The Accidental Entrepreneur

A Supernova in the Himalayas

Several billion years after its birth, a star dies. Stars do not choose when they die. They burn until their fuel runs out, collapsing under their own gravity, only to explode in a supernova that seeds the universe with the elements of life. Iron in our blood, carbon in our bones—every part of us once resided in a dying star.

I thought of this as I stepped out of my tent. The wind was cold and steady, and the night sky made me gasp. It was dark, with thousands of stars splashed across it. The cold wrapped around me, sharp and unforgiving, but my gaze was fixed on the brilliant expanse of the Milky Way.

Though I was exhausted, something else was bothering me—a different kind of exhaustion, a weariness I had carried long before this trek.

I had spent decades climbing—first the corporate ladder, then in the arc of my ambitions—titles, promotions, success. I had been hungry for it all and had gotten much of it. And yet, somewhere along the way, the hunger had turned into something else—something hollow.

I had achieved everything I once wanted. I was currently the CMO at HDFC Bank, which was growing rapidly. So why did I still feel restless?

My mind shifted again to the magical sky overhead. Accidents were unfolding above me—old stars dying, new ones being born. Even as I looked, I realized that some star in the Milky Way was dying, having reached the end of its journey. In fact, not one but many were possibly going through that last death dance.

I remembered Michelle, an astronomer I follow and wish I had met. She once said:

"The moment of death for a giant star is one of the few things in the sky that happens quickly to human sensibility. They explode violently in what we call a supernova explosion. All the larger atoms of the universe are created in this explosion. Every atom of iron, from the metal in your cooking pans to the tiny mineral reserves in your blood that turn it red, is formed from these moments of death. Entire solar systems rip themselves apart in an instant. An instant."

It struck me—something has to die for something new to be born.

The Battle Between the Cold and the Mind

At that moment, I felt like I was dying too. My teeth chattered. My many layers were no match for the brutal cold at 5000 meters. I could barely hold my plate steady, my gloves off so I could tuck in much-needed energy.

The mess tent, the only refuge from the cold, was alive with chatter. Every evening, we gathered there, delaying the inevitable retreat into our sleeping bags. Someone always had a story, a song, a game. But as the night deepened, the cold sharpened, creeping into every exposed space. We stole wistful glances at the kitchen tent, where warmth and the last traces of food still lingered.

The wind howled. A tent flap tore loose. We rushed to secure it, battling the cold wind. Holding my warm plate felt like salvation. Eating the food is even better.

We were a small group—eight to ten trekkers—each at different fitness levels. I was prepared, but fitness alone doesn't carry you through in the mountains. The mind is the real battleground.

I had honed a trick over years of trekking: my internal tape recorder. A loop of thoughts, reminders, and mental notes that played in my head, helping me push through.

"Eat well. Hydrate. Tomorrow, we will go up to 5300 meters. Take care of your body. Don't be overconfident."

Walking at high altitudes is as much a mental game as a physical one. I always allowed my mind to wander on those walks amongst the giant peaks; there were many random thoughts all dancing in the backdrop of the mountains. I had read once that the brain when left undistracted, weaves connections in the background like software running some code to process the thoughts. But at that moment, I wasn't analyzing; I was pushing forward, step by step.

That night, I crawled out of my tent, frustrated at the usual midnight ritual—searching for my headlamp, layering up, stepping into the biting cold to pee. But when I looked up—everything changed.

A thousand stars stretched across the Milky Way, their glow undisturbed by the world below.

Accidents were unfolding above me—old stars dying, new ones being born.

And suddenly, I saw myself in them.

The Supernova Inside Me

When a huge star uses up its fuel, gravity causes it to crash in on itself—like something a million times heavier than Earth collapsing in 15 seconds! This triggers a supernova explosion that outshines galaxies.

It hit me—just like the Milky Way, we have galaxies within us. One type of supernova is caused by the "death rattle" of a dying massive star. Some stars burn bright, and others fade.

Sometimes, a big belief that guides us starts to die. Something we held dearly, our north star, started to shift. Like a star exploding in space, it crashes in on itself—BOOM! At first, it doesn't feel very good, like your whole world is breaking apart in seconds.

But here's the magic: just like a supernova scatters stardust that makes new stars when an old belief explodes, it spreads pieces of wisdom everywhere inside us. From these pieces, new and better beliefs begin to shine. Each time this happens, we grow, transform, and become more of who we're meant to be.

And from time to time, a new North Star emerges.

I had carried so many labels—executive, banker, corporate leader. Each had served me once, but something inside me was now shifting.

A new identity was forming: entrepreneur.

But what kind of entrepreneur did I want to be?

In The Founder's Dilemmas, Noam Wasserman explains that every founder faces a choice:

1. Be a King – Maintain control, protect your vision, and hold power.

2. Be Rich – Scale aggressively, take external investments, and optimize for financial returns.

But as I stood under the Milky Way, I realized—I wasn't chasing either.

I wasn't building Cequity to rule over it. I wasn't in it for the payout.

I was building because I was compelled to create something new that didn't yet exist but needed to.

I was an Explorer.

King, Rich… or Explorer?

Some founders want to be Kings—they steer the ship, set the vision, and hold the reins. Others want to be Rich—they see a business as an asset to scale, monetize, and eventually exit.

But Explorers?

They are different. They follow a different drumbeat.

Explorers don't build for control or wealth. They build for discovery. The joy isn't in owning something or cashing out—it's in solving something that hasn't been solved before.

They are worried about titles and equity —just that they have a different game that pulls them in another direction. They want to create. They are okay with letting go of control because they aren't attached to being the one in charge. They don't optimize for financial gain because the act of building itself is the reward.

And that night, under the stars, I understood something about myself—I had always been an Explorer.

The Coffee That Changed Everything

A few months later, after many discussions and one false start, Swamy and I sat across from each other at the Orchid Hotel, drinking coffee. Swami & I met during my CMO days; his agency managed advertising & direct marketing for us. And Swamy & I were like chalk & cheese in terms of personality. We sketched the contours of Cequity—an idea that had no blueprint, no playbook, only possibility. Cequity was a data analytics company long before the term became a buzzword. We aimed to revolutionize how businesses understood their customers, using insights no one else explored.

At one point, Swamy asked, "Our investor wants me to be CEO. Will you be okay with that?"

I didn't even pause. "Yes, that's fine."

A King would have fought for the title. A Rich-focused founder would have negotiated for a more significant stake.

But I had already made my choice.

I had chosen Explorer over King and Rich.

I wasn't chasing control. I wasn't chasing money. I was chasing the next frontier.

Accidental entrepreneurs

Days later, I resigned.

In my final meeting at HDFC Bank, Rahul, my then-boss, asked, "Are you sure? Your last tranche of stock options just came through. You could wait."

I didn't need time to think. "No. I'm dancing to a different drummer now."

It wasn't about money anymore. But I hadn't always been this way. There was a time when I had aspired to specific companies, titles, and paychecks. So, when did that star inside me burn out? And when had the new one ignited?

The thrill wasn't in climbing ranks but in creating something that didn't exist before.

We started building Cequity in late 2007. Entrepreneurship is often framed as a grand vision, but sometimes, it's just about taking the plunge. We built Cequity long before "data analytics" became a buzzword. We took risks. We built something that lasted.

Years later, we gathered our leadership team to articulate our vision at an offsite near Lonavala. We had an external facilitator guide the session, and somewhere in that conversation, Sampath, our Business Development head, said, "You both are accidental entrepreneurs," referring to Swamy and me.

The words landed hard. Sampath was right. We hadn't followed the conventional entrepreneur playbook. We had stumbled into it, answering an internal call rather than a structured ambition.

And yet, here we were.

He was right. We weren't classic startup founders. We hadn't optimized for power or profit.

But we had built something that hadn't existed before.

And that, in itself, was enough.

The Fear of Letting Go

No one talks about how terrifying it is to outgrow your old self.

We cling to our past identities and ambitions because they make us feel secure. Letting them go feels like a kind of death.

Who would I be if I wasn't a CXO? If I wasn't climbing higher, achieving more, earning more?

I had spent years defining myself through my work. Without it, what was left?

I had no answers that night. Only the cold. Only the stars. Only the quiet realization that the things I once cared about no longer held meaning.

And maybe—just maybe—that wasn't something to fear. Perhaps it was something to surrender to.

What Stars Are Dying in You?

That night, as I looked at the Milky Way, Michelle's words echoed:

"To be so significant and yet so insignificant at once—is the essence of being alive."

Looking back, I realize I had already let go of my old self under that sky. The supernova had exploded.

And that made all the difference.

Because, in the end, we are all shaped by the things we dare to leave behind.

So I ask you—what stars are dying in you tonight?

Because in life, as in the universe, the end of one thing is always the beginning of another.

And that's where the real journey begins.

And that made all the difference.

So I ask you—what stars are dying in you tonight… and what new frontiers are calling you forward?