I came into this world with a congenital condition called Bilateral Hydronephrosis. At just four years old, I slipped into a coma and was put on dialysis that lasted through day and night, with tubes running in and out of me as my legs hung from the cot. Both my hands were tied with pads so I wouldn’t bend my elbows. Even at that age, I remember how life felt—slipping in and out of me like a snail retreating into its shell.

The hospital became a second home. I was taken in and out of the operation theatre so many times that each time felt like a final goodbye—my parents and sister would look at me with a silent farewell in their eyes, and I too felt the same. Over the years, I’ve endured thirty-odd surgeries, countless dialysis sessions, even peritoneal dialysis that ended in infection. Two kidney transplants—one from my mother and the other from my sister—finally gave me another chance at life.

Yet, through all this, I never let go of my dreams. My heart always belonged to the jungle. I’ve spent days and nights in the wild, driven 13,000 kilometres across India—mostly alone—in just 80 days, camped under the stars, and learned the art of birdwatching. I’ve conducted wildlife camps, slept in tents deep in the forest, and found peace in the rhythm of nature.

I love driving, and I love riding my bike—both carry the same name I fondly gave them: The Green Hornet. When I’m not on the road or in the forest, I paint, sketch, and journal. These are not hobbies for me; they are lifelines—ways of saying there is no stopping me, no matter what life throws my way.