On a Maruti, a white shirt, and the little café that watched it all begin.
Sitting at a Barista and working brings a wave of nostalgia.
We were probably one of the first customers at Barista, and we fell in love with the one near Gandhara at Stratford Avenue. It was on the way home, and it became a perfect pitstop after a day of training — a place to meet the team, talk about the day and the week, grab a coffee, and just hang out.
It was also the perfect place for me to sit and journal. And to meet potential trainers, some of whom had their very first conversation about joining us right there, over a cup of coffee.
But the reason for this post isn’t nostalgia. It’s a quieter reflection — on how much has changed, and why I am really glad that it has.
When I started out as a trainer, I didn’t have enough money to buy a ‘proper’ car. So rather than getting into debt to look the part, I bought what I could afford — a Maruti. I drove it for over 350,000 kilometres.
Many told me it would make me look like a dead-beat. That I would never be taken seriously in a Maruti.
I also wore jeans and a white shirt, and there was a reason for both. The jeans were a small act of rebellion against the ‘establishment.’ The white shirt was something else entirely.
When my dad started working, he couldn’t afford office shirts, so he wore his old school shirts. Over time, that white shirt became his trademark. Mine is a homage to him — to a man whose journey through life remains my North Star to this day. The white shirt reminds me never to forget my roots, or how humbly it all began.
Many told me I was a disgrace to the ‘profession.’
And because I didn’t have an office, I ended up meeting people in all sorts of little places. Coffee shops weren’t really a ‘thing’ back then. So when Barista first opened, I walked in — and never looked back.
Once again, the skeptics had their say. “It’s unprofessional,” they said.
Here is the thing about all that skepticism.
The Maruti was supposed to be the proof that I’d never make it. Instead, it carried me to almost every early training I ever did, and to almost every conversation that built this company. 350,000 kilometres is not a sign of failure. It’s a record of showing up.
The white shirt was supposed to be embarrassing. Instead, it became the most honest thing I wore. It kept me anchored on the days the work got glamorous enough to make a man forget where he came from.
And the coffee shop — the ‘unprofessional’ coffee shop — turned out to be the most professional decision of all. Because it was never about the table. It was about the conversation. About sitting across from someone, with no boardroom and no theatrics, and actually listening.
What’s changed is everything around it.
Coffee shops are now where deals are done, where teams meet, where people journal and dream and decide to change their lives. The Maruti would barely raise an eyebrow today — and even if it did, I’ve long stopped keeping count. The white shirt is just… the white shirt. Mine.
But what hasn’t changed is the only part that ever mattered.
I still wear the white shirt. I still believe the conversation matters more than the venue. I still think you build something real by showing up, again and again, in the clothes you can afford and the car you actually own — not the ones that borrow you a personality.
The world eventually caught up to the things they once laughed at. But I’d like to think I’d have kept them either way.
So here I sit, years later, at a Barista — working, remembering, and quietly grateful.
The café changed. The white shirt didn’t. And somewhere in between, I learned that the things people mock you for are often the very things worth keeping.
Everything teaches. Some lessons just arrive in a white shirt, behind the wheel of a Maruti.
V Over Tea 
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