Born
to Be Different: A Girl Who Didn’t Fit the Frame
Growing up in a middle-class immigrant family, there
were a lot of ups and downs. Financially, things weren’t easy. But my parents
gave me exposure to the real world—they wanted me to be independent. They made
sure I had access to good education, and most importantly, they taught me to
think. To not just accept things at face value, but to question them.
Still, there was a mold I was expected to fit. I wasn’t
allowed to wear certain clothes, act a certain way, or even dream of becoming
an entrepreneur. My family (though we were a business family) didn’t think the
business world was for someone like me. They said it was cruel, harsh, and too
big. Back then, I resisted that idea. I believed in equality, in the power of
women to do whatever they wanted. But as I stepped into this world, I began to
understand the depth of what they were saying.
Being a woman entrepreneur in a physically demanding,
male-dominated space like mine—where your staff is mostly men, where you're
interacting with landlords and contractors daily—it’s tough. It’s not about
capability. It’s about the constant challenge of being taken seriously, of
being seen as more than “just a woman.”
But being a woman entrepreneur—even in a physically
demanding, male-dominated industry like mine—has turned out to be one of the
most powerful experiences of my life. Not because it’s easy. But because it
forces you to grow into a version of yourself that’s both soft and strong.
There’s a unique kind of freedom in being able to design your own schedule, your
own way of leading. And I’ve come to see that what the world often
overlooks—empathy, emotional intelligence, the instinct to nurture—is actually
what sets us apart. It’s what builds healthier teams, creates more meaningful
customer experiences, and slowly, quietly, changes the game.
IIT
Madras: Where the Rebellion Took Shape
Despite my creative instinct and desire to study
psychology in UG, I studied Physics at IIT Madras—mostly because that’s what
was expected of someone who was “a topper.” But the best thing that happened to
me there was that I found people like me. People who didn’t just live for
grades or the next placement. People who wanted to create.
It was in college that I began questioning the larger
system we’re all plugged into. Together with a few peers, I started working on
emotional wellness initiatives. It was there, around the age of 19, that the
journey of challenging mental health norms began. We noticed how the IIT system
operated at full speed, but no one paused to ask—“Are we okay?”
Post-college, I started a marketing agency. It did well,
but it didn’t fulfill me. Then I stumbled upon something online—people were
talking on Reddit and Twitter about wanting to vent, to destroy things in a
safe space. A rage room, essentially. India didn’t have anything like that.
And that’s how it began—with a tiny pilot project to
test the waters. Could people in this country accept such a radical concept?
The answer was loud and clear: YES.
The
Rage Room Revolution: Healing in Shards
What we created wasn’t just a business—it was a
movement. People came in—couples, friends, solo visitors—and left their pain
behind in pieces of broken plates, shattered electronics, and flying glass.
Some came in furious and left lighter. Others came to
end a relationship and ended up reconciling. I saw people hug, cry,
scream—there’s something deeply healing about breaking things when you’ve been
taught your whole life to stay composed.
Women made up the majority of our organic
footfall—nearly 75–80%. And in a society that constantly teaches women to
bottle things up, seeing them scream, release, and cry was transformative.
We expanded to Bangalore, Mumbai, and recently opened in
Delhi—Lajpat Nagar, to be specific. Opening in Delhi as the solo founder was
the toughest. The male gaze was intense, and the objectification made it
emotionally draining. I remember being stunned by how workers—painters,
cleaners—treated me and other women with such casual disrespect. It’s something
I never faced in Bangalore or Mumbai.
But the Delhi branch also gave me moments I’ll never
forget—a lawyer who cried over a lost case, people who found peace, and young
college students who walked in dancing and walked out introspecting.
One group came in for fun—laughing, filming, dancing—and
ended up breaking down emotionally. That’s the power of a rage room. It disarms
you. You come thinking it’s all fun and games, and you walk out understanding
yourself better.
We’ve seen everything—from stress relief to deep
emotional breakthroughs. It’s a release people didn’t know they needed. Even I
didn’t know I needed it—until I started watching it change lives.
Rage,
Microaggressions & the Bigger Mission
But this work made me realize something deeper. People
are hurting. Constantly. And it’s not always the big, dramatic kind of
hurt—it’s microaggressions, everyday frustrations, unprocessed emotions. We
lash out at our teammates, raise our voice unnecessarily, dismiss others’
efforts. Not because we’re bad people, but because we’re carrying pain we
haven’t processed.
I want to help people see that. To identify that
pattern. Because we’re so busy surviving, we never pause to ask, “Why am I like
this?”
Most people don’t even know they’re in pain. They don’t
know their tone is harsh, their response is dismissive, or their actions are
rooted in unhealed trauma. But the consequences are real—relationships break,
workplaces turn toxic, and we keep passing our pain around like a curse.
This is the work I want to do now. Not just help people
break bottles, but help them break patterns. Help them see themselves. Heal.
Rebuild.
I’m now working on a curated gifting platform called
Jreka that lets people create personalized, joyful moments—like hosting a
Pirates of the Caribbean themed party within 10 minutes. It’s about creating daily
pockets of joy and meaning, even in the chaos.
And beyond that? I have one mission: impact a billion
lives in 10 years. Especially people from underprivileged backgrounds—those who
don’t have access to healing or space to feel. There’s so much brilliance stuck
in sorrow, and if I can help free even a fraction of it, that’s a life worth
living.
On
Work, Love, and Living Fully
People talk about work-life balance like it’s a set of
scales. I don’t buy it. If you love your work, it doesn’t need to be balanced
against life—it is part of life. What matters more than balance is presence.
When I’m working, I’m all in. When I’m with my loved ones, I’m all there.
That’s the real magic.
Do I believe in a perfect day off? Not really. My idea
of rest looks like a quiet escape into nature—somewhere peaceful, surrounded by
the people I love. But even there, I’m thinking, dreaming, building. Work isn’t
something I switch off from. I breathe it. It’s in my blood. But I’ve also
learned—through mistakes and heartache—that no amount of passion for work can
replace love. There were times I forgot to be kind. I missed the moments that
mattered. I let ambition outrun empathy. And I paid the price.
So now, I choose differently. I show up for the people
who matter. I stay grounded. But I don’t pull back when things get hard either.
On days when the easier choice would be to cancel the meeting, disappear, or go
quiet—I stay in it. I remind myself why I started.
Consistency is now my superpower. Because when you’re a
small fish in a massive ocean, talent isn’t what gets you noticed. It’s the
grit. The showing up. The refusal to quit when no one’s watching. In the end,
we remember the outcome—not the discomfort. And I don’t want to look back one
day and say, “I stopped because I was tired.” I want to say, “I showed up.
Every damn day.”
Final
Word: Smash What’s Holding You Back
Pain lives in the hidden corners of our hearts. And most
of us spend our lives running away from those dark corners. But there’s freedom
in facing them. There’s healing in breaking what no longer serves us.
So smash it. Break the silence. Cry loudly. Laugh
wildly. Rage and love with equal force. Life is best lived on the edges, with intense
experiences that open our perception on what’s possible.
Because that’s what makes us human.