On Legacy: Everything I'm Building Is For You

Avyaansh,

I do not know how old you are when you read this. Maybe you are fifteen and angry about something I said. Maybe you are twenty-two and stepping into the world for the first time. Maybe you are thirty-five and holding your own child and finally understanding why I did all of this. Maybe I am sitting next to you and we are reading it together. Maybe I am not.

I need to say something I do not say often enough, because the work of building consumes me and sometimes I forget to stop and speak the simple truth that drives all of it.

Everything I am building is for you.

Every letter on this platform. Every blog post. Every line of code. Every investment I have made. The app called Avya — named after you, always after you. The hours I spend writing when I could be resting. The mornings I train when my body begs me to stop. The late nights debugging code that refuses to work. All of it. Every single piece. It is for you.

I started from zero, Avyaansh. I need you to understand what that means, because by the time you read this, you will not know what zero feels like, and that is the whole point.

I came from a small town. There was no family wealth. There was no inheritance waiting. There was no one to call when things got hard who could write a cheque or open a door. When I joined the Navy at twenty-two, everything I owned fit in one bag. When I left the Navy at thirty-six, I had more — but I had earned every gram of it myself, with no head start and no safety net.

That taught me something. But it also cost me something. It cost me years. Years spent learning things that could have been taught. Years spent making mistakes that could have been avoided. Years spent building foundations that could have already been laid. I do not regret those years — they made me who I am. But I looked at you, asleep in your cot, and I made a vow: my son will not start from zero.

Every generation should give the next generation a better starting position. Not a softer life. Not an easier path. A higher floor. So you can reach ceilings I could not even see from where I started.

This platform is my attempt to hand you a map. Not a map that tells you where to go — that is your choice, always your choice. A map that shows you where I have been. The terrain I have crossed. The dead ends I hit. The paths that led somewhere real. So when you set out on your own journey, you do not waste years wandering through territory your father has already charted.

The fitness knowledge — so you understand your body before the world tries to sell you shortcuts and lies about health. The financial knowledge — so you start investing at eighteen instead of twenty-eight and gain a decade I did not have. The technical skills — so you can build in whatever medium your generation uses, because builders are never powerless. The letters — so you know who your father was. Not the curated version. Not the social media version. The real one. The one who was scared and did it anyway.

I wish I could promise you that I will be there for every milestone. That I will see you graduate. That I will be in the front row when you do something that makes your heart race. That I will be the first person you call when something extraordinary happens or when something breaks. I want all of that so badly that sometimes the wanting itself feels like a prayer.

But life does not come with guarantees. The Navy taught me that. I have seen men taken too soon. I have seen fathers who assumed they had decades and were wrong. I refuse to assume. I refuse to leave things unsaid because I think there is time. There may not be.

So I am writing it down. All of it. Everything I know, everything I believe, everything I have learned through sweat and failure and grace. I am putting it on a platform that will outlive any single server, any single day, any single heartbeat. Because if something happens to me — if destiny has a different plan than the one I am working toward — you will still have this. You will still have my voice. You will still have the map.

I do not need to be perfect for you. I just need to leave you more than what I was given. Not perfection — just a head start. Just enough so that when you begin your own journey, you begin it standing, not crawling.

I love you in a way that I did not know was possible before you existed. It is not a gentle love. It is ferocious. It wakes me up at four in the morning. It keeps me at the desk when my eyes are burning. It pushes me through workouts that my thirty-six-year-old body protests. It drives every decision I make — not because I am selfless, but because your future and my purpose turned out to be the same thing.

You are my legacy, Avyaansh. Not this platform. Not the investments. Not the skills. You. Everything else is just scaffolding to help you climb higher than I could.

So you never start from zero.

— Your Dad

Har Har Mahadev 🔱