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To Nanna, with love for everything you taught me and with gratitude for everything you gave me 2

LESSONS FROM NANNA Preface: I did not set out to write a book. Nanna has always told me I should write, to build the habit and, someday, see my name on a book cover. I know I am far from that dream. But I still wanted to begin somewhere. And the simplest place to begin was by writing down what I have learnt from him over the years. These pages are my attempt to put those lessons in one place, in the form they originally came to me: as stories. This is not everything. It is only what stood out most clearly. There are many more stories worth telling, and many more lessons which I am unable to put into words. But if these pages manage to offer even a few steady principles that a reader can return to, then they will have served their purpose. 3

Contents Introduction ......................................................... 05 1. Playing to Your Strengths ......................... 06 2. Presence of Mind ..................................... 11 3. Choosing the Right Shortcuts …………… 15 4. Did You Enjoy Your Day?......................... 20 5. Seeing the Bigger Picture .………………. 26 6. Serving with Intent ................................... 31 7. Being Firm When Needed ........................ 35. 8. The Habit of Saving .................................. 39. 9. Timely Appreciation ................................. 44 What We Practise ................................................. 46 4

Introduction This book is a collection of moments, small, ordinary on the surface, but powerful in what they leave behind. The stories here come from watching my father over many years: how he speaks, how he teaches, how he handles pressure, how he treats people, and how he stands by certain values. Some of these lessons showed up in the classroom. Many showed up at home, at the dining table, during casual conversations, in the way he saved money, served food, corrected mistakes, or appreciated effort at the right time. What I like the most is not a single grand message. It is a set of patterns that repeat themselves across situations. A way of responding to life with clarity. A habit of staying composed. A way of learning that connects ideas instead of keeping them in separate boxes. What you will read here comes from real moments and incidents. If you are a student, you may see new ways to approach learning and finding direction. If you are working, you may recognise the difference between simply doing a job and doing it with intent. And if you are simply trying to live a little better each day, you may find a few reminders that are easy to carry forward. 5

Chapter 1: Playing to your strengths My father studied in Telugu-medium schools all his life, yet he remains the best proof that English is never the real barrier to great communication. What truly matters is the ability to connect dots, see patterns, use analogies, and simplify thoughts so they land with clarity and impact. And that is his biggest strength. During his very first interview for a lecturer post, he walked into a room filled with confident, fluent English speakers. For a moment, he felt overwhelmed, almost out of place. But instead of trying to compete on what wasn’t his strength, he leaned fully into what was his forte. He focused on explaining concepts through elegant simplicity and memorable examples. When he was asked to explain the concept of a prism and refraction, he didn’t recite textbook definitions. He related it to the way knowledge travels in life. He said that just like light entering a prism, the mind takes in information, some of it bends into new understanding, some reflects away, and what emerges is a spectrum of insight unique to each person. He explained that a classroom is not simply a place where one teacher sends information to many students. Like light entering a prism, knowledge enters a classroom as one idea, but it does not emerge in the same form for everyone. Each student receives it differently. Some ideas bend into new ways of thinking, 6

some connect with something they already know, and some lead to questions the teacher may never have anticipated. What emerges is a spectrum of understanding, unique to each mind. The panel was captivated. They weren’t listening to a memorized English answer; they were listening to clarity, depth of understanding, imagination, and the ability to make an idea come alive. In that moment, he wasn’t just explaining refraction; he was showing them how he thinks. How he teaches. How he makes even complex subjects like physics feel relatable. And, perhaps most importantly, how he sees a classroom, not as a place where knowledge is simply delivered, but as a prism through which knowledge can take different shapes, colours, and meanings. That single beam-of-light explanation told them everything they needed to know about him as a teacher. That day taught me that true communication isn’t about language. It’s about clarity and understanding something well enough to explain it easily. And Nanna has mastered the art of simplifying complex explanations for everyone around him. What amazes me is that he developed this ability long before the ChatGPT or LLM era. That is his strength, the ability to simplify complexity and make ideas feel intuitive. 7

This way of thinking shows up everywhere in his lectures. He rarely asks students to become better versions of someone else. Instead, he pushes them to understand what they already have and to work from there. “Play on your strengths,” he says. Not as a slogan, but as a proven method. Know what comes naturally to you. Know where you struggle. And most importantly, know the environment you are operating in. Only then can effort turn into progress instead of exhaustion. One of his favourite ways to explain this is through an idea he borrowed from an entirely different domain, the banking principle of KYC. In banking, Know Your Customer is a basic principle. Before offering a service, you understand who the customer is, their background, behaviour, and needs. My father extended this idea to college life. His version of KYC was not a checklist. It was a way of positioning oneself consciously. Know your class, he tells his students. Every class has its own rhythm, its pressures, its strengths, its silent rules. Learning begins when you observe and adapt, not when you blindly compete. Know your classmates. These are not just people sitting beside you today. They are part of your long journey; 8

future collaborators, rivals, allies, and sometimes, lifelong friends. Know your college. Not just the buildings and syllabus, but the ecosystem it offers: curriculum, clubs, counsellors, challenges, and creative spaces. Each of these shapes you in ways that academic scores never will. Know your career direction. Not to fix your future prematurely, but to avoid drifting without awareness. Know your consciousness. Your strengths, your blind spots, your tendencies under pressure. Without self-awareness, effort is often misplaced. And finally, know your coordinates. Your circumstances. Where you stand at this moment, and what direction you are moving in. College, like the prism, is a medium. It bends people. Some discover abilities they didn’t know they had. Some realise early that certain paths are not for them. What emerges is shaped not just by intelligence or effort, but by awareness. The point he was making was subtle but powerful. Once you understand yourself, your strengths, your limitations, your circumstances, you stop wasting energy trying to compete on parameters that were never yours. 9

You choose where to focus, where to stretch, and where to step aside. That is what it means to play on your strengths. The beam of light does not change its nature when it passes through a prism. But its direction, spread, and outcome depend on how it enters and what it passes through. Understanding that difference was my father’s quiet lesson, to his students, and eventually, to me. 10

Chapter 2: Presence of Mind There is one story I always want to hear again and again from my dad. Every time he starts it, I already know what is coming… but I still laugh at the same moment and admire the same part. It is the story of a big stage play he was part of when he was in high school. It is a story about how he handled a stage crisis. My dad was in high school, chosen to play the role of a freedom fighter. It was a big annual day performance. The stage was packed, the front rows filled with teachers, parents, and a few local dignitaries. He walked in confidently, wearing a neatly wrapped cotton dhoti. The script was a fiery speech about the freedom struggle, full of emotion, passion, and drama. He began strong. His voice carried across the auditorium. People were listening intently. And then it happened. Midway through the speech, he felt something loosening at his waist. The dhoti knot. Bit by bit, it began to slip. The nightmare of every stage performer in traditional costume. A few students backstage had already noticed and were panicking silently, waving their hands at him. 11

Another boy took half a step forward, not sure whether to run in and help or just hope for the best. Anyone else, especially a nervous teenager, would have frozen. Or rushed off stage. Or ruined the entire play by breaking character. But my dad didn’t flinch. He continued speaking as if nothing unexpected was happening. And then, with perfect timing, he paused for a second, adjusted his dhoti in one swift, confident movement, and blended it into the performance. He said, loud and bold: “During our struggle for freedom, there were moments when the British chased us… and we had to run fast! In the chaos, even our dhotis would come loose, just like this… but we never stopped fighting… we used to quickly tie it up and continue!” The audience burst into laughter, not out of mockery, but out of admiration . The teachers applauded mid-speech. The principal nodded proudly. And the audience leaned in even more, because now the entire hall felt connected to him. He turned a moment of embarrassment into a moment of brilliance. The slipping dhoti became part of the history he was narrating. 12

He finished the speech with the same confidence, and the crowd responded with a loud applause. Takeaways for me: Growing up, I realised this is who my dad is. He never panics. He never makes a problem bigger than it is. He uses presence of mind like a tool, calmly and lightly. And somehow, in every tough or awkward moment, he finds a way to stay composed and even make people smile. I realized this is what I admire most about that incident, his presence of mind. He didn’t overreact. He didn’t make the problem bigger than it was. He didn’t let fear of embarrassment spoil everything. He just stayed there, stayed in character, and found a way to fit the problem into the moment. It’s a small story, but it quietly reminds me that unexpected things will always happen, on stage, at work, and in life. We don’t always get to control what goes wrong. But we can choose how we respond: 13

whether we panic and run, or breathe, think for a second, and carry on. Sometimes, the smartest thing you can do is hold your ground, adjust your dhoti, and keep going. 14

Chapter 3: Choosing the Right Shortcuts When I hear stories about Nanna's school days, what stands out is how he could be so playful and mischievous, yet so clear about certain things. He was far more interested in speaking, theatre, competitions and anything that gave him a chance to do something different. If there was a competition happening somewhere, he was more likely to be thinking about how to participate in it than about the class he was supposed to be sitting in. He would sometimes skip classes for competitions he wanted to take part in. He was playful and mischievous too. He would trouble his elder sister and younger brother, get into their things and occasionally go a little too far. His elder sister still talks about the time he cut up all her craft work. It is one of those family stories that keeps coming up, no matter how many times we have heard it. His handwriting was another story altogether. When my grandfather wanted to get him enrolled to the Railway High School in the eighth grade, the headmaster called him in specifically after seeing his entrance examination paper. The problem was his handwriting. It was terrible. 15

My grandfather (Tatayya) still tells this story, and I love hearing it. Tatayya narrates this part with great amusement. The headmaster apparently showed him the paper and pointed out how one line had started in one corner and ended diagonally somewhere else on the page. (“కా ర్ నుంచి మొ దలౖతే కనకుమా రి వరకు వెంది”, says Tatayya jokingly.). The handwriting was so difficult to decipher that the headmaster was not convinced he should admit him. He eventually agreed, but only after my grandfather signed an undertaking that improving his son's handwriting would be his responsibility, and that the school could terminate his admission if his performance was not satisfactory. There is a funny ending to the story. The very same headmaster who had questioned whether this boy could even manage school eventually made him the school head boy. Somewhere between that terrible handwriting and the head boy badge, the headmaster had clearly noticed something else: my father's energy, confidence, willingness to take initiative and ability to bring people along with him. He was not particularly strong in subjects like Hindi and English, and he did not spend his school years trying to top every examination. But when he learnt something, he liked to understand it properly. He could often explain 16

a concept to someone else even when he had not been the student who scored the highest marks. And there was another thing he was clear about. One of his friends once suggested using chits during an examination. His friend thought he was doing him a favour and even threw a chit towards him. My father would not use it. He wanted nothing to do with it. It is an interesting combination when I think about it. He could skip a class for a competition. He could be mischievous enough to cut up his sister's carefully made craft work. He could be completely unconcerned about whether his handwriting impressed anyone. But cheating was different. When it came to cheating in an exam, he had no interest in finding a shortcut. Perhaps that is the take away from these stories. Being a good student does not have to mean being the student with the highest marks. Marks matter, but they are not the only thing worth building. A student can be average in one subject and exceptional in another. Speaking, performing, organizing, leading, creating, competing and simply having the confidence to try something different are also abilities worth developing. 17

At the same time, doing well in life is not about finding a shortcut every time something becomes difficult. There will always be easier ways to get a mark, a position or an immediate result. Knowing when not to take them matters just as much. And I think this is something that has carried forward for Nanna, long after his school days. There have been many instances in his professional life where he could have made quick money, taken an easier route by paying someone off, or accepted commissions and other incentives that came his way. There were opportunities where taking a shortcut would probably have been easier and more profitable in the short term. But he never gave in to them. That is what makes the story about the chit more meaningful to me. It was not simply a decision made by a schoolboy during one examination. The same instinct showed up much later, in situations where the stakes were far higher and the temptation could have been much greater. My father's school years, at least from the stories I have heard, were not a perfect picture of discipline or academic excellence. They were much more interesting than that. There was mischief, curiosity, missed classes, terrible handwriting, competitions, theatre, leadership and, somewhere underneath all of it, a few principles that stayed firm. 18

Perhaps that is a better way to think about education too. Don't spend all your energy trying to look like a perfect studious student alone. Use those years to figure out what you are good at, learn things deeply, try things that scare you a little, and build the kind of character that stays with you long after the marks are forgotten. 19

Chapter 4: Connecting Ideas Part 1 - Did you enjoy your day? During my school and college years, there was one question my father asked almost every day. “Did you enjoy your day?” Not “Did you finish your syllabus?” Not “How many marks did you get?” Just that. Only that. At that age, I did not think much about the question. I answered and moved on. It was only later that I understood why he asked it so often. For him, learning is never about forcing yourself through textbooks. He places huge emphasis on children and students loving the process of studying. He believes that curiosity mattered more than speed, and understanding mattered more than memorising. He often says that studying should not feel like a heavy burden you carry every day. If learning feels painful or mechanical, something is wrong. The problem is not that the student isn’t capable. The problem is the way learning is being approached. 20

A teacher, he says, must be like a black body. In physics, a black body is an idealised object that absorbs all the radiation that falls on it and, at a given temperature, emits the maximum possible radiation. My father uses this idea as an analogy for learning. A good teacher should give out knowledge clearly and completely, while a student should be equally engaged in absorbing it. For learning to be meaningful, the student must absorb fully. That absorption does not come from copying notes or memorising answers. It comes from paying attention, questioning, and staying with a concept until it makes sense. At the same time, what is emitted must be clear. If explanations are vague or rushed, absorption will never be complete. If students are distracted or disengaged, even the clearest explanation will be lost. He links this idea to a mathematical ratio: Emission (E) by the teacher divided by absorption (A) by the student: Learning = E/A. In an ideal classroom, this ratio should be equal to one. What is taught and what is understood should match. If either side falls short, learning is incomplete. No amount of extra homework or pressure can fix that gap. 21

This is also why he cares so deeply about whether students enjoy their day. Enjoyment, for him, means involvement. It means the student is mentally present, not just physically seated. Learning was never meant to feel like a one sided transfer. It was a process that required effort, honesty, and responsibility from both the teacher and the student. Marks would come later. Careers would come later. But enjoying the process was non-negotiable. Many times, he has told me that teaching BCA and MCA students gave him a sense of fulfilment that even teaching at some of the country’s most prestigious institutions, such as the IITs, might not have given him. He once told me that in every class, a few students will do well on their own. They grasp things quickly and move ahead. They do not need much help or intervention. They enjoy learning no matter who is standing at the blackboard. But most students fall somewhere in between. They are not weak. They are not dull. They just need time and steady guidance. Helping such students matters a lot to him. Seeing a student slowly become confident gives him more happiness than seeing someone secure the first rank. 22

He feels proud when a student who once struggled began to pass comfortably. He feels even happier when that student started enjoying the subject. Money was another reason many students worried about continuing their education. Some of them came to him hesitantly, not knowing how to explain their situation. He listened. He never made them feel small. Even now, he tries his best to help them monetarily, by helping to obtain scholarships from the college, or recommending to the administration that their fees be reduced, or speaking to his old students. Many of them are always willing to help, because they remember how they had once been in the same situation, and how my father had made sure they received support when they needed it most. Many times, he paid from his own pocket. He believes that help should not stop with one person. He feels that if each student who had been helped went on to support two or three others, the same kindness would continue and the circle would remain unbroken. There are innumerable stories behind that belief. Students with single struggling parents. Students who worked at night as delivery boys and came to class in the morning. Students who took up part-time work 23

because their parents’ occupations were not enough to sustain their living. Some of them carried responsibilities far beyond their age. Yet they showed up. He did not want learning to become one more thing that hurt them. That is why he did not stop at teaching subjects.He introduced and encouraged many activities that students could organize, anchor and participate in. He made sure students got chances to stand up, speak, and be seen. Many of them had never held a microphone before. Many had stage fright. Some would not even say their name loudly. Over time, they changed. They became confident individuals. They learnt to face a crowd. They learnt to express themselves. They learnt to carry themselves differently. And not all struggles were about money. Some students came from well-off families but had attitude and behavioural issues. They were restless, careless and sometimes arrogant. Even they needed shaping in a different way. 24

College, for him, is not only about marks. It is about becoming better. Today, many of them are doing extremely well in life. To him, making learning enjoyable is not only about how a concept is taught in class. It is also about what a student carried in their mind while trying to learn. If a student was scared of not understanding, learning became a burden. If a student was worried about money, learning became a burden. If a student felt small and behind, learning became a burden. If a student carried the wrong attitude, learning became a burden. If a student lacked confidence, learning became a burden. He tries, in every way he can, to reduce that burden. That question he asked every day was not small talk. It was his way of checking whether learning was happening the way it should. 25

Chapter 5: Connecting Ideas: Part 2: Seeing the Bigger Picture I have always liked listening to my father’s speeches. What I liked even more was how those speeches often took shape at home. Many evenings, during dinner, he would talk about what he had spoken about somewhere or what he was planning to speak about next. It never felt like preparation. It felt like a conversation. My mother would listen quietly. I would ask questions. Sometimes we disagreed. Often we just listened. One idea that appeared again and again was about how large the universe is. He would explain it step by step. We live in a city. That city is part of a country. The country is on a planet. The planet is part of a solar system. The solar system belongs to a galaxy. And the galaxy is one among billions in the universe. Then he would pause and talk about how the universe is still expanding. How we use telescopes to look farther and farther into space, only to realise that every new discovery opens up something even more distant. Galaxies beyond galaxies. Regions we cannot fully 26

understand. Black holes that mark the limits of what we can explain, not the end of what exists. From there, the conversation would shift inward. He would talk about the human body. Organs performing specific functions. Cells working continuously. Processes happening at a level we cannot see, yet essential for life. How when we look closer using microscopes, we see cells dividing, structures becoming smaller and more complex. Just when we think we have reached the smallest level, there is something even more minute, operating quietly.Another complex system, functioning silently, without our awareness. The contrast has stayed with me. Vastness outside. Complexity inside. Whether we look through a telescope or a microscope, we reach a point where understanding gives way to curiosity. In both cases, there is always something beyond,, another layer, another depth. From here, he would sometimes move to the Dashavatara concept. He spoke about it in detail, not as a religious lesson, but as a sequence worth examining. Matsya: life in water. Kurma: life that could exist both in water and on land. Varaha: life fully on land. Narasimha: part animal, part human. Vamana: early human form. 27

And then the later avatars represent a more evolved human society. He liked how the sequence followed a clear progression. Life adapting, changing, becoming more complex over time. He never insisted on interpretation. He simply placed the order side by side with what we now understand about evolution. From there, he would often say one of his favourite lines, “history is not created, it repeats itself”. He liked this idea deeply. He often points out how concepts we consider modern often appear in older stories in different forms. He finds it marvelling that the Kauravas were described as being born from pots, something that reminded him of controlled birth or laboratory processes. He likens it to the concept of test-tube babies, not to claim equivalence, but to show that human imagination had always been thinking along these lines. Another parallel he likes to draw is between what we now call immersive experiences and Sanjaya in the Mahabharata. Dhritarashtra could not see the battlefield himself, yet he knew exactly what was happening. Sanjaya described the Kurukshetra war as it unfolded, moment by moment, with such clarity that distance ceased to matter. Events far away were present to him in real time. My father says 28

this is not very different from how we now think of immersive experiences, watching, hearing, and feeling present without being physically there. What we call virtual or augmented today existed earlier as an idea. He also loves the ideas in Ramayana, one of such ideas is the Pushpaka Vimana, which facilitated travel across great distances without the usual limitations. Movement not restricted by terrain or time. Today’s advancements, he quotes could most probably be sophisticated modifications of what once existed. His favourite and my all time favourite is Mayabazar, a film we all love. Whenever we watch it together, he points to scenes where people spoke across distances, appeared instantly, or watched events happening elsewhere. What looked magical then feels ordinary now. Video calls, live visuals, instant communication, things we no longer stop to marvel at. He never says that these stories predicted technology. That is not his point. What my dad likes is the repetition of ideas. Humans have always imagined faster communication, distant presence, controlled creation, and unrestricted movement. The form changes. The thinking does not. That is why he believes history repeats itself. This way of thinking also shaped how he viewed belief. 29

My father has always believed in a supreme power. But he never believed that faith had to be expressed through constant rituals or rigid practices. Temples mattered to him, but they were not the only place where faith existed. For him, the order in the universe, the precision in the human body, and the repetition of patterns across time are enough to acknowledge that there is something larger. He believes that work done sincerely is a form of worship, and that helping others is the highest form of it. There is no need to announce belief or display it. It is reflected in his daily conduct. Over the years, I have realised that these dinner-table conversations taught me something important. They showed me how simple discussions can shape the way one approaches learning, making it more connected and meaningful. They taught me that understanding grows when you look beyond what is immediately in front of you. Science, history, epics, and technology are not necessarily separate compartments. One idea leads to another. If you understand a concept well, you begin to see it appear elsewhere in a different form. For any student, this itself is a lesson: learning does not stop with what is taught. It begins when you start noticing patterns on your own. 30

Chapter 6: Serving with Intent Our house was always open to people. Students came often, my father’s students, sometimes alone, sometimes with their families, and later with children. Colleagues dropped by. Family friends came in. Many times, people arrived without informing us in advance. That was never seen as a problem. It was normal. My father made sure that anyone who entered our home felt at ease. Not formally welcomed, but comfortable enough to sit down, relax, and stay for a while. He wanted people to feel like they didn’t have to rush their visit. This did not change based on who was visiting. Whether it was a plumber, a carpenter, an electrician, or our driver, they were always offered something to eat or drink. If work went on through a meal, they were asked to sit and eat. If it was a shorter visit, tea or snacks were offered. Food always played a crucial part. It was not about cooking something special or elaborate. It was about serving properly and with intent. He was particular that nothing should be “dry dry” or “for the sake of it”, neither the food nor the way it was served. There had to be warmth in it. 31

He would watch quietly to see if people were eating properly. If someone hesitated, their plate would be refilled without being asked. If someone had eaten less, he would gently insist. He made sure everyone ate well before the conversation moved on. Nanna has big hands, and an even bigger heart. When he served food, it was always sincere. A little more rice. A little more dal. A simple act that said, You are welcome here. My father has always said that in situations like these, small extra attention creates a much bigger impact. He explains it simply: Doing 90 out of 100 feels like 50. Doing 101 out of 100 feels like 200. That extra one percent, asking once more, serving a little more, staying present a little longer, changes how people remember the experience. Guests may forget what they ate. But they remember how they were treated. I remember this clearly from our housewarming functions. One was when I was a child, and the most recent one is still fresh in my mind. In both, what stood out was the same thing. Guests spoke about the food. They said they had eaten well. They left feeling happy and full. 32

That was important to Nanna. It told him that people had been taken care of properly. That the food was cooked and served with care. That the effort had reached them. This is where I first understood that intent matters more than effort. That doing something with a full heart leaves a deeper mark than doing a lot without care. And that making people feel welcome and comfortable is not a grand act, it is a habit. The same idea applies in the workplace. At work, the difference between someone who does their job and someone who leaves an impact is often this extra attention. In professional settings, what separates people who are merely efficient from those who are effective is often this extra attention. Not mere enthusiasm. Not friendliness. Just taking the situation seriously enough to do it well. In meetings, it shows up in how clearly something is explained. In how much thought goes into preparation. In whether the other person leaves confused or clear. Most people do what is required. A few do a little more than required. That difference is felt immediately. I saw this clearly in my father’s role as a teacher. He did not rush through the syllabus for the sake of completion. He paid attention to whether the class was following. If something needed to be explained again, he explained it. If it needed a different approach, he adjusted. 33

Students may not remember every concept he taught. They remember the examples he shared, the life lessons he brought into the classroom, and that they felt comfortable asking questions. They remember that understanding mattered more than finishing quickly. Whether it is at home, in a classroom, or at work, the principle is the same. Doing something almost right is not the same as doing it properly. That small extra attention changes how the entire experience is remembered. When attention is genuine, it reaches people. When it is mechanical, it does not. This is not something you perform once. It becomes part of how you live and work. 34

Chapter 7: Being Firm When Needed There is one incident I hoped I would never have to write about. I carried it quietly for years, folding it away whenever my mind went there, telling myself it was better left untouched. It was my first year of engineering, just after the first semester. I had come home from the hostel and met my 12th-grade friends. We decided to watch PK. Movie tickets were around ₹250 or ₹300 then. My father had given me ₹500 for the day. It was more than enough. After the movie, one of my friends suggested having food. We ended up at McDonald’s. I felt I needed to treat them. They had treated me so many times before. It felt fair. It felt right. But I had only ₹500. I had an ATM card, an account my father had opened for me years ago. A children’s account at first, converted to a regular one after I turned eighteen. Without much thought, I withdrew another ₹500. That part wasn’t wrong. What followed was. 35

I don’t know exactly why I chose to hide it. Maybe it was fear. Maybe guilt. All I remember is thinking my father wouldn’t come to know. And once that thought entered my mind, I stayed quiet. When he asked later how much I had spent, I said ₹350. That was the mistake. About a week later, my father was routinely checking bank statements - his, my mother’s, and then mine. Casually. Like he always did. Not suspiciously. Not angrily. That evening, he came home and asked, just as casually, “You withdrew ₹500. What happened?” There was no accusation in his voice. No suspicion. If anything, he sounded concerned as if he thought I might have needed money for an emergency. And that is when everything collapsed. I broke down. Completely. I cried and confessed not just about the withdrawal, but about the lie. About hiding it. About being scared. My mother was deeply upset. My father shouted. But not without reason. 36

He was harsh because the moment demanded it. He punished me. He made me acknowledge my mistake in a diary, write it down, and sign it owning what I had done and promising myself not to repeat it. He spoke to me about money, not as currency, but as character. About how money, when hidden and lied about, has the power to weaken a person. The worst part was not having to hear these things. The worst part was knowing them already and still doing what I did. I cried for hours. More than three. Not because I was scared of punishment, but because I had disappointed someone who trusted me completely. That night stayed with me. But something else stayed with me too. After that day, my father never mentioned the incident again. Not once. Not as a reminder. Not as a warning. Not even as a joke. For him, the chapter was closed. He had been harsh when needed and then he let it go. That, I realize now, was not forgiveness. It was confidence. 37

Confidence that I had understood. Confidence that I would not repeat it. Confidence that correction, once done properly, does not need repetition. This is what I learned from him: Care does not mean avoiding firmness. Gentleness does not mean absence of boundaries. And love, sometimes, must raise its voice only so it never has to again. 38

Chapter 8 - The Habit of Saving My father’s habit of saving began when he was a child. He once went to Andhra Bank and asked for a piggy bank on his own. He was so small that he had to stand on a stool to reach the counter. Whenever he got a few coins from elders at home, or as prizes, he would take them to the bank and deposit them. He did not wait for someone to teach him. He simply liked the idea of keeping money aside and watching it grow slowly. That habit stayed with him. When I was in first standard, he got me a piggy bank too. I was encouraged to put coins into it regularly, whatever small change I had. Slowly it became more organised. We had three piggy banks at home: one for one-rupee coins, one for two-rupee coins, and one for five-rupee coins. It became a fun activity. Every once in a while, we would open all three piggy banks together and count the coins. Sitting with my father, sorting and stacking them, felt strangely satisfying. I did not realise then that I was learning the habit of saving without being told to save. This habit did not stop with piggy banks. My father, for many years, and even now collects ten-rupee and twenty-rupee notes. He carefully saves them and keeps them in a briefcase. From time to time, 39

he opens it, counts the notes, and quietly puts them back. He called that briefcase our “emergency fund,” separate from the regular emergency savings in the bank account. Watching him do this was reassuring. The money accumulated in my piggy banks was not left untouched forever. With it, my father once bought me a carrom board. Another time, he bought a swing. There were other small things too. Each purchase came with an unspoken lesson: savings had purpose. Saving did not mean denying joy; it meant earning it patiently. What I like the most about this approach is that the money saved was not simply money sitting somewhere. It gave us something to look forward to. He instilled the habit of saving very early mostly through observation. He did not speak about money as something to fear, or something to chase. He treated it as something to handle responsibly. Save first. Then spend wisely. That was the rule in our home. As an adult, he carried the same discipline forward. Along with my mother, he planned carefully, saved steadily, and ensured financial security for our family. There was no panic around money, because there was preparation. When they moved to Bangalore in the early 2000s, they had to start again from nothing, leaving everything familiar behind. Those early years were 40

careful and deliberate. Every expense was written down in a diary. Money was first set aside for savings, and only what remained was used for expenses. There was a quiet system to how the household grew. Each month, they planned and bought one item for the home, slowly building a life piece by piece. Nothing was rushed. Nothing was impulsive. My father often spoke about needs and wants. Not as a rule, just as a way of thinking. Money was not spent casually. What was bought had intention behind it, and its value was understood. Little joys were never restricted. Eating out was always part of our routine. I still remember being a fan of the Joker Cap plain dosa at Pavithra Hotel in Jayanagar, trips to Cool Joint, and many such small treats. Almost every evening, on the way back from playhome or school, my father and I would stop at some eatery. Dosas, cream buns, something simple, those stops were our regular ones and something I always looked forward to as a child. Savings never meant cutting back on these moments. It was never about saying no to spending. It was about being planned. Being clear about what mattered and what did not. There was no splurging on things that were unnecessary, but there was always room for everyday comfort and enjoyment. 41

My father never went overboard, even when he had the capacity to spend more. Instead of a premium phone, he was always fine with a regular mid-range one. He was never interested in showmanship. Even today, with far more comfort and stability, his instinct remains the same. Before buying something, he pauses. He asks himself and asks us whether it is truly necessary. What stands out is that he learned much of this on his own. At a time when most people around him including elders in his family believed fixed deposits were the primary way to save, he began exploring other options. He observed, learned, and eventually started systematic investment plans and invested in mutual funds. He believed in steady, disciplined investing and in the power of compounding over time. He has never been afraid of money, but he has always been careful about it. He likes understanding where it is going, what it can do, and how small amounts can become meaningful over time. He tries to inculcate this mindset in others too including his students. He encourages them to start early, even with small amounts, and to think ahead. He reminds them that waiting for the “right time” is often the biggest mistake. Planning, he feels, should not begin after life becomes comfortable. It should begin before. Financial 42

responsibility is never about how much one earned. It is about awareness, discipline, and foresight, he says. When I look back, I see that the biggest lesson was not about banks or investments. It was the habit itself built quietly, practiced daily, and repeated for years. It started with him as a child, standing on a stool at a bank counter, holding a few coins. And it became an ingrained trait. 43

Chapter 9 - Timely appreciation My father is quick in appreciating anything done well. It did not matter how big or small the act was. If the food was cooked well, he said so. If something tasted good, it was acknowledged immediately. If I packed his lunch box neatly or finished a task properly, he noticed. There was no checklist for what deserved appreciation. Effort qualified. Attention qualified. He also never waits for a special occasion to say something nice. If he notices something good, he says it then and there. The same approach carried into his classroom. If a student answered correctly, showed presence of mind, made a good attempt, or handled something thoughtfully, it was recognised. Sometimes, without a word, he would reach into his pocket and hand over a small note or a token on the spot. It was never about the amount. It was about recognizing the moment. I think that timing made the appreciation mean more. He likes acknowledging the effort. Good marks and competition wins were appreciated, of course. But they were never treated as the only moments worth recognizing. 44

What mattered to him was doing something sincerely. A student who had struggled but put consistent efforts to better himself deserved encouragement just as much as the student who consistently came first. Someone who tried something new, spoke confidently for the first time, or handled a difficult situation well deserved praise and recognition. When appreciation comes without pressure attached, it does something powerful. It builds confidence quietly. It makes effort feel worthwhile. And sometimes, that small recognition is enough to make someone try again. We often assume there will be another opportunity to thank someone, acknowledge an effort, or say that something was done well. But people sometimes need encouragement in the middle of their effort, not only after they have achieved the final result. A few words spoken at the right time can become more than praise. You can tell someone: “ I noticed. Your effort mattered. Keep going. “ From him, I learnt that appreciation need not be grand. It only needs to be sincere, specific and on time. 45

What we practise As I reach the end of this book, what I have written here reflects what I have observed and come to understand over time. It does not capture everything. There are many more moments and stories that would be equally worth telling, if not more. But these pages bring together the patterns that stood out most clearly to me, the ones that repeated themselves across years, across situations and across different phases of my life. They are not bound to childhood or to a particular profession. They apply whether one is a student trying to find direction, a professional navigating responsibility, or simply someone attempting to build a meaningful life. There is a list of “Rules for Living with People” that Nanna likes. I don't know who originally wrote it, but I think many of the ideas are worth remembering. When you meet young people, inspire them. When you meet children, educate them. When you meet older people, respect them and help them. When you meet wise people, learn from them. When you meet leaders, honour them. When you meet humble people, treasure them. When you meet gracious people, learn from them. When you meet strong people, support them. 46

When you meet hardworking people, encourage them. When you meet kind and honest people, value them. And when you meet people who are difficult or unpleasant, you don't always have to engage with them. Sometimes it is better to keep your distance and move on. In much the same spirit, if I were to put the ideas from this book into a few simple reminders, they would be these: When you know your strengths, play to them and build on them. When you learn something, understand it properly. When things go wrong, stay calm and think. When there is a better way, take the shortcut, but never at the cost of learning or integrity. When you come across something new, relate it to what you already know, and try to look beyond the obvious. When someone needs help, make their load a little lighter. When something matters, be firm about it. When you earn, save before you spend. 47

When someone makes an effort, appreciate it while it matters. When someone helps you along the way, remember them and help someone else when you can. The ideas come from different parts of the book, but they have something quite simple in common. They are about how you approach learning, work, money, people and yourself. More importantly, they are about the choices you make in ordinary situations. One of the strongest principles running through all of this is being self-driven. Not driven by fear, not driven by comparison, not driven by deadlines alone, but driven from within. My father often says that no one can constantly push you forward. Teachers can guide, parents can support, friends can encourage, but eventually, you have to drive yourself. And when you learn to do that, you are also able to inspire and guide others around you. Leadership does not begin with managing people. It begins with managing yourself. Another important idea is the difference between living a life and leading a life. Living is automatic. Days pass, routines repeat, responsibilities get completed. Leading your life means being aware of how you are living it. It means asking yourself whether your actions are taking you somewhere meaningful. You do not need to do extraordinary things every day. But you do need to be self-aware. A life does not become worthwhile by 48

accident. It becomes worthwhile through conscious choices made consistently. There is a simple line he often repeats: if you rest, you rust. Rest is important, but stagnation is dangerous. The moment you stop learning, stop questioning, or stop challenging yourself, you slowly lose sharpness. Growth does not demand speed. It demands continuity. As long as you are moving forward, even slowly, you are still growing. Another principle he lives by is practice repeatedly. He often says that you are not defined by what you intend to do, but by what you do again and again. Discipline, honesty, curiosity and effort are not one-time traits. They are habits. You become good at what you practise repeatedly. Even now, he revises the topics he plans to teach, and whenever he is invited as a guest speaker, he runs through his speech in his head. Most of the time, what he delivers on stage is impromptu, and his thoughts flow naturally. But that ease did not appear on its own. It was built through practice over decades, especially in his early years, when preparation mattered the most. Another part of this is gratitude. This is something he stresses every day, and I have been scolded multiple times for not going to visit ‘Gokul’ aunty after college. That place, my playhome, was more than just a playhome. It felt like a second home, almost like my 49

grandparents’ house. It was where I went after school, played with friends and, more importantly, learned many things that shaped me. Babuji and aunty took care of me, and the other children, as their own, quietly instilling values that stayed with us. He has always spoken with gratitude about the many people who helped shape his own journey. He often mentions his first principal in Guntur, the lawyer uncle who evaluated the first site he bought in Bangalore, our first house owners in Jayanagar, Gokul aunty and several others who supported him at different points in life. He never treats these as small or forgettable contributions. For him, acknowledging them is a responsibility. What matters, he says, is recognising what you have received and remaining humble because of it. Perhaps that is what brings all these stories together. They are not really about being the best student, the most successful professional, the most disciplined person or even the most capable one in the room. They are about how you conduct yourself, what you choose to value, and the small things you do consistently. No one needs to wait for the “right time” to start leading their life. You can begin where you are, with what you have, by taking responsibility for how you think, how you act and how you learn. Over time, those small choices shape not just your career or achievements, but the kind of person you become. 50

In the end, these lessons are not about achieving goals or success alone. They are about building a life that feels fulfilling and meaningful. A meaningful life comes from conscious, consistent choices. And perhaps that is the simplest lesson of all: what we practise, day after day, becomes who we are. 51

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