People asked me recently: “The project you’re doing is so cool—tell me more about it and if I can help in some way.”
And I didn’t know how to answer.
Because the truth is, I still don’t know if this is “it.” I’m 26. My family still thinks my degree is wasted. Some days I’m building with hope. Other days I’m just building because I don’t know what else to do.
But if you’d asked me in 2020—when I was sleeping in direct sunlight with no AC, throwing water on my bed just to feel less heat, eating one meal every two days, disappearing from my own life—I would’ve told you I was done.
So maybe the story isn’t about knowing. Maybe it’s about what happens when you keep moving even when you have no idea where you’re going.
This is that story. The 7 years between panic and purpose. The timeline I never talked about with anyone.
2019: The First Time I Felt Alive
I’m standing at a college fees counter. My brother sent me ₹95,000—first time it came to my account instead of going straight to the college.
I’m about to transfer it, but I felt odd. Restless. I don’t know what the exact feeling was because it was too heavy to understand properly as a 20-year-old kid. My hands started shaking. Not because it’s a lot of money, but because of this one thought I couldn’t shake:
“If I had to earn this myself… how long would it take? What’s the guarantee I’ll ever make it back? Why is all the risk on my parents and none on the institution?”
As a kid, I’d watched series like Ramayana and Mahabharat that showed the Gurukul system. Where students learned first, became capable, and then paid as Gurudakshina—when they had something to give.
That day, something clicked.
I started Idea to Venture (I to V) with some friends. The concept was simple: students learn through real industry work, get paid for projects, and their fees come out of what they earn. The company bears the cost upfront. No loans. No debt. Everyone grows together.
For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a purpose. Something bigger than grades, bigger than placements, bigger than just… existing.
I was excited. I was building. I was alive.
2020: The Year I Disappeared
Then Covid hit.
College closed. Friends went home. The project collapsed.
And I… broke.
I don’t know how else to describe it. I just stopped. Stopped answering calls. Stopped trying. Stopped being a person.
I was living in a room with my brother—same house, but he barely saw me. I’d sleep at 5-6 AM after watching Netflix and other OTT platforms the whole night. There was actually a time when I’d almost run out of content in the genres I used to watch. Then I’d sleep till 3pm, 4pm, sometimes 5pm. Direct sunlight on my face because there were no curtains. No AC in the summer heat. I’d throw water on the bed just to cool down enough to sleep again.
One meal a day. Sometimes one meal every two days. I don’t even remember eating. I just remember the heat, the weight, the silence.
I wasn’t thinking about startups or purpose or the future. I wasn’t thinking at all. I was just… sinking.
People talk about depression like it’s sadness. But it’s not. It’s numbness. It’s your body going offline because staying present hurts too much.
By the end of 2020, I started having a little interaction with friends again, and we planned to start another thing—a podcast series named Chapter One. To be honest, it was a desperate attempt to revive a part of I to V at that time. I made a team, brought in guests, found sponsorships. Hosted 7 episodes until the host and other team members decided to part ways because they felt we weren’t getting enough viewership.
I collapsed again. Because I was the one inviting guests. And I was also the one who wasn’t ready to face the camera. And I was the one who had to answer every guest when they asked about when their episode was going to air.
I still remember that 7th episode where we scheduled an interview with the DGP of Nagaland, Mr. Rupin Sharma. I tried my best to coordinate. I don’t remember if the interview happened or not because I never received the answers from my team back then. But the guilt and shame of inviting such a prodigy and not taking care of my own mess—that still carries with me.
I collapsed. Again.
Everything I touched felt pointless.
I don’t remember much from 2020. Just the heat. And the feeling that I’d already used up my one shot at doing something that mattered.
2021: The Job That Felt Like Suffocation
The same cycle of depression and sleeping till 3pm hit back. But this time, less intense.
Then I joined my brother’s startup, IoTronix. Going out, delivering projects at clients’ places—it made me feel a little better. Not good enough to think of starting something again, but better.
Then in 2021, lockdown hit again. We came back home and paused operations. We were short on funds and needed to take care of expenses.
So I took an internship at Times Internet. Good company. Good people. I was doing good work. On paper, everything was fine.
But I felt like I was suffocating.
I can’t explain it properly. The work was fine. The team was fine. But there was no purpose in it. No ownership. I was solving problems that didn’t matter to me. Attending meetings that felt like performing.
I’d sit in front of my laptop in my room and feel like my life was happening somewhere else. Like I was watching myself from outside my body, wondering how I ended up here.
I stayed for 6 months. And then I quit.
But before I left, I hired the interns who’d replace me—as per the request from my manager. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I wanted to leave something better than I found it. Maybe I just needed to feel useful one last time before I disappeared again.
We restarted IoTronix again at the end of 2021. We got funding and had high hopes that we’d survive until April 2022. But then we started feeling the supply chain issues—raw materials and semiconductors shortage in the market. By July, we had to stop our operations again.
And as I saw it coming, I appeared for NCHM JEE exams to get into hotel management colleges.
2022-2025: The Years That Looked Like Vacation (But Were Actually Recovery)
I joined IHM Goa. Hotel management. Culinary arts. Bakery.
People thought I’d finally “found my path.” That I was settling down, being practical, doing something with a clear outcome.
But honestly? Those years felt like a holiday. Not in a fun way. In a “I’m just surviving and calling it progress” way.
Cooking gave me something I to V and Times Internet didn’t—clarity. There’s no abstraction in food. You prepare something, someone eats it, they feel nourished. It’s direct. It’s real.
I did my internship at The Leela Udaipur. Learned a lot. Worked hard. And somewhere in there, I started feeling human again.
Day before Valentine’s Day, I had this random idea. I bought chocolates, made a sign, stood outside a mall: “Free Chocolates for Singles.” It was awkward. It flopped. I changed it to “Chocolates for Self-Expression”—you write a note about anything you want, and take a chocolate.
I spent ₹300 on chocolates and received around ₹110 in donations without asking. So I started thinking about building a sustainable model around it. During my research, I figured out that if I could make those chocolates myself, I could make them for less than ₹100—the same ones I was spending ₹300+ on.
Because I was convinced of something:
People recognize real value. And when you give it to them, they want to give back.
I bought chocolates worth ₹4,000 over two months. In and out, distributing chocolates. But I couldn’t finish all of them. I tried putting up a stall in the college fest but never got permission to set one up. I was so angry and disappointed with the politics that I never attended that fest—even when my friends forced me to.
Then I finished my degree. Came back to Delhi with more than 20 packs of chocolates. Printed a standee with the hope of going out and continuing to do what I loved. Even thought of cooking snacks and serving them. But I never got the courage to go in front of people and serve or cook snacks.
I tried working with a few friends of my brother on a startup, but that didn’t work either.
I thought about going to the UK for a master’s in culinary. My family didn’t want me taking a loan and moving abroad. Even my friends and peers discouraged me. They tried convincing me how bad this idea was. They even said I should just open a small outlet of my own somewhere in Delhi.
At the same time, my family wanted me to come home—it had been a year and a half. So I came home on August 14, 2025, like it was a vacation. Without any plans.
And I sat with that same restlessness I’d felt in 2019. Except this time, I wasn’t excited. I was just… tired. And confused. And unsure if I had another attempt left in me.
2025: Starting Again (Even Though I Wasn’t Ready)
I came back to my town—the one I grew up in—and I couldn’t unsee it anymore.
Kids with potential and nowhere to go. People hungry while food got wasted. Schools teaching theory while life demanded skills.
I thought about I to V. About the Gurukul model. About the chocolates. About the donations. About how I could improve my own health and wellness.
And I thought: What if I just tried again? Not as a startup. Not as a business. Just as… something real.
But first, I was eating, sleeping, and living like a zombie. Until my cousin started living with me and the two of us started exploring together.
I was going to my uncle’s school to pass my time—there was nothing at home to work with. Until one day, my uncle asked me to try teaching computer to kids.
I tried. I loved it. I started going regularly for two months.
In that time, I got 4-5 kids—ages 15-16, from my own family and their friends—and we planned to build a cafe. But not the regular kind. One that runs on tax money and feeds people without expecting cash in return. Instead, a skills exchange.
But the issue was: they didn’t even know how to take care of themselves when they came. But we still started. Managing our habits and plans. Observing. Optimizing. While having fun.
By October 2025, we registered One Foundation.
I didn’t read books on running NGOs. I didn’t have funding. I didn’t have a plan. I just couldn’t not do it.
I still remember reaching out to my friends to help me with the funds—I needed ₹17,000 to register the foundation. Some helped. Some didn’t. But we still made it through.
We started building. A cafe. An open space. A computer center. A pool. Most of it with our own hands. The kids did it. I did it.
Then Diwali happened.
The kids planned it. 21,000 diyas lit. 4,000 meals served. A Bal Mela hosted by school children. ₹4-5k in donations. Newspaper coverage.
That day, One Foundation stopped being my project. It became ours.
By December, these kids were running food delivery. Selling thalis for ₹49 that usually cost ₹130-200 elsewhere.
Nobody paid us ₹49. Everyone paid ₹50. When we tried to give change back, they refused. They said, “It’s worth more than that.”
We made ₹20,000 in revenue. We never advertised after day one. People just called. Repeat customers. Word of mouth.
2026: Still Unsure, Still Building
It’s May 2026 now.
We’ve paused the cafe for the kids’ exams. We’re setting up an AI and tech lab. Music and art inventory. Hydroponics. Building systems so this doesn’t depend on me forever.
Some days I feel hopeful. Like we’re actually building something that’ll last.
Other days I feel like I’m 27 with no backup plan, running an organization I barely understand, hoping I’m not wasting everyone’s time again.
My family still thinks my degree is wasted. We had this conversation yesterday—for about an hour. They want me to finish my B.Tech. Get a job. Be safe.
And I get it. I do. Because from the outside, this looks insane. A Section 8 non-profit in a small town with no guaranteed funding, teaching kids through cafes and diyas and hope.
But here’s the thing I’ve learned over these 7 years:
Purpose doesn’t save you from breaking. Success doesn’t silence doubt. And being lost doesn’t mean you’re not moving.
In 2020, I thought I was done. Finished. That I’d had my one shot and missed.
But I wasn’t done. I was just underground for a while. Recovering. Learning to cook. Standing outside malls with chocolates. Figuring out what mattered when nothing made sense.
And now I’m here. Still partially lost. Still unsure if this will work. Still hearing my family tell me to get a job.
But I’m building anyway.
What I’d Tell the 2020 Version of Me
If I could go back to that room—the one with no curtains, the heat, the silence—I’d tell him this:
You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re just in the middle of something you can’t see the shape of yet.
The years you think you’re wasting? You’re not. You’re learning to cook so you can feed people later. You’re learning what suffocation feels like so you’ll recognize purpose when it shows up. You’re learning that starting and failing doesn’t kill you—it just teaches you how to start again.
And in 2025, you’re going to register something called One Foundation. You won’t be sure it’ll work. Your family will still want you to get a job. You’ll still have days where you feel like a fraud.
But you’ll also watch 5 kids light 21,000 diyas. And you’ll realize that being lost wasn’t the opposite of moving forward. It was just a different kind of movement.
So stay in that room as long as you need to. Throw water on the bed. Sleep through the heat. Disappear if you have to.
But when you’re ready—even if you’re not sure, even if you’re scared, even if it doesn’t make sense—start again.
Because you will. And it won’t be perfect. But it’ll be real.
The Part I Still Don’t Know
I don’t know if One Foundation will work long-term.
I don’t know if we’ll have funding next year.
I don’t know if I’m doing this right.
But I know this: Being lost doesn’t disqualify you from building. Uncertainty doesn’t mean you’re failing. And starting again—even after 2020, even after everything—is not naive. It’s brave.
So if you’re reading this and you’re in your own version of 2020—sleeping through the heat, feeling like you’ve already used up your one shot, wondering if you’ll ever feel alive again—I want you to know:
You’re not done.
You’re just in the middle.
And the middle is supposed to feel like this.
This is still Chapter One. And I’m still building.
— Gyan
Founder, One Foundation
26, Still Unsure, Still Going
