Where Curiosity Meets Control
What is the internal architecture of a person who has built products for half a billion users yet finds his primary thrill in the absolute uncertainty of starting from zero? The persona of the modern founder is often painted in broad, romantic strokes: the disruptive genius, the chaotic visionary, the unbridled optimist. Rajneel "Neel" Kumar embodies all and none of these. His operational philosophy is a rare and complex harmony of two seemingly antithetical forces: a relentless, almost compulsive curiosity that drives him toward the unknown, and a profound, deeply ingrained discipline that provides the rigid structure to navigate it. This functional duality challenges the simplistic archetypes of the modern founder, offering a more nuanced and resilient model for innovation. His journey reveals that sustainable success is not born from a single trait, but from the dynamic tension between a willingness to embrace the void and the structured regimen needed to survive it.
Neel describes an "obsession with the future and the belief that anything is possible", yet this optimism is not a naive disregard for reality. When asked what present-day reality he must ignore to maintain this belief, his answer is immediate: "The reality of human-caused human suffering". This is an act of strategic allocation of focus. He learned from his time in the entertainment industry that while he may not be a doctor "solving for cancer", the purpose of his work is to "make every moment that we live a little better informed and a little more enjoyable". This is a form of pragmatic optimism, a conscious decision to contribute not by solving every problem, but by excelling within a specific, achievable domain of positive influence. This "unbridled optimism," he believes, must be genuine to become part of a company's culture, percolating through every action and decision rather than being something "on a poster". The question this poses is fundamental: In a world of infinite problems, is the most effective form of contribution not a grand attempt at a universal solution, but a disciplined focus on a single, scalable vector of improvement?
"Being a founder is all about hearing a lot more no’s than yeses, and that's the time when discipline really kicks in."
The Engine of Curiosity, Forged in Disorientation
Neel’s driving force, the engine behind his repeated '0-to-1' journeys, is curiosity. This is not the passive curiosity of an academic. His curiosity is an active, primal instinct that drives his survival. Its origins trace back to a formative, disorienting experience. At the age of fourteen, shortly after losing his father, he received a scholarship to attend school in the American Midwest, a decision his mother encouraged because it was his father’s wish. In a 'pre-Internet era', his entire understanding of this new world was built on the fragmented impressions of 'movies and brands'.
He landed "in the Midwest of America, that, too. A place that not most people ever travel to". He had to learn a "new way of talking, dressing, and behaving, and with no guidance". In this environment of total immersion, curiosity was the essential tool for adaptation. "High schools can be brutal for people who don't fit in, as we all know," he recalls, "and you needed to do everything to just, you know, get... as part of that whole thing". It was here that he learned to "be curious around you just to see what people were doing, and try and get up to speed with them to fit in". This experience cemented curiosity as his core operational strategy for growth, an approach built on "going in with the assumption that I don't know, and being curious enough to want to find out". This forces the question: If necessity is the true catalyst for the '0-to-1' curiosity, what does this imply about founders who have never experienced true professional or personal disorientation?
"Social media helps you just navigate the headlines from one headline to another instead of helping you live. The experience of going through the learning of it."
The Bedrock of Discipline, Inherited by Design
If curiosity is the engine, discipline is the unyielding chassis it is bolted to. For Neel, discipline is the one "hard truth" that governs the success of both chaotic startups and streamlined multinational corporations. "Either would not be successful if discipline were not a part of the core principle of the organization," he asserts. He argues that while many celebrate the "romantic and glamorous version of life about what being a founder means", they "choose not to see what we find uncomfortable". This uncomfortable truth is the immense, daily discipline required to succeed.
This is not a trait he acquired in business school. It is much more deeply rooted. He credits his grandfather, a "high-ranking officer" in the Indian police force who "used to control a state", with whom he grew up in a "very regimented" household. "Way of how you dress, how you eat, how you look at life," he recalls, was built on an architecture of discipline that he "imbibed" without realizing it. He understood this origin decades later upon reflection. This internal discipline is what enables him to navigate the constant rejection inherent in the founder’s journey. "Being a founder is all about hearing a lot more nos than yeses," he says, "and that's the time when discipline really kicks in". While others speak of resilience, Neel speaks of discipline. Resilience is the outcome; discipline is his process.
"I do have the humility to want to try it and see whether it does, and then have the capacity to acknowledge that. Yes, I was limited with my 1,000 experiences."
Information vs. Experience: The Modern Delusion
This interplay between lived experience and acquired knowledge forms the basis of Neel's sharp critique of modern information consumption. The ease of access to information, he argues, has created a dangerous illusion of understanding. He uses a pointed example: "anybody with an iPhone thinks they are a top-notch design expert and developer," and wants their voice heard. This is a parallel to how social media functions, helping users "navigate the headlines from one headline to another instead of helping you live. The experience of going through the learning of it".
His own life provides the perfect contrast. His pre-Internet journey to America was based on a void of information, forcing him into a state of pure experience. Today's world presents the opposite problem: an overdose of information that can prevent genuine experience. He notes that people see "100 videos of Venice" and believe they know what it feels like to walk there. He applies this to his own home: "6 years of living here [in Dubai], and the reason I love this place, and I call it home, is nothing. What social media shows it as". The problem is not the availability of information, but that it "is presented to see or be shown in a certain way". This forces a critical question: In an age of infinite information, can distinguishing between curated data and lived experience become the most vital intellectual skill?
"You cannot just be a manager in a startup anymore... you need to be actively a contributor to what is being done."
The Synthesis in Leadership: A Working Manager in the Middle Ground
The interplay of these forces defines his leadership style. He rejects the two common extremes of management: "complete calmness," which can lead to complacency, and "absolute chaos," which is unsustainable. His ideal is a "middle ground", a state of disciplined calm from which a leader can inject urgency when necessary. A key part of this is being a "working manager". "You cannot just be a manager in a startup anymore," he insists. "You need to be actively a contributor to what is being done. Therefore, you showing up and doing that work empowers other people to understand the seriousness of what we are doing".
This philosophy extends to his approach to team building and delegation. He is acutely aware that founders are not "superhumans". The first step is "recruiting people to the strength of what you need to be delivered", surrounding himself with "people who have complementary or supplementary skills". From there, he believes in "deep delegation, with clear objectives set". He accepts that the outcome may not be "100% of what you would have done yourself," but that enabling his team to get things "90% better than 0" creates a high-performing organization while freeing him to focus on the tasks that only he can do. This is disciplined trust, a system where the leader’s ego is subordinate to the organization’s capacity to grow.
"I have no regrets. All decisions that were taken at the time that they were taken with the best of intention and the best available information."
Conclusion: The Rejection of Regret
This entire framework culminates in a powerful personal philosophy of "no regrets". He illustrates this with an analogy from the author Richard Bach, comparing life to "air currents," where a pilot chooses one altitude to fly. At the same time, an infinite number of other paths exist simultaneously. The critical question is not whether a different path would have been better, but "are you happy with the decisions you took and where you landed up?". For Neel, the answer is always yes, because "All decisions that were taken at the time that they were taken were taken with the best of intention and the best available information". Since he holds only himself accountable, regret becomes to him a logical impossibility.
In a final thought experiment, I asked if he would want to meet a "ghost version" of himself from a parallel life. His answer was swift and telling. "Other than curiosity. I would not," he said. Why?
"Because I am most certain I would be disappointed... in the person I would meet". It is the ultimate expression of his life’s philosophy. His discipline provides an unshakeable faith in the path he has chosen. Yet, his final acknowledgment that he would be willing to "challenge my own belief" out of curiosity shows that his system is not closed. He lives in a state of confident uncertainty, grounded by the discipline of his past and propelled by the curiosity for what is next. It begs a final question: To live without regret, must one not believe they have made perfect choices, but rather have such a disciplined faith in their process of choosing that looking back becomes irrelevant?
"Other than curiosity. I would not... want to meet that other person... Because I am most certain I would be disappointed... in the person I would meet."
What I learned from Rajneel Kumar
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A disciplined focus on improving a specific domain is a more effective form of contribution than a grand but unfocused attempt to solve every problem.
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Profound curiosity is not merely a personality trait but a critical survival mechanism forged in disorientation, rooted in the humility of assuming one does not know.
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The foundational element for success in any organization, from chaotic startups to multinational corporations, is a deep-seated discipline that provides stability through all circumstances.
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A state of "no regrets" is achievable not through perfect choices, but through a disciplined process of making decisions with the best available information and taking full accountability.
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In an age of information saturation, the ability to differentiate between curated data, like social media headlines, and deep, lived experience is a vital intellectual skill.
The Architect Behind the Persona
What is the internal architecture of a person who has built an identity followed by legions for his expertise in startups and venture capital, yet is engaged in a much deeper, more troubling internal dialogue? Sam Baisla’s public persona is that of a successful entrepreneur, a mentor to founders. His private reality, however, is one of cyclical reinvention, driven by an internal voice that, every seven years, tells him "enough" and compels him to "shut down everything and do something else". His operational philosophy is a rare and complex harmony of two seemingly antithetical forces: a relentless curiosity that drives him toward the unknown, and a profound, deeply ingrained discipline that provides the rigid structure to navigate it. His journey is a testament to the courage it takes to reinvent oneself in the pursuit of a greater purpose constantly.
This functional duality challenges the simplistic archetypes of the modern founder. He is not merely a visionary; he is a patient architect who deliberately refrains from speaking about the systemic problems that trouble him most, instead channeling that discontent into building tangible solutions. He has a massive following that expects him to discuss startups. Still, his proper focus has evolved toward a mission he believes not everyone is yet ready to hear: a critique of a society living a "transactional and shallow life" and the urgent need for a new generation of leaders to address it. This is the story of that evolution, an exploration of the responsibility that comes with influence, and the quiet, disciplined work of a man attempting to build a new blueprint for the future. Although unconventional, his leadership philosophy has the potential to impact how we view and address societal issues significantly.
"Leadership is deciding what problems to solve."
A Fortunate Journey: The Freedom of No Expectations
Sam Baisla describes the beginning of his life as a "fortunate journey," a description that is, on its face, a contradiction. He was "born in a family where no one was educated". In fact, he was the first person in his entire extended family to complete 10 years of standard education. For most, this is a disadvantage, representing a significant start behind the baseline. For Sam, however, this environment provided a unique and powerful form of freedom: a complete vacuum of expectation. When he reached the critical juncture of choosing a career path and asked his father for guidance, the response was a simple and honest, "I don't know." His father had no blueprint to offer because he "genuinely did not know" what lay beyond the world he inhabited.
The consequence of this was profound. "I had to try things on my own, and then learn things on my own," Sam recalls. While societal and familial expectations often provide a script for young people, a set of predefined goals and acceptable paths, Sam had none. He was a blank slate. He states that in his early life, "I do not know... what the world was expecting me to become". This absence of an external framework did not lead to a crisis of purpose; instead, it created the space for an immense internal ambition to grow, unconstrained by precedent. His aspirations filled the void. He describes a thought process that would begin with making an impact in his village, but then, "in the next 5 seconds," would escalate to his district, his state, the country, and finally, "probably the entire world". This was not his ego taking over but a thought process expanding naturally to fill the available space, unchecked by the limiting beliefs of a previous generation. This origin story forces a challenging question: If external expectations provide structure but also impose limits, does true, boundless ambition require a degree of initial isolation from such frameworks? Is the most "fortunate journey" one with a clear path laid out, or one with no path at all?
"Attention is actually the only currency that tells you whether you've lived a good life or wasted your life."
The 7-Year Cycle and The Evolution of a Leader
This internal ambition did not manifest as a linear career path but as a series of distinct, seven-year cycles of reinvention. This pattern, Sam explains, is driven by a "build-up of the voice inside, which then takes over and says enough, and I need to shut down everything and do something else." This cycle is most clearly visible in the evolution of his leadership philosophy, which has progressed through three distinct phases, each reacting to the preceding one.
His journey began with a foundation of raw empathy. In 2005, as a new team leader, he was tasked with firing underperforming team members. He "was not able to fire," he recalls. "I remember I cried in front of her [my boss] because the people I was leading... They were crying". He was, in his own words, "very emotional about people". However, this natural empathy clashed with the corporate world's cold, mechanical nature. His boss presented him with a stark ultimatum: "The choice is between you and their job". For years, he fought for his team, an approach that he says led to him being "multiple times denied promotions and salary increments."
This experience precipitated the second phase of his evolution. By 2011, having started his own business and led a sales team for a European company, his leadership style had evolved. He was a "professional corporate trainer," but "in my mind, I was the numbers Guy". He adopted the ruthless logic of the system that had previously frustrated him, telling his employees, "I don't see anything in you. I see the euro versus rupees in you... and if that equation is not good for the business, I will fire you". He admits, "I fired a lot of people". This was not a descent into cynicism but a calculated overcorrection; a strategy to succeed in an environment that seemed to penalize his innate empathy.
In his current cycle, a third, more synthesized philosophy has emerged. Having achieved financial success, he finds himself in a position to be "more compassionate. I'm more understanding of their challenges," and now focuses on working with "people who did not get a lot of opportunity". This is not a simple return to his original emotional state. It is a mature perspective. One with compassion, informed by the hard-earned lessons of his "numbers guy" phase. He understands the mechanics of business but chooses to apply them with a purpose beyond pure profit. As he concludes, "the goal or the objective that you're going after changes how you operate". This journey raises a critical question about leadership: Is a leader's style a fixed trait, or is it a fluid identity that must adapt to the objectives they pursue?
"I'm carrying this, and I'm living with it on purpose, so that I'm able to channelize this into something which I can call a movement..."
The Catalyst: Losing a Mission to Find a Purpose
"[Because of social media] the real movements are not happening."
Sam's life's most significant "zoom out" phase was not a strategic choice but a collision with profound loss. In February 2014, his father passed away. This event was more than a personal tragedy; it was the dissolution of his primary mission, the singular focus that had driven him since his youth. "All my teenage years, young years, and twenties, I was. I grew up with a mission," he explains. "My father was not well, and I had to take care of the family... I need to be the protector and giver of the family". He had pursued this mission relentlessly, building a business, generating income, and purchasing a large house for his family. Then, with his father's death, that lifelong objective was suddenly "done".
At the age of 29, he felt "very disillusioned". The money and success he had accumulated felt hollow. The business subsequently failed, but by then it was irrelevant. The core driver was gone. This void forced him to ask a fundamental question: "What now?". When he asked himself if he truly wanted to return to the world of just making money, the "answer never came out as an astounding yes". This period became one of deep "soul searching", where he actively rejected the life of luxury he had built. "I have never been a kind of person who likes luxury, or wants to flaunt money or things," he states. "I don't like the yachts and the parties... been there, done that kind of thing".
Instead, his search for a new purpose led him back to his core interests: "I like being with young people, and I like being with new ideas". This realization was the impetus for his "Road to Bharat," a solo 7,000-kilometer road trip through India's small villages and towns. He visited schools and colleges, speaking to approximately 10,000 young people about leadership and entrepreneurship. This journey was not an escape but an act of deep data collection. He was testing a hypothesis about the disconnect between the metropolitan narrative and the nation's reality. The trip "gave me a mission," he says. He returned with a new purpose: to build systems that would serve the needs of these young people. This arc raises the philosophical question: Is a person's most profound purpose found by fulfilling the duties placed upon them, or is it only discovered in the void left when those duties are gone?
The Unasked Question: A Critique of a Shallow World
This brings us to the core of Sam's current mission, which is born from a question he wishes more people would ask and a truth he believes few readers may be ready to hear. He is deeply troubled by the pervasive, systemic encouragement of a "transactional and shallow life". This modern condition, he argues, is in direct contradiction to what science has identified as the key factors for a good life: "deep and meaningful relationships, less information, more quiet time with yourself, more reflecting upon nature". Instead, he sees a society living in "pleasure capsules," where people are "doing things to show rather than to experience," viewing the world through a camera instead of with their own eyes.
His critique connects this individual behavior to the flawed logic of the systems that govern us. He points to capitalism's core tenet of "endless profits," which he calls a mathematical impossibility predicated on the endless conversion of natural resources and human attention into consumable products. This creates a fundamental paradox, evidenced by wealthy nations that suffer from high rates of suicide and obesity. The system's goals are misaligned with human well-being. He applies the same sharp analysis to postmodern systems in India, highlighting the profound disconnect between a political class with an average age of over 65 and a population with an average age of 28. "A 70-year-old person is making decisions about the fate and the future of a 20-year-old person," he states, in a world of AI and social media that is "barely 20 years old". This age gap results in a failure to prioritize the existential issues facing the youth, such as climate change.
His most powerful evidence for this societal malaise is a recent cultural event. He notes that 630 million people watched the IPL cricket final, a "circus which is a privately owned entity". The victory celebration in just one state resulted in "$20 million of liquor sold in... one day" and a stampede where "11 people lost their lives". He contrasts this mass mobilization for a sporting event with the lack of protest for real-world issues. The population with the "highest unemployment rates... highest hunger index... lowest happiness index... [and] the worst air in the world" is not demanding change. "They were not demanding jobs, better systems, or better air," he laments, " instead, they were boozing and dying?". He views this as the tragic outcome of a generation being given a tool "outsmarting us" by encouraging distraction over action. The tool, the mistress of social media. This comprehensive critique raises a challenging question: In the face of such overwhelming systemic flaws and societal apathy, what is the most effective response for a leader who sees the problem?
"I see the euro versus rupees in you... and if that equation is not good for the business, I will fire you."
The Architect’s Response: Action Over Venting
Given his profound, data-driven critique of society, the obvious question is why Sam Baisla is not on his daily platform, leading a vocal charge for change. This is where his philosophy becomes most counterintuitive. He deliberately chooses not to. He understands the mechanics of gaining attention and could easily be a leading voice in these debates, but he believes it is a "useless thing to do." Why? because he views online discourse not as a catalyst for change but as a mechanism for pacification.
He explains this with a sharp analogy. Talking about these deeply troubling issues online, he says, is like "loosening up the pressure wall on a pressure cooker". It provides a "feel good factor" where your mind "perceives that you've taken some action," but in reality, "Well, you did not". He argues that social media has perfected this process; it has "allowed people to vent their frustration and anger, and because of that, the real movements are not happening". The very act of public expression dissipates the energy and frustration required to fuel genuine, difficult, systemic change. It is a tool that maintains the status quo by providing the illusion of dissent.
His response, therefore, is one of disciplined silence and patient construction. "I'm carrying this, and I'm living with it on purpose," he says, "so that I can channel this into something which I can call a deep enough systematic institution". He is not waiting for someone else to have a plan; he believes, "I have to build those systems myself". His goal is to have a "blueprint, the plan" ready, so that when people inevitably ask, "How do I change it?" he has a tangible answer, not just another opinion. This frames his relative public silence on these topics not as apathy, but as an act of immense discipline. He is channeling his frustration into fuel for creation, believing that a working model is an infinitely more powerful argument than a viral post. This presents a profound challenge to modern notions of activism: What is the greater responsibility of a leader who sees a problem? Is it to use their voice to raise mass awareness, even if that awareness is shallow? Or is it to use their time in disciplined silence to build a systemic solution that can be offered to a smaller, more committed group later?
Conclusion
Sam Baisla’s journey demonstrates a clear, if unconventional, trajectory. It is an evolution in the scale of problems he chooses to solve. He made a crucial distinction: "entrepreneurship is rolling up your sleeves and solving problems... But leadership is deciding what problems to solve". His life has been a slow graduation from the former to the latter. He began by solving the problem of his family's survival, then moved to solving problems for businesses. He has now zoomed out to his widest aperture yet: addressing the foundational issues of societal well-being and political engagement.
He is no longer just an entrepreneur in the classical sense; he is attempting to become an architect of postmodern systems, a task he undertakes with the full weight of his accumulated experience and a profound sense of duty. He embodies the leader who has seen the flaws in society's code and, instead of merely reporting the bug, has taken it upon himself to write a new program. His story leaves us with a final, challenging question that every person with influence must eventually face: When your understanding of what is necessary diverges from what your audience expects, what is your ultimate responsibility? Is it to provide the comforting leadership people want, or to patiently build the complicated, complex systems you believe the future truly needs?
What I Learned From My Conversation with Sam
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A recurring seven-year cycle of reinvention can be a deliberate strategy for personal and professional evolution, forcing a "zoom out" to realign one's work with an evolving mission.
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A leader's style is not a fixed trait but a fluid identity that often evolves from raw empathy to transactional logic before synthesizing into mature, purpose-driven compassion.
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The public expression of frustration can be a counterproductive release of pressure; true systemic change often requires the discipline to channel discontent into patient, focused action.
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In a world saturated with distraction, the deliberate allocation of one's attention is the ultimate currency that defines the quality and impact of one's life.
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A person's most profound purpose is often not found by fulfilling existing duties, but is discovered in the void created after those duties have been fulfilled or lost.
Braiding Systems and Soil
What happens when two antithetical worlds collide within a single individual? One world is that of the modern corporation, a place where scalable systems, optimized logistics, and predictable career trajectories prevail. The other is the world of the village, a place of ancestral wisdom, handmade value, and deep, communal bonds. Prerna Mishra’s journey is not a simple rejection of one for the other, but a far more complex and challenging act of synthesis. After seven years in the corporate food industry, she returned to her roots in rural Bihar, not to escape her past, but to consciously "marry these two things". Her work with Natureship is a living exploration of a profound question: Can the structured logic of corporate systems be braided with the unquantifiable value of human connection and tradition to create a new, more resilient economic model?
"The value that they create with their own hand is far greater than maybe what a factory or a machine-made product would bring on the table."
"For me, authenticity comes from acceptance of who I am. the good and the bad, and allowing both to coexist inside myself."
A Crisis of Value and a Rewiring of the Mind
The catalyst for this synthesis was the global shutdown in 2020. Forced back to her village from an "excellent job" and "comfortable lifestyle" in Bombay, Prerna began a series of conversations with the local women. It was through this extended, patient engagement that a critical realization emerged. She observed that "the product that they make with their hand. The value that they create from their hand is far greater than maybe what a factory or a machine-made product would bring to the table". This is not a simple romantic notion. Prerna challenges the industrial premise that value is a function of mass production and standardization. It prompted her to apply a "fresh lens", transforming her corporate understanding of supply chains and consumer behavior into a tool for co-creation. She saw the "unequal opportunity given to men versus women" and the untapped intelligence of the ladies in her village, who, despite their profound knowledge, felt they were "not worth giving anything to society." Her venture was born not from a desire to simply "do business", but from a need to bridge the perceived chasm between her privileged life in the city and the undervalued wisdom of her community.
This path required a profound internal recalibration. The decision to leave a "super super comfortable" corporate job where her career path for the next "5, 10 years, 15 years" was visible was, in her words, "terrifying". It was not a single moment of inspiration but a "series of days where I felt that I was dragging myself... to do something that I was not okay doing". The final decision was a refusal to "regret the fact that I didn't even try completely". This required more than just courage; it demanded a fundamental psychological shift. "I had to make myself very comfortable with rejections and failures before taking that job," Prerna explains. This conscious "rewiring of my mind" is critical for any founder stepping away from a guaranteed reality. It interrogates one's relationship with security, identity, and fear. How much of our perceived stability is merely a comfortable illusion? For Prerna, the answer was to replace the fear of failure with a more powerful question: "But what if it happens? What if you fly? What if this works out?".
The Nature of Authenticity and The Unquantifiable Asset
This journey is inextricably linked to her definition of authenticity. When pressed on the meaning of this often-misused word, Prerna’s answer is not about branding, but about a deep, personal state of being. For her, authenticity is the "acceptance of who I am, the good and the bad, and allowing both to coexist inside myself". It requires the courage to resist the pressure of external expectations and "all the conditioning that you have to show up to present in a certain way". This personal philosophy becomes the DNA of her business. When a company claims authenticity, she believes it is a promise that "we did the best we could with whatever we had to give what we are trying to give you".
This raises a critical question for any leader: If your company is an extension of your value system, what happens when market realities demand a compromise? Prerna faces this daily. A customer in Bombay must wait four or five days for a handmade product, a direct conflict with the market’s demand for instant convenience. This is a conscious trade-off. Her business model is not optimized for speed. Instead, it runs on a more fragile asset: trust. "The biggest asset is their trust," she states. "Only if they trust us, our process works; otherwise, Nothing is in place". This trust was not granted; it was earned over "months altogether" of consistent presence, proving to a community accustomed to her as a temporary "vacation" visitor that she was there to stay. How does a business that runs on an unquantifiable asset like trust compete in a world that only values what it can measure on a quarterly report?
"The biggest asset is their trust. Only if they trust us, our process works; otherwise, nothing is in place."
Measuring the Immeasurable: A New Definition of ROI
In a world governed by KPIs, Prerna admits that when you work with communities, "you need to be very patient" and that metrics like "monthly run, Rate customer retention. This is not what you're only looking for". The goal is to ensure that "everybody in the value chain is becoming better off."
Her proof is not found on a dashboard but in the story of Ambika Upadhyay, the workshop manager. A woman with a tenth-grade education who had escaped an abusive marriage, Ambika was fighting immense "social stigma" yet showed up every day, driven by a "willingness and her drive to prove herself". Today, she manages Amazon orders on a laptop and has become an inspiration. Prerna notes that Ambika "has grown out of that definition that you know she is a lady whose husband has left. She now represents possibility, A better life". This presents a sharp challenge to conventional business valuation. What is the quantifiable value of one individual rewriting their narrative and, in doing so, creating a new anchor of possibility for an entire community? This is an impact metric that standard business analytics is unequipped to measure.
"She has grown out of that definition that you know she is a lady who has been left by her husband. She now represents possibility. A better life."
Leadership and the Humane Parameter
This focus on human transformation requires a unique form of leadership. "I have to be the leader every day, and I don't have a boss whom I can call up and say, hey? I don't know what to do," Prerna reflects. The path is challenging, and her role shifts daily from operational problem-solver to being a "comfort to one of my ladies that I work with". To navigate this, she has developed her decision-making process rooted in her values. For any significant decision, she will "sleep the night before", "discuss it with people that I look up to", and crucially, "list down things that matter to me most that my value system is. And then... I map it and see, are they aligning on the value system level basis".
Her focus on personal growth is a direct response to the needs of her community. "A lot of this is about emotional intelligence," she says, explaining that her reading has shifted to "psychology, philosophy, because I need to understand the people that I work with". The core optimization parameter of her business is not efficiency or speed, but the quality of human connection. The question is not just how to ship faster, but "how we can do things the right way by taking more people on board... create an environment where customers, stakeholders are village ladies. All of them are in a better place".
"It is so difficult to say. No, everything is so beautifully glamorized."
A Quiet Protest Against Impulse
This philosophy extends to her view of the broader food ecosystem. She describes her struggle against the temptations of fast food, which is "so beautifully glamorized" that even as a conscious food entrepreneur, she finds it "so difficult to resist". If a 30-year-old expert cannot easily say no, she questions, "How would a 13-year-old girl or a boy say no to that, Coke?".
Her most radical act of protest, however, is aimed at her customers. In a world optimized for consumption, her message is one of restraint. "The right approach would be to tell my customers also that you buy it if you need it," she says, advocating for "pausing every consumption". This is Prerna’s expression of her brand's authenticity. It is a business model that advocates for less consumption in the service of a more mindful existence. It is a quiet, profound challenge to the foundational logic of modern commerce itself.
"I don't want to be a brand that says. Buy more, sell more, and you know all of that stuff."
What I learned from Prerna Mishra
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Genuine authenticity is not a brand strategy but a courageous personal practice of accepting one's whole self, which then becomes the DNA of the organization.
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The value created by a human hand, rich with story and intention, can be far greater than the standardized output of a machine-driven process.
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In a community-driven model, trust is the most critical asset, earned over time through consistent presence and proven integrity, not through transactions.
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The most profound business impact is not measured by sales figures but by the tangible transformation of an individual's life and the possibilities this creates for a community.
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Effective leadership in a value-driven enterprise requires constant self-investment in emotional intelligence to navigate human complexity and inspire others.
The Ethical Core of a Digital World
Can a digital world truly be secure if its foundations are not built on an unyielding ethical core? This is not a theoretical exercise, but a foundational question that Sanjana Rathi, a 'cyber diplomat' operating at the intersection of technology, law, and human psychology, forces us to confront. She navigates a landscape often perceived as a chaotic battleground between innovation and exploitation. Still, her perspective is uncompromisingly clear: security is not merely a technical construct but an inherent derivative of ethical principles. This is not a philosophical musing from an academic tower. It is a revelation that security, at its core, is deeply intertwined with ethics, a conviction forged in the real-world crucible of digital vulnerabilities and human fallibility.
Sanjana Rathi’s journey is one of relentless questioning, an inquiry that began not with code, but with observing its impact on people. She saw how a trivial incentive could compel an educated mind to spread dangerous misinformation, and how an unannounced algorithm change by a private corporation could decimate small businesses overnight. These experiences led her to a profound conclusion that challenges the very premise of the cybersecurity industry. She posits that true societal resilience in the digital age begins not with impenetrable firewalls, but with an unshakeable moral compass. This is not just a simple suggestion, but a call to action for all of us to uphold ethical principles in our digital interactions. Sanjana's work is an exploration of this axiomatic truth: that a system cannot be truly secure if it is not, at its most fundamental level, ethical.
"Ethics is foremost. It's the most fundamental thing. It's like the invisible axis of the universe."
The Human Glitch: When Educated Minds Fail
Sanjana Rathi’s analysis of cybersecurity begins not with networks and firewalls, but with a more volatile and complex system: the human mind. Her work in 'cyber psychology' focuses on the impact of technology on human behavior, and she posits that the greatest vulnerability in any digital ecosystem is 'human error'. This is not a theoretical flaw; it is a practical reality exploited daily. As she points out, the 'phishing Scam is the most successful scam today, it's around 70% of what we see,' precisely because it targets predictable human weaknesses rather than technical ones. This stark reality should concern us all and motivate us to address this critical issue in digital security.
This understanding was crystallized by a pivotal and deeply troubling incident in 2012. A friend from her engineering program, someone she describes as "quite educated and quite brilliant... even one of the rank holders," shared a bizarre and dangerous piece of political misinformation in a group chat. The message was inflammatory, something that could "polarize, or could even... instigate people to take wrongful action" if believed. When Sanjana confronted her friend to understand the motivation behind sharing something so obviously questionable, the answer was not ideological conviction. The reason, her friend explained, was, "I was getting free incoming calls".
This explanation was a turning point for Sanjana. The incident revealed a critical flaw in the assumption that education or intelligence provides immunity to digital manipulation. A trivial personal incentive was enough to compel a brilliant individual to bypass their critical faculties and become a conduit for potentially harmful content. If an educated mind could be compromised so easily, what did that imply for society at large? This was the moment that "led me to dig deeper into the human side of technology," to understand the policies, the psychology, and the educational frameworks required to address a vulnerability that was fundamentally human, not technical. It forces a difficult question: If the human mind itself has such a predictable and easily exploitable glitch, can proper digital security ever be achieved by focusing on our machines instead of ourselves?
"Is it so easy for a private company to dictate the entire market… and change the entire game?"
The Unseen Powers: Questioning the Opaque Systems
After her initial inquiry into the "human glitch," Sanjana's focus expanded from the individual user to the robust, often invisible systems that shape our digital reality. Two distinct experiences crystallized her understanding of this opaque power, one demonstrating the arbitrary nature of corporate algorithmic control and the other revealing the physical inscrutability of modern technology.
The first was a direct, personal lesson in the precariousness of digital commerce. In the early 2010s, her parents ran a successful e-commerce business, whose visibility was built on Google’s established "PageRank algorithm." Then, without warning, Google implemented a new system, the "Hummingbird Algorithm", which was "driven by content". The impact was immediate and perceived as catastrophic. "Suddenly our website," she recalls, "went from the first page of Google to the fifth page of Google or sixth page of Google," effectively erasing their flow of new clients overnight. The critical issue for Sanjana was not the change itself, but its unilateral nature; there was "no announcement or something that was made that, you know, we are going to change. It just happened all of a sudden". This event triggered a fundamental question about governance: "Is it so easy for a private company to dictate the entire market... and change the entire game?". It was a moment that shifted her perspective from user behavior to the immense, unchecked power wielded by private entities in the digital square.
Her second lesson came from the hardware itself. While working on an interdisciplinary project to build a voice-controlled wheelchair, her team sourced a critical electronic module from abroad. This dependence on an external, un-inspectable component gave rise to the "black box" problem. "Who is there to check what is internally available within?" she asked herself. "When you get a component or a device, you don't go inside to check. What are the modules that are being used to make that device?". This revealed another layer of systemic opacity. She questioned the lack of robust "forensic investigation agencies, or someone... keeping a check on every product that is coming into the market". These experiences, one in the abstract world of software and the other in the physical world of hardware, solidified her mission. They force a critical question: When the core systems of our economy and technology are deliberately or incidentally opaque, how can a society build a foundation of trust or enact meaningful governance?
"It's more important to build great human beings, because once you build great human beings, they will automatically use the technology for doing wonderful things."
The Axiomatic Truth: Why Ethics is the Only Foundation for Security
After identifying the deep flaws in both individual human judgment and the opaque systems of power, Sanjana's work pivots from diagnosis to a radical form of prescription. Her solution is not a new technology or a simple policy patch, but a fundamental re-framing of the relationship between our values and our safety. She posits that the entire field of security has been built on a flawed premise. We treat security as a technical problem to be solved with firewalls and encryption, while she argues it is an emergent property of a different, more foundational system: ethics.
Her central thesis is both profound and uncompromising. "Ethics is foremost. It's the most fundamental thing," she states. "It's like the invisible axis of the universe... the principles that govern our society and make our society civil". From this starting point, her logic leads directly to an axiomatic conclusion: "where there is ethics, there is security." This is not a platitude; it is a causal statement. An ethical organization does not need to be convinced to invest in cybersecurity; it does so as a natural consequence of its ethical duty to protect its stakeholders. An ethical government does not treat the security of its citizens as a line item, but as a moral imperative. From this perspective, every security failure-every data breach, every compromised system is not merely a technical lapse but evidence of a deeper ethical deficit.
This framework is immediately challenged by the reality of complex "ethical dilemmas," where the security of one group may conflict with the rights or security of another. Sanjana does not dismiss these challenges; instead, she applies a systematic, disciplined approach to navigating them. She points to the importance of robust, comprehensive frameworks like "the 27001 standard... the OT and the IT standards for risk management, the standard that we're having, 31,000, etcetera" as the essential guides for making difficult decisions within an ethical structure. Furthermore, she advocates for the use of "simulation or war gaming" and "tabletop exercises" as critical tools for effective decision-making. These allow leaders to test their ethical responses in controlled environments, preparing them to make sound judgments under the immense pressure of a real-world crisis without abandoning their core principles. This forces a challenging question upon any leader: if we accept this axiom, are our organization's security vulnerabilities not just a technical debt, but a clear reflection of a flaw in our ethical foundation?
The Architect's Responsibility: Building Resilience and People
Sanjana's axiomatic belief that security is an outcome of ethics naturally leads to a profound sense of responsibility for those who build digital systems. If a system's safety reflects its creators' values, then the technologist's role expands beyond writing code to architecting resilience, both in systems and in people. This philosophy manifests in two key areas: her reframing of the industry's purpose and her ultimate conclusion about where true, sustainable security originates.
First, she directly challenges the language and mindset of her field. She rejects the common perception that "cybersecurity is all about ethical hacking". While acknowledging its function, she finds the framing incomplete and ultimately insufficient. For her, the work is not centered on breaking systems. Instead, she insists, "cyber security is all about cyber defense. It's about. If you break a system, then how do you go about... mending it?". This is a critical distinction. A mindset focused on "hacking" is inherently deconstructive; a mindset focused on "defense" and "mending" is constructive. It implies a deeper, ongoing responsibility for the integrity and health of the system, much like an architect is responsible for a building's soundness long after the blueprints are finished. When she works with colleges, she insists on building labs that teach cyber defense, a conscious choice to shift the next generation’s paradigm from breaking things to creating things that last.
This constructive philosophy leads to her ultimate conclusion. If people build systems, and security is a product of ethics, then the most foundational work of cybersecurity is not in the code, but in the character of the coder. Technology is merely a tool, she argues; "it ultimately comes down to... the humane qualities, the human emotions, compassion, empathy". Therefore, the most critical endeavor is not just to build better technology, but to build better people. "You can build great technologies," she states, "But it's more important to build great human beings, because once you build great human beings, they will automatically use the technology for doing wonderful things". This connects her technical field back to the most profound humanistic principles, posing a challenge to every leader in the industry: To what extent is your organization responsible not just for the products it creates, but for the ethical discernment of the people who build and use them?
"Cyber security is all about cyber defense. It's about... mending the broken system."
Conclusion
Sanjana Rathi’s journey is one of intellectual synthesis. It began not with a grand theory, but with a series of sharp, practical questions aimed at the opaque systems around her: a friend’s susceptibility to misinformation, a private company’s unilateral power over the market, and the hidden components within our technology. These disparate inquiries all led her to a single, powerful, and uncompromising conclusion: that ethics is not a feature to be added to technology, but its absolute foundation. All security, she argues, is merely an outcome of this ethical core.
Her identity as a "cyber diplomat" is therefore not a job title, but an embodiment of this mission. It is a commitment to building a more secure digital world by first architecting a more principled one. She sees herself as inextricably linked to this vision, stating that "[I] associate myself with cyber diplomats more than I do with Sanjana". Her work serves as a stark reminder that in our rush to build a secure digital future, the most critical code we must write is our own.
"I associate myself with cyber diplomats more than I do with Sanjana."
What I learned from Sanjana Rathi
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The most significant vulnerability in any digital system is not technical but human, stemming from predictable and exploitable flaws in our own judgment.
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Unseen and unaccountable power, whether from corporate algorithms or opaque hardware, poses a fundamental threat to a transparent and trustworthy digital society.
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Ethics is not a feature to be added to security but its absolute foundation; a secure system is merely the logical outcome of an ethical one.
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The true responsibility of a cybersecurity professional is not just to break systems ("ethical hacking"), but to mend and defend them, a constructive and more profound duty.
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The ultimate act of building a secure digital future is not in writing better code, but in cultivating better human beings who will wield technology with integrity.
The Architecture of Resilience
What is the process by which personal trauma is transformed into a functional, life-giving system? This is the central question at the heart of Voice of Slum, an organization that is less a non-profit and more the lived philosophy of its founders, Dev Pratap Singh and Chandni. Their public story is one of inspiration, but the internal architecture of their partnership reveals a more profound truth. It is a precisely balanced, dual-lead system where two individuals have forged their immense, destructive experiences into a structured methodology for social change. Dev acts as the strategic architect, the 'CEO' who builds the external framework of policy and finance. Chandni is the operational heart, the 'COO' who creates the internal, human framework of trust, direct care, and cultural empathy. Their resilience in the face of adversity is a testament to the human spirit.
They are not social workers in the traditional sense; they are, in Dev's words, 'social entrepreneurs' leading a 'revolution of change'. Their work is fueled not by abstract ideals, but by the sharp edges of memory. Chandni, when asked about the past, states with profound clarity, 'Some wounds never go away; they just become our drive'. Their mission is to be a 'bridge to slum and mainstream society', a pathway for children to walk away from a life of hardship that both founders know with intimate, painful detail. Their story, therefore, is not just an exploration of a complex but vital question: How does one reverse-engineer the anatomy of suffering to build a blueprint for a humane future? It is also a testament to the transformative power of personal resilience and the profound impact it can have on social entrepreneurship.
"Some wounds never go away; they just become our drive."
Two Stories, One Origin: The Landscape of Pain
To understand the architecture of Voice of Slum, one must first understand the landscape of its founders' past. Their mission is not an intellectual exercise in social good; it is forged from the specific, searing experiences of their youth. Their stories, while distinct, share a common origin in the brutal realities of life on the margins.
Dev’s journey began on the streets. He became a "ragpicker at the age of 11" after circumstances forced him from his home. His daily struggle was for the most basic necessity: food. "How can I arrange food as an 11-year-old?" he asks, before stating the stark reality: "I ate from dustbins." This was compounded by a far more profound trauma he had never publicly disclosed before our conversation. Living at the railway station, he was "sexually assaulted a lot of times". It is a pain he carried in silence for decades.
Chandni was born into the slum. Her father was a street magician, but his earnings were not enough for "proper daily meals". At fourteen, her daily routine involved waking at dawn to take a bus to the wholesale market to buy sweetcorn, which she would then sell on the street. It was during this routine that she survived a harrowing sexual assault attempt. After missing her bus, she accepted a ride from a driver who then tried to rape her. She escaped only when the car was forced to stop at a toll booth. The experience left her crying for days, locked in her room.
There are more stories, and both of them survived. Their experiences aren’t told for pity. They are presented as the foundational data for their life's work. The experiences were distinct, yet they produced a shared, powerful conviction. As Chandni explains, "We should not forget these experiences in our life forever... these things also give us the strength to work for those children". They are driven by an intimate knowledge of what they are fighting against. In her written words, she captured this transformation perfectly: “Some wounds never go away; they just become our drive”. This raises the philosophical question: Can those who have not experienced such profound hardship ever truly understand the urgency required to solve it?
"We are the only bridge between the slum and mainstream society... We are trying to give them a voice only."
The Confluence: Building the Bridge
"He doesn’t interfere in my work, and I don’t interfere in his. We respect each other’s space and strengths."
When Dev and Chandni finally came together to create Voice of Slum in 2016, they were met with a wall of disbelief. "The people asking me, " You are mad," Dev recalls. "How can you start this organization? You don't have an education, you don't have money, you don't have connections". By every conventional metric of the startup world, their critics were not wrong. They lacked the three pillars that are typically deemed essential for success. But they possessed something far more valuable: an unassailable understanding of the problem they aimed to solve, and an absolute belief in each other. Chandni recounts Dev’s early conviction: “He gets? Believe me, I'll do it”. This partnership became the foundation of their enterprise.
Their leadership model is a study in functional duality, a perfect synthesis of their divergent life paths. Dev, forged in the logical and often ruthless corporate world, became the architect. "I created a policy. I created a culture in my startup," he says, outlining his responsibilities as handling "the funds and all funds, operation, marketing, hiring, and all this". He builds and maintains the external framework of the organization, ensuring its survival and scalability.
Chandni, whose expertise was cultivated through years of direct, empathetic engagement, became the operational heart, the COO. Her domain is the internal, human reality of the organization. As she states in her written answers, "our work is divided. He doesn’t interfere in my work, and I don’t interfere in his. We respect each other’s space and strengths". This clear division allows them to operate in tandem without conflict, one building the structure and the other infusing it with purpose and care.
This partnership is built around a single, powerful metaphor that defines their entire philosophy. "We are not giving anything," Dev insists. "We are the only bridge between the slum and mainstream society. We are the only bridge. We are trying to give them a voice only". This is a critical distinction. A bridge does not carry people across a chasm; it provides a stable pathway for them to walk across on their own. It is a model of empowerment, not charity. They provide the structure, safety, and tools—the education, meals, and support but the children must summon their courage to make the journey. This philosophy of being a conduit, rather than a savior, is what separates their work from traditional aid models. Their partnership, a bridge between two worlds in itself, raises a vital question for social innovation: Can a truly effective social enterprise be led by a single visionary, or does it require a dual leadership that can simultaneously embody both the compassionate, human-centric "why" and the disciplined, systematic "how"?
The Currency of Trust vs. The Language of Bribes
To build their bridge, Dev and Chandni had to operate in two starkly different worlds, each with its non-negotiable currency. In the community, the currency was trust, earned through shared experience and proven integrity. In the formal, bureaucratic world, the currency was often cold, hard cash, demanded not for services but as bribes. Their early journey was defined by the struggle to navigate the latter while relying on the former.
The first major obstacle was simply establishing the legal existence of their organization. They began the registration process in 2016, but it took two full years to complete. The reason was a systemic barrier designed to keep people like them out. They were told the registration required a bribe of "almost ₹20,000". At the time, Dev says, the entirety of their operational fund was only “almost ₹5,000". The formal system was inaccessible. This pattern repeated when they needed a critical tax certificate for receiving donations. A chartered accountant quoted them "almost one lakh rupees" for the document. Without the means to pay, they were effectively locked out of the very system meant to enable their work.
Their breakthrough came not from navigating the corrupt system, but from the intervention of a single ethical individual within it. After a year of struggling, they met one honest "income tax officer" who saw the value in their work. This man not only helped them get the certificate "free of cost" but also became a "donor for the voice of the slum" himself. The emotional weight of this moment is clear in Dev’s memory: when they finally received the certificate, "We were both crying". It was their "lucky break," the moment their tangible reality caught up with their vision.
This struggle highlights a profound duality. While they were fighting a system that spoke the language of bribes, they were succeeding in a community that spoke the language of trust. Chandni describes friendship in the slum as "raw and honest... no ego, no fakeness... people stood by each other". This was the currency they understood and possessed in abundance. Their ability to build a loyal team and gain the community's support came from their fluency in this language of shared experience. This raises a critical question for any social entrepreneur: Which currency is ultimately more valuable for long-term, sustainable impact? And how does a leader maintain their integrity when the formal world demands they transact in a language that is fundamentally opposed to their values?
"We are not social workers. We are social entrepreneurs. We are a revolution of change."
The Revolution, Not the NGO
Dev and Chandni are precise about their identity. They are not running a conventional charity, and they do not see themselves as social workers. "We are not social workers," Dev states firmly. "We are social entrepreneurs. We are a revolution of change". This distinction is not mere semantics; it is the philosophical core of their entire operation. Whereas a traditional NGO might focus on providing aid to alleviate the symptoms of poverty, Voice of Slum is designed as a self-perpetuating system to eradicate the root cause for future generations. Their goal is not just to help children survive the slum, but to ensure their children are never born into it.
The objective, as Dev explains, is to "change our generation". He believes that when "One child becomes slum to mainstream society, the whole generation coming problem" is solved, because their children will be "born in only one mainstream society". This is a long-term, systemic vision. The impact is measured not in meals delivered, but in cycles broken. To achieve this, they teach the children they help a core value: "Whenever you can earn money, give it to society." This ensures the mission becomes a legacy, carried forward by those who understand it most intimately. "The voice of Slum is not dying," Dev says with confidence, because "there are a lot of children already in mainstream society... to take care of them".
This "revolution" is built on a foundation of deep, emotional connection, not a corporate structure. "This is the human relationship with children and me and Channing," Dev clarifies. "We are connected to every child, emotionally". This bond is what makes their model resilient. They are not just employers or benefactors; they are family. This self-definition as revolutionaries building a systemic, self-perpetuating movement challenges the established framework of social good. It poses a critical question: To solve deep-seated societal problems, is the compassionate, aid-based model of a traditional NGO sufficient? Or does it require the more dynamic, architectural approach of a "revolution" that aims not just to help individuals, but to change the trajectory of generations to come?
Conclusion
Dev and Chandni’s journey demonstrates a clear, if unconventional, trajectory. It is an evolution in the scale of problems they choose to solve. Dev made a crucial distinction himself: "Entrepreneurship is rolling up your sleeves and solving problems... But leadership is deciding what problems to solve." Their lives have been a slow transition from the former to the latter. They began by solving the immediate, brutal problem of their survival, then moved to building an organization, and have now zoomed out to their widest aperture yet: addressing the foundational systems that create the conditions they once endured.
They are no longer just social entrepreneurs in the classical sense; they are attempting to become architects of generational change, a task they undertake with the full weight of their lived experience. They embody the leader who has seen the deep fractures in the foundation of a society and, instead of merely patching the cracks, has taken it upon themselves to draw a new blueprint. Their story leaves us with a final, challenging question that every person of influence must eventually face: When your understanding of what is necessary is born not from theory but from profound personal pain, does your responsibility to act become absolute? Is the burden of having survived a flawed system an irrevocable mandate to dedicate one's life to building a better one?
"If you feel others’ pain, you’re a human being. That’s who I choose to be."
What I learned from Chandni Di & Dev Pratap Singh
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The most profound and durable motivation for creating social change often comes not from abstract ideals, but from the direct, lived experience of pain and injustice.
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A successful social enterprise can be built on a dual-leadership model, where one partner provides the strategic, systemic architecture and the other provides the empathetic, human-centric cultural core.
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The concept of being a "bridge" is a powerful alternative to being a "savior"; it focuses on creating pathways for empowerment rather than just providing aid.
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Trust is a currency that must be earned through consistent presence and proven integrity, and it is often more valuable than the financial capital required to navigate corrupt or inefficient bureaucracies.
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A mission to "change a generation" creates a self-perpetuating legacy, where the individuals who are helped are empowered to become the next leaders and continue the work.
A New Logic of Scale
What is the accurate measure of scale? In the logic of modern industry, the growth path is an almost universally accepted equation: scale necessitates efficiency, which in turn demands automation, ultimately leading to the reduction of human labor. It is a formula designed to optimize machinery. Shashank Noronha, a founder with over a decade of experience in FMCG manufacturing, presents a radical counter-thesis. He began his journey to build something "from scratch," a decision born from identifying deep, systemic gaps in the essentials industry. His work proposes a model where scale does not eliminate employment but actively creates it, not as a charitable afterthought, but as a core tenet of a more resilient and logically sound business. This approach forces a fundamental re-examination of the very definition of sustainable growth.
The Four-Phase System: A Rejection of Incomplete Solutions
Shashank’s entire operational philosophy is built upon a precise, four-phase deconstruction of a product’s life cycle: 1. Manufacturing, 2. Logistics, 3. Usage, and 4. Post-Usage. His central critique of the current sustainability movement is its myopic focus on the final two phases. He observes that companies concentrate on making the usage phase 'eco-friendly, making it natural, making it organic,' and the post-usage phase seemingly sustainable through recyclable packaging. However, this addresses only a fraction of the problem. Shashank's model, on the other hand, considers the entire life cycle of a product, from its creation to its disposal, and aims to make each phase sustainable and employment-generating.
He identifies a critical flaw in this standard approach. A brand might claim to "have cut down 95% of plastic" by using a smaller wrapper, yet this ignores a staggering fact: "the fact remains that 9 to 11% is only actually recycled." Therefore, even a 95% reduction in individual packaging contributes to an ever-growing mountain of waste. The problem, as he states with stark clarity, "is staggering, and it's compounding." He concludes that we "need to stop the compounding effect of waste that's generated because we aren't finding the solution to the current waste." This insight shifts the focus from managing the symptoms of waste to addressing its root causes within the first two phases. His logic dictates that any solution that fails to account for the entire system is, at best, a temporary measure, and at worst, a form of sophisticated delusion.
"We need to stop the compounding effect of waste that's generated because we aren't still finding the solution to the current waste."
Redefining Growth: More Humans, Fewer Machines
Shashank's model radically departs from convention, particularly in the first phase, manufacturing. The standard industrial objective is to increase efficiency by increasing automation. As he notes, for a typical product business, 'The maximum number of units that I can manufacture in a single day is my strength,' a process that involves more advanced machines, higher-skilled engineers to run them, and greater 'electrical consumption.'
Shashank's model is not an arbitrary moral stance; it is a calculated business decision rooted in his entrepreneurial origins. Starting his first venture at sixteen and being bootstrapped meant he 'never had the money to hire the right people.' He had to train lower-wage workers himself. This experience taught him a fundamental lesson: 'People are something that builds a company, regardless of the education or the background or anything. It's ultimately an experience.'
Applying this logic, he structured his manufacturing process to be entirely manual. 'We got everything manually packed, so that with the scale of business we'll always keep creating employment,' he explains. This decision has a second-order benefit: 'since we have eliminated machines that also save on a lot of electrical consumption.'
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"What I wanted to do was exactly the opposite [you do when you] scale… I wanted to create more employment."
Inclusive Employment as a Logical Imperative
This focus on manual labor directly informs his inclusive hiring policy. When asked about hiring criteria, Shashank is clear: there are no conventional prerequisites. Instead, his vision is to provide an opportunity for those systematically excluded from the workforce. This includes women in Tier 2 and 3 cities constrained by 'social stigmas' that prevent them from working outside the home, as well as individuals with physical or mental challenges. He plans to hire 'the deaf people... people, maybe, who might be suffering from autism.' His commitment to inclusivity is a moral stance and a strategic decision to tap into a diverse talent pool and foster a more equitable society.
Again, this is framed not as charity but logic. The work is manual packaging, a task where performance is the only relevant metric. "We pay them on the number of units that they pack," he states. "So, the maximum number of units and the hours that they work, the higher the income they get." This performance-based system is inherently agnostic to background or ability. He argues that society wrongly places these individuals in a "special category," a logic he refuses to implement in his company. His reasoning is direct: these individuals did not choose their circumstances, but they have a right to build a stronger life. "They'll also be ready to put down 18 hours if they're given the opportunity," just like anyone else. The work provides the "fuel to do something that they want to." His model does not offer a handout; it gives an opportunity, directly challenging the exclusionary biases embedded in traditional corporate hiring structures.
"The problem is, we put them down into a special category, and I didn't want to have that kind of category, that kind of logic in my company."
The Manufacturer’s Burden: Beyond Policy to Education
This principle of inherent responsibility extends to his view on sustainability. He posits that the current dialogue incorrectly burdens the consumer while absolving the creator. 'I think the challenge is not with the consumer,' Shashank asserts. 'It's, I think, with the brand or the manufacturer. Responsibility for what and how I plan to build this product.' A consumer's job is to 'pay the price and get things done.' They lack the time and, often, the complete knowledge to vet every aspect of a product's lifecycle. Shashank's model, therefore, places the onus on manufacturers to ensure that their products are not only efficient and profitable but also sustainable and socially responsible.
This is where greenwashing thrives. Brands focus on the final phase, marketing a single attribute to a consumer who is "more concerned about. Does it have chemicals? Is it safe for my child?" The consumer ticks that one box and "thinks I have now become sustainable." Yet, the manufacturer knows the whole story.
The antidote, Shashank argues, is a shift from marketing features to educating on the "why." He believes that policies alone are insufficient to create lasting change if the underlying mindset is not addressed. Actual adoption comes from belief, which is built on awareness. He uses a powerful cultural example: "We know turmeric or haldi in India...is a great curing product...my mindset and my belief...is also that turmeric is the best. Now, that's because there's a lot of education and awareness. Now, policy wouldn't be able to inculcate that into people."
This logic is incisive. A policy can mandate a behavior, but it cannot instill a belief. A deeply understood "why" becomes part of a cultural lexicon passed through generations. He argues that brands have a responsibility to explain why their products are structured the way they are. When a brand transparently explains its choices across all four phases, it equips the consumer with genuine knowledge, allowing them to make an informed choice that transcends superficial marketing. "When I inform you about my why... my story points on my product will speak a lot more regardless, even if I have a very monochrome black and white package."
This commitment to transparent education redefines the relationship between brand and consumer. It is a demand for intellectual honesty from creators, positioning them not as mere sellers but as educators responsible for the systems they create. By building a business on a foundation of holistic, measurable, and human-centric logic, Shashank Noronha offers not just a sustainable product but a blueprint for a more responsible form of capitalism.
"My story points on my product will speak a lot more regardless, even if I have a very monochrome black and white package."
What I learned from Shashank Noronha
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A product's sustainability must be judged across its entire lifecycle, as focusing only on post-consumer waste ignores the compounding problem at its source.
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True industrial scale can be logically re-engineered to increase human employment and reduce energy consumption, directly challenging automation as the only path to growth.
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Inclusive hiring is not an act of charity but a sound business imperative, leveraging an untapped talent pool based on performance rather than societal prejudice.
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The primary ethical responsibility for a product's impact lies with the manufacturer, whose duty is to build integrity into the system, not with the time-poor consumer.
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Lasting change in sustainable behavior is driven by deep-seated awareness and belief, which education can instill more effectively than top-down policy mandates.
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