't fear driving it now. It's just a man who likes his things clean. That's all.

And with each passing day, life was getting normal. The fear itself started to loosen its grip. I could not believe it was happening, or how.

I want to stop here and be very careful about one thing, because it matters and I will not be reckless with it. Through those years I had also seen psychiatrists, in different cities, and I had been on heavy medication. I am not putting the details of that here, and I want to be completely clear about why. I am not, for one second, telling you that this is an alternative to medicine. I am not telling anyone to stop their treatment. I would never do that. All I am doing on this page is telling you honestly what happened to me. Nothing more. Please hear that clearly.

And here is what I actually learned, imperfect as I was at all of it, because I was imperfect, my chanting was imperfect, my discipline was imperfect, and life transformed anyway.

If your intentions are truly right, if your heart genuinely wants to change, to accept, to stop feeding the lies of Maya, then Krishna will help you. But do not mistake me. That does not mean you take the discipline lightly. It means your intent has to be real, the honest willingness to be disciplined, to do good karma, to chant the Name, to harm no one, to hold your senses and your emotions in check. You try. Imperfectly, but truly. And when the intent behind the trying is pure, the help arrives. That is the one thing I know for certain, because I lived it.

Coming Back to Life

Slowly, I was getting my strength back. I was trying to hold on to the chanting, trying to follow the principles, imperfectly, but trying. And somewhere in there, an old current in me came alive again.

I'd known how to build simple websites before, and I'm not even sure where it properly began this time, but I started building things again. I picked up a few freelance projects. Honestly, I had no idea where any of it was headed. I figured maybe this was just what my life would look like now. A little bit of work, quiet days, nothing grand. And I was okay with that. After where I'd been, a small ordinary working life felt like plenty. It was better than the hell I'd come from.

But Krishna had other plans.

I went deep into the software side of things. Not just using the tools, but wanting to understand the backend of how they were built, how the machine actually worked underneath. Even as a musician, I was always pulled toward the technology, not only the art of it. I told you about Logic Pro. I told you about DaVinci Resolve, and Resolve is not an easy piece of software to pick up, but I got into it early, because for me the process was always its own kind of art. I never just wanted to make the thing. I wanted to know how the thing was made. And so I kept going down the rabbit hole. VS Code. Android Studio. UI and UX. Servers. Databases. And it just kept going. In no time, I had built almost the same passion for tech that I once had for music.

I started small. An image compressor, a subtitle editor, little tools to find my feet. But I wanted to build something that actually mattered. Something with an impact.

And then I took a leap that still makes me smile when I think about it. I decided to build my own application.

The first real one was called It's Okay.

It's Okay was a mental health application, something along the lines of 7 Cups. I had designed the platform so that anyone who needed immediate help could get it from volunteers who would be available online, twenty four seven. That was the whole idea behind It's Okay. And building it, I started to feel something return. My real persona. Building an app, a startup, it felt the same to me as making a music video once had. I want you to notice how things are turning now. How the wind is changing.

Soon after, work took me to Bangalore.

I went to understand the whole world of it, startups, VCs, funding, companies. I rented a seat at a co-working space called Beehive. And watch Krishna's magic here again, because I never expected any of it. I had more or less made my peace with solitude, with a lonely life. But then, in Bangalore, in that co-working space, I made friends. There was a pool table there, and I played pool with the others every day. I sat with them, sipped a cup of coffee, like everything was normal. And I had forgotten almost everything. The OCD was gone. The fear was gone. Not just gone, it was like it had never even existed. I felt like a normal guy. A normal person. With happiness.

I had never asked God specifically for this or that. But I used to beg Him for a life. I used to beg Krishna to take me out of that loneliness, because I could not survive it any longer. And look what I was given.

In all of this, there is only one piece of credit I will keep for myself. Everything else belongs to Krishna. My work, my company, my startup, my skills, all of it is His. But the one thing I'll take for myself is this. Through thick and thin, I have been honest with Krishna about everything. About my drawbacks, and about my love for Him.

Anyway. Coming back to the work.

A few months into It's Okay, deep in the middle of building it, a single question stopped me. What was it that actually pulled me out of the darkness? Not what should have. What actually did. And the honest answer was Krishna, and His teachings. That was the truth for me. So I asked myself the obvious next thing. My whole intention is to pull people out of misery. So why am I not building the thing that actually worked? Why not build the truth?

I stopped It's Okay. And in its place I began building Krishnaskode.

I would love to tell you everything about what Krishnaskode is, but it's better that I don't, not yet. It's in its building stage, and it's nearing the end. If all goes well, it will be out before long. There's a whole other side to this too, the technical details, and I know some of you reading this are developers who would genuinely enjoy them. I promise I'll share all of it. Just later. Not today.

And along the way, together with a very good friend I met in Bangalore, Bhavesh, I built and launched a fitness application called Kcaldo. A real, finished, working product. If you have an Android phone, you can find it on the Play Store. I also finally registered my own company, Forkr Technologies. If you have the time, you can visit it at forkr.in.

And do you remember the old fire? The one I once poured into music, the one that wanted to become big enough that the world could never touch me again? It came back. But it came back changed. It wasn't about proving anything to anyone anymore. This time there was only one thing burning underneath it. Service. Krishna. And I'll be honest with you, this fire is bigger than any fire I ever felt for making art. The same flame. A completely different fuel.

So sit with the whole picture for a moment, the way I still have to.

That injured stray dog, lying in the corner of the road, waiting quietly for its end to arrive, Krishna reached down and picked it up. And that same dog is now building startups. Building websites. Building applications. Running a company of his own.

For a lot of you, this might sound like a small thing. People build startups every day, I know that. But for me, after everything I have told you on this page, it is nothing short of a miracle.

I hope this story helps you. I hope it serves the purpose I wrote it for.

Hare Krishna.