A Punch in the Face

Choosing Your Battles

Jan 23, 2025

Facing Fear in the Ring

Whenever I think about school, a kaleidoscope of emotions rushes back—crushes, dreaded report cards, and the stomach-churning fear of boxing class. The sheer range of feelings—from the thrill of bunking a strict teacher's class to the terror of facing my father with a bad report card—was intense. But nothing was more nerve-wracking than stepping into the makeshift boxing ring below our main building, the crowd of students baying for blood.

A dynamic digital painting of two school boys facing each other in a playful boxing match inside a school gym. Both are in a ready stance, wearing casual sportswear and colorful boxing gloves but without headgear. The gym features wooden floors, basketball hoops, and bright overhead lights. Surrounding them is a large group of schoolboys cheering and watching excitedly, adding to the energetic atmosphere. In the background, a large banner reads 'St. Xavier' in bold letters, hanging on the gym wall. Motion blur enhances the sense of movement, and the scene has a slightly gritty yet playful and cinematic feel. Created using: dynamic brush strokes, motion blur effects, high-contrast lighting, detailed anatomy, cinematic composition, textured canvas effect, intense color grading, HD quality, natural look.

My earliest memories are from Nasik, then a small town where we lived in a sprawling bungalow with many trees and greenery. Nasik was a city famous for its grapes, and later, the famous Sula winery was based here. But while we were there, it was a sleepy little town, ambitious but not yet happening.

I was in the sixth standard, new to Mumbai after moving from Nasik, already jittery with big-city blues. The day began at Nasik with birds chirping & here I was, waking up to the sound of crazy traffic and the smell of petrol, almost like an attack on my senses. The shift from a quiet, familiar town to the bustling metropolis of Mumbai was overwhelming. Boxing was compulsory at my school. Our instructor, Alex, was a competitive boxer turned coach. He was charismatic, intense, and aggressive. Even today, my body reminds me of the fear of walking into that ring. A knot tightens in my stomach as I remember the leathery smell of the gloves, the sweat, and the sheer dread of getting punched in the face.

"Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face," Mike Tyson famously said.
But that's only half the quote. The part often left out is, "Then, like a rat, they stop in fear and freeze." That was the real lesson—learning to move forward despite fear.

Even now, if I catch the scent of leather, a memory triggers. My stomach clenches. My nose smarts from an old yet not-forgotten whack. My mom still remembers that day when I returned with a bloody nose.

Yet Nasik had its joys, too. Cycling wasn't just transport; it was escape—freedom. I still remember riding with my legs through the triangular frame in a position called Kainchi. There was one steep road near my house, and whenever I reached the edge of that road, my breathing changed its pace, almost like the road was challenging me to take it on. Each time I reached it, fear flickered—but so did excitement. Years later, I revisited that road as an adult. It was laughably small. The incline? Barely noticeable. But danger is always in the eyes of the beholder.

Ambition: Born in the Chaos

Back then, whether in the ring or at school, I felt the weight of expectation. That weight, however, shaped something powerful within me---ambition. Ambition became the lens through which I viewed the world. It fueled me to co-create Cequity, build deep networks, and carve my path.

But it wasn't always like this.

I remember my father and mother nudging me to focus on doing well. It was my 10th standard board & I managed a 95% score in Maths; I was happy. But before the summer vacation ended, I got a tutor for maths; my dad felt there were five more marks to be had. For the record, I got 99 in the 12th & my dad was ok with that 1-mark loss! Anything apart from a deep focus on my studies was looked down upon. Some early sports skills were encouraged, but never at the cost of academics.

I finished my education like a bad chapter in a fast-moving novel, with precious little to celebrate. Still, I exited with a focus the size of an elephant in Musth rampaging through grassland. I was determined to do well in my career, whatever "well" meant for the outside world.

I began my long march to the beat of external drummers- people I admired and wanted to follow. My internal drummers popped up just in time to bring an edge to my personality, like tadka on slow-cooked dal - that final tempering of spices that transforms a simple lentil dish into something extraordinary. The edge created a furious ambition to be the best in everything I did.

Fear, Freedom, and Finding My Voice

School wasn't just about survival—it was also about discovery. What excites me? What do I hate? What am I good at? Oddly, I remember being very much involved but not making most key decisions myself at that stage—like choosing science or the arts or changing schools.

We often surrender our power simply by believing we don't have any. Yet, school was also about finding my voice. What choices could I make? Who would I befriend?

We don't teach emotions in school. We learn math, science, and history. Still, no one shows us how to process fear, deal with failure, or embrace vulnerability. Life, however, has its own way of teaching—sometimes in a boxing ring, sometimes in quiet moments of self-reflection.

I had come from a small town to a big city, and our tall building opposite Regal Cinema seemed gigantic compared to our one-level bungalow in Nasik. The constantly honking traffic created a sense of pace, and even the pigeons here seemed more aggressive, attacking the crumbs on the pavement; I was scared. Even taking a BEST bus alone in sixth grade filled me with dread. I still remember the heart-stopping fear of missing my stop and being lost forever.

Unlearning Strength

It took years to realize that vulnerability doesn't undermine strength.

Growing up, I believed that "men don't cry." I saw this as a barrier that I had to uphold. But now, I understand that crying isn't a weakness—it's human. It's a way to release, to heal, to move forward.

Yet, meeting my father's expectations was an insurmountable task back then.

A Ranji Trophy cricketer. A mathematics gold medalist. An IAS officer. His achievements loomed over me like an impossible shadow.

How could I ever measure up?

Now, I watch an emotional film and feel the familiar lump in my throat. I don't resist it anymore.

Vulnerability, once "out of syllabus" for me, is a lesson I'm still learning.

Being in touch with emotions doesn't make you weak; it makes you stronger.

The Hardest Punch Wasn't in the Ring

For years, I took my punches and kept moving. The external drummers were loud, guiding me toward growth, expansion, and success—the version of success the world validated. I co-founded Cequity, a data analytics company, and built it over many years into a successful business. It was the culmination of my ambitions, the proof that I could take life's punches and succeed. Cequity was more than a company—it was an identity.

But then, one day, I faced a punch I hadn't trained for.

It wasn't a financial crisis or a leadership failure. It was something more profound—a quiet but growing realization that the fight I was in was no longer mine.

Walking away from my own company was a decision that felt like stepping out of the ring mid-match. Everything in me resisted. I had spent years proving I could take the hits, get back up, and fight harder. But was resilience always the answer?

I learned the most challenging lessons about resilience from my childhood friend Sujit, who became an Air Force pilot after growing up with me in St Xavier’s Mumbai & in Delhi's Chanakyapuri colony. He specialized in low-altitude MiG-21 flights and died at age 23 in a crash during one such mission. He left behind memories of our shared youth—from boxing matches to football games to motorcycle rides. Sujit moved with his signature style, whether in the boxing ring or football field. As a boxer, I still remember his lightning reflexes, with his head bobbing & arms poking for a gap in his opponent's defenses.

Sujit never quit a fight. But he also never had the choice to walk away from his last one. I did.

And that was my moment of reckoning.

Conclusion: Knowing Which Fights Matter

I used to believe that resilience meant staying in the fight no matter what. That grit meant absorbing every punch and pushing forward.

But life has taught me something else.

Resilience isn't just about enduring. It's about discerning. Knowing when to push through and when to step away.

The boy in the ring, frozen after his first punch, thought the only way forward was to fight harder. Today, I know better. Not every punch needs to be taken. Not every fight needs to be won.

Walking away from Cequity wasn't giving up. It was choosing the proper fight.

And now, I step into the ring differently- not out of fear or expectation, but because I know which battles are genuinely mine. Like a boxer who's learned to read his opponent's moves, I've learned to read some of life's punches. Many punches that life throws will still surprise me in infinite ways, and I am okay with that. Some need to be blocked, some need to be countered, and some—the hardest lesson—must be left unthrown. The true art isn't in the fighting; it's in the choosing. It is time to get out of the ring!