My Story

The Journey of Roshan

Welcome to my story. This isn’t just a biography; it’s a testament to resilience, a journey forged in adversity, and a belief in the transformative power of creativity. My path has been anything but conventional, marked by early struggles, unexpected discoveries, and an unyielding fight for survival and purpose. This is the story of how a boy who failed school twice found his voice, built a brand, and learned to stand tall, pixel by pixel.

Humble Beginnings and a Childhood Scar (1998-2003)

I came into the world on October 11, 1998, in New Delhi. My parents had moved from our small village in Bihar a few years prior, seeking better opportunities in the bustling city. Our home was a single, tiny rented room—lacking a kitchen and with a shared bathroom down the hallway—which served as our bedroom, living room, and often, my mother’s makeshift kitchen. We were three boys, sleeping nightly on a thin mat spread across the floor, squeezed together. My father, who once sold fruit, was gradually transitioning into small construction contracts, while my mother, barely in her twenties, endured long hours as a maid. She would leave before dawn and return around noon to cook our lunch on a small stove at the entrance, only to depart again until evening. In that cramped space, she managed to care for us all, and my two older brothers did their best to protect me.

When I was three, on a particularly rainy afternoon, a moment of childish curiosity turned into a searing memory. My mother was frying puris outside our door, a hot kadai of oil beside a small stove on plywood. I, a curious child who never sat still, found a small ball of dough and, not understanding the consequences, threw it into the sizzling oil.

Instantly, the oil splashed back, some landing on my face. I let out a piercing scream, tears mixing with raindrops. My mother dropped everything, and my brothers scrambled to help. They carried me down muddy stairs and into an auto-rickshaw that felt endless, each bump sending sharp pain through my young face. At the hospital, doctors and nurses worked quickly, and my eyes were completely wrapped in bandages for days; I could only see darkness. The burns on my cheeks and forehead hurt so intensely that I cried every time I blinked—though for a while, I couldn’t even blink.

In that darkness, the world felt simultaneously vast and terrifying. Lying on that narrow hospital bed, I felt like I was floating inside a cave where no light could reach. Every sound—my mother’s soft footsteps, my brothers’ hushed whispers, the distant beeping of machines—echoed, making me feel smaller. I had no sense of distance or direction, my hands flailing, trying to find something solid. Yet, my parents’ comfort was my lifeline. My mother’s hand on my burning forehead felt like a cool cloud passing over a desert fire. I’d hear her whisper, “Beta, main hoon na” (“Child, I’m here”), and in that soft, unwavering tone, I felt anchored. My father’s deep, steady breathing, his hand gripping mine, conveyed a silent promise: “I will not leave you.” The vibrations of their voices, his gentle hum, her lullabies, became my world. When they placed a toy car in my hand, I felt a spark of color in my mind, like a distant lamp had turned on. Even blindfolded, I sensed their profound relief in my mother’s quiet tears and my father’s cracking voice as he said, “Bas beta, sab theek ho jayega” (“That’s it, child; everything will be alright”). Their love felt infinite, softening the fear even in absolute darkness.

Most of the scars faded over time, though a few faint traces remain. What didn’t fade was the fear; to this day, I avoid hot oil. That incident taught me how fragile life can be and how danger can arise from the simplest things. My family’s protection became my bedrock. My brothers became even more vigilant, gently steering me away from anything hot or dangerous, often with a teasing “Hey, fire-magnet, back off!” but always with a firm, protective hand. My mother remained my hero, returning to work sooner than most would dare, cooking lunch with love, and reminding me, “Beta, this house may be small, but our hearts are vast.” I carried the pain of the accident and the warmth of their love, learning caution and finding strength in their sacrifices. That cramped rental was more than just a place to live; it was where my story began, where pain and love were woven together into the person I would become.

The Harsh Realities of Class and a Return to Roots (2003-2005)

In 2003, at five years old, my father enrolled me in a private school in Delhi, dreaming that his children would not suffer as he had. He wanted us to attend a “better” school, even if it meant stretching every rupee. However, this school, teaching Classes 1 to 5, was nothing like he imagined. The environment was harsh. My middle brother and I, wearing second-hand uniforms and carrying basic bags with simple packed meals, immediately felt we didn’t belong. The other children noticed, and so did some teachers, who were outright cruel.

One sweltering afternoon, my brother and I forgot our notebooks. Mrs. Verma, our teacher, barked, “You useless children! How dare you come unprepared?” She grabbed a wooden ruler and struck each of us across the palms, hard enough to whiten our knuckles. My brother’s small yelp was like a knife in my chest. I looked down at my trembling fingers, seeing thin red lines where the wood had scratched my skin. As she turned her back, other students giggled awkwardly. In that moment, I felt exposed and worthless, like my family’s poverty was written all over me. The sharp sting in my hands anchored a deeper sting in my heart: I don’t belong here. Later, during recess, boys would block me from the swings, whispering I was “too poor to play.” I’d sit on dusty ground, clutching my scratched palms, trying not to cry. These punishments and taunts taught me early that poverty could turn innocent children into judges. Every hit of that ruler was a public announcement that we were outsiders, and every mocking laugh confirmed it. We would often walk home in silence, our small hands carrying heavy bags and heavier feelings. My parents, despite their desire for better, could only offer embraces and quiet listening, as that school showed us how money defined how people treated you, even as a child.

Around mid-2004, as our financial situation worsened, my father made a difficult decision: he sent my mother and me back to our ancestral village in Bihar, while he stayed in Delhi to keep things together. Life in the village was simpler, rooted in survival. My mother, never one to sit idle, started farming to provide for us. We even kept a cow, which became part of our daily routine. For that year, our life revolved around soil, crops, and animals. It wasn’t easy, but it was real. Despite being so young, I remember helping in small ways, surrounded by green fields, living without the city’s rush. I missed my brothers and Delhi, but those months connected me deeply to my roots. By mid-2005, we returned to Delhi, and my father enrolled me in a nearby government school—free and serving working-class families. This was a quiet but powerful turning point, showing me my mother’s strength and how our family found a way to keep moving, even without money.

First Love, First Loss, and a Drifting Mind (2005-2012)

Starting fresh in Class 3 at the government school in late 2005, I felt like a stranger in a familiar city. But everything changed the moment I met Karuna. She was funny, charmingly loud, and a natural leader. She was also irresistibly cute and beautiful, leaving a mark without trying. Slowly, we started talking. Her playful hits made me laugh, made me feel noticed.

We reached a point where we’d eat from the same lunchbox, play, fight over silly things, and then be friends again. Our bond grew naturally. She sat behind me in class, and I’d show her my test answers, trying to help. I was a good student, she wasn’t, so I did everything to lift her up. I became her silent protector; if any boy talked to her, I’d notice; if someone teased her, I’d feel a burst of anger. She became the reason I never wanted to skip school. When she was absent, I’d feel lost and worried. For me, “school” became “Karuna.” She never knew what she meant to me—how her presence gave me purpose, joy, and strength when I had so little at home. That classroom, that lunchbox, those small smiles—they were my first real taste of love.

I had just finished Class 3, growing up with a new routine, new friends, and Karuna in my life. Everything felt stable for a moment. But on December 29, 2008, when I was 11, that world collapsed. That was the day my father passed away. He had worked tirelessly, selling fruits and taking small construction contracts, ensuring we had food and could go to school, even sacrificing his own needs. When he died, I didn’t fully understand the weight of it, but I could feel it. The silence after his death felt like a vacuum that sucked warmth out of the walls. For days, no one spoke above a whisper. My mother’s brisk morning rush changed into a hollow shuffle; she no longer hummed while cooking, stirring slowly as if her arms were submerged in deep water. My brothers became stoic, their laughter replaced by heavy footsteps. I wanted to ask my mother why she looked so broken, but her forced smile for my sake turned away. His favorite chair sat empty, and when his office keys clattered onto his belt rack, it felt like a drop of ice in my chest. The bathroom became a place where my mother would weep quietly. To me, that silence was a statement: The one who protected us is gone. Our entire world had changed shape. Every meal tasted bitter, and every night, I lay awake feeling the emptiness, the absence, and the loud quiet of a home that had lost its anchor. His death took away our only shield, and from that moment, life got harder: financially, emotionally, and mentally.

After our father passed, my brothers both stepped in to fill that “big brother” role. Their protectiveness wasn’t about grand gestures; it was a persistent, quiet presence. If I came home late or was up tinkering on my phone, one would quietly check if I’d eaten and remind me to rest. They sensed when I was drifting or upset, sitting with me in silence or sharing jokes to lift my spirits without making me feel weak. When money got tight, they found small ways to support me—sharing clothes, lending textbooks, offering encouragement. I never asked; they offered because they knew I needed a hand. Their vigilance and deep possessiveness were the bedrock of safety I felt growing up.

I moved to Class 4 in early 2009, but my mind wasn’t there anymore. My focus as a student slipped away. I didn’t care about marks or school rules; I just wanted to feel normal again, but nothing was normal. Without my father, there was no one to truly guide or discipline me. My mother had to continue working as a maid, and my brothers were busy trying to earn money. I was the youngest, with freedom but no direction. My days blurred into a series of small escapes. I’d skip school to lie under a neem tree with friends, sharing samosas, or play cricket in dusty alleys. Sometimes we’d sneak onto a rickshaw to watch a movie. Underneath that “fun” was a dull ache—grief for my father and lost childhood, shame for my failures, and fear of a futureless existence. I hid this pain by convincing myself that laughter and aimless wandering were escapes from a reality I felt powerless to change. I was escaping responsibility, too proud or scared to admit I was struggling. I wasn’t thinking about exams, grades, or what I’d become. I was just living each day for fun, hiding the pain, and escaping responsibility.

From 2009 to 2012, my school life underwent another significant change. After Class 5, my government school only went up to that grade, and all boys were referred to a boys-only government school for Class 6 onward. This meant no more Karuna—no more seeing her smile, no shared lunch, no playful fights. That small thread of emotional comfort was gone. At the new school, I felt disconnected and began drifting. I attended classes, but my mind was never inside the classroom. My new friends were also disconnected from studies, and we started bunking school together, wandering the streets, playing cricket, chatting, and just having fun. With my father’s absence and my mother working constantly, no one had the time or energy to guide me.

In 2011, at age 13, I entered Class 9 at Sarvodaya Bal Vidyalaya, Naraina Vihar. By this time, I had lost my father, my childhood focus, and the emotional warmth of Karuna. The school itself was underdeveloped and poorly managed. Classrooms lacked benches, fans didn’t work, windows were broken, and paint peeled. From Class 6 to 7, most teachers didn’t bother teaching, acting as placeholders. By Class 9, the staff became stricter, but it was too late; my foundation had never been built. I played cricket most days, found joy outside the classroom, and surrounded myself with friends who didn’t care about school. No one in my family had the time or capacity to guide me. When I failed Class 9, it didn’t shock me; I had expected it. But it still hurt when my classmates laughed, moving forward while I was stuck. It wasn’t just a personal failure; it was the result of a neglected education system, a broken support structure, and the absence of anyone who could pull me out.

The following year, 2012, at age 14, I repeated Class 9. Nothing had changed in the school or in me. I had stopped trying, just passing time with the same friends. I’d go, sit in class sometimes, bunk others, play cricket, roam, laugh, and waste hours. Deep inside, I knew I wouldn’t pass, but I felt numb to the system. When the results came, I failed Class 9 again. This time, there was no mocking; everyone had moved on. I was left behind, completely alone, repeating the same year with new students who weren’t my friends. I didn’t belong there anymore. When my family saw I had failed again, they didn’t shout or beg me to try. They just… let it go. We were financially broken, my mother overworked, my brothers doing what they could. No one had the time or energy to drag me back into books. So I left. No drama, no goodbye. Just a quiet exit from school life. At 14, I walked away from formal education—with nothing but confusion in my mind and a hidden fire I didn’t yet understand.

The Spark of Pixels and the Rise of Mafiya Edition (2014-2017)

After leaving school in 2012, 2014, at age 16, became a year of complete detachment. I had no routine, no structure, no responsibilities—just time to waste, and I wasted it. Almost every day, I played cricket with friends, spending hours under the sun, shouting, joking, running, laughing. The rest of the time, we’d hang around street corners, talk nonsense, explore the city, or just kill time with no aim. I had no plan, no ambition. No one was pushing me, and I didn’t push myself. I was just flowing with whatever came my way. But deep down, I knew this wouldn’t last. I didn’t want to be this person forever; I just didn’t know where to begin.

After drifting through 2014, 2015 became the year my life finally started to shift. My friend Pankaj suggested we join a local computer course—a small setup with outdated desktops. I didn’t join with grand dreams; I just thought, “Let’s see what this is about.” Even opening a folder felt technical. The course started basic—typing, Word, Paint—and nothing excited me. Then one day, the instructor told us, “Practice something. Explore.” That freedom led me to Adobe Photoshop. I didn’t know what I was doing, but curious and bored, I loaded a Harry Potter image. Clicking buttons randomly, I stumbled onto the Quick Selection Tool. I used it to select Harry and his friends, erased the background, then opened an image of the Taj Mahal and placed them in front of it. The result was chaotic, but to me, it looked magical.

That moment lit a fire in me. Until then, my days were filled with school struggles, aimless drifting, and a family fighting to survive. Opening Photoshop was like opening a window to a place where none of that mattered. When I isolated Harry or layered myself onto the Taj Mahal, I wasn’t just moving pixels—I was moving away from my problems, if only for a few minutes. The blank canvas became my sanctuary. Every click felt like carving out a space where I was in control, even if everything else in life felt chaotic. I remember zooming in with the Quick Selection Tool, precisely brushing away pixels, feeling almost magical that I could bend reality with a few clicks. That sense of control was intoxicating. For the first time, I felt like my hands—my ideas—could reshape anything. In real life, I’d been at the whim of circumstances; in Photoshop, I was the creator. In that open-learning class, everyone else learned basics, but when I experimented with layers and blend modes, I felt genuinely alive. I didn’t fully understand the jargon yet, but I knew I was onto something special. That first chaotic edit wasn’t “perfect,” but the feeling of accomplishment—the idea that I could bring imagination to life—stayed with me. I thought: If I can do this, maybe I can do anything. A light switched on, dissolving doubts from years of academic failures. I wasn’t just clicking anymore; I was creating. When Pankaj saw my screen, his reaction was instant: “Bhai, tune banaya ye? Ye to next level hai!” He showed it to others. For the first time in years, people praised me for something real—something I made. That first spark of creativity would define the next phase of my life. I had finally found something that gave me joy, purpose, and identity. Photoshop would become my world.

By 2016, at age 18, I fully stepped into mobile photo editing. I bought my own Xiaomi MI 3 phone, my editing studio. Using PicsArt, Snapseed, and Lightroom, I explored deeper visual storytelling. Removing backgrounds with my finger was painstaking, taking hours without AI. I often edited during tuition classes, sometimes getting punished, but I couldn’t stop. I was obsessed with making perfect edits, blending fantasy, portraits, and dramatic backgrounds, pixel by pixel. Initially, my family didn’t understand. I was glued to my phone for hours, editing late into the night, sometimes skipping meals. To them, it looked like wasting time. My mother was too busy working, my brothers focused on household responsibilities. They never discouraged me, but they didn’t pay much attention; survival was the priority.

I started uploading my work to Facebook. To my surprise, people liked, commented, and messaged me with appreciation. Strangers’ words hit differently. For the first time, I felt my work had value, that I could be someone—even as a 9th-grade dropout. This online validation contrasted starkly with my real-life situation. Every like, comment, or share on Facebook and Instagram felt like fresh air. Strangers praised my work: “This looks next level,” “Can you teach me your secret?” These messages hit me differently because I’d spent so long feeling like a dropout who didn’t belong anywhere. In real life, I was the kid who failed ninth grade twice, who roamed the streets, whose family was barely holding on. Online, I was someone with talent, someone people sought out. Deep down, I knew social media recognition didn’t instantly fix my struggles, but for a few hours each day, my phone or laptop screen became proof that I had value beyond grades or societal labels. That validation didn’t erase my doubts entirely, but it gave me the energy to keep going. As time went on, my family noticed. Their attitude shifted. My mother didn’t fully understand Photoshop, but she saw my excitement and commitment, quietly supporting me. Sometimes, she’d tell others, “Yeh photo banata hai—bada accha karta hai.” My brothers, realizing I was gaining a following, showed more interest, asking me to edit friends’ pictures or proudly showing my Instagram, saying, “Mera chhota bhai karta hai yeh sab.” That pride meant everything. I was still hanging out with friends, playing cricket, laughing, but now there was purpose behind my edits. This was also the year I met Maahi online through Facebook, though our connection would grow later. My focus was clear: Edit. Post. Improve. Repeat. That was my life cycle in 2016—half mischief, half creation.

By 2017, at age 19, I had built serious momentum as a mobile photo editor. Still using my MI 3, I mastered PicsArt, Snapseed, and Lightroom. What once took hours, I could now do in minutes. My edits had flair—blending, overlays, dramatic tones—and people noticed. That year, I created my Facebook and Instagram pages under the name Mafiya Edition. The name had power, stood out, and reflected my bold, cinematic style. Slowly, strangers became genuine fans, liking, sharing, commenting, and asking for tips or edits. That small page felt like a movement. It was mine. Seeing strangers become genuine fans made me realize that if I kept refining my craft, I could build something real. It wasn’t just fleeting praise; it was evidence that I could turn Photoshop into a vocation. I was still living my usual life—cricket, friends, laughter—and editing deep into the night. But now, there was purpose. Mafiya Edition wasn’t just a page; it was a sign that I had something unique, something creative. For the first time, I truly believed, “People are recognizing my work. Maybe I really can make something big out of this.” The online world validated me just enough to push me forward.

The Leap to Digital Creation and the Birth of Piximfix (2018-2019)

After years of mobile editing, 2018, at age 20, changed everything. This was the year I began transitioning from a mobile artist to a real digital creator. I had failed Class 9 twice, drifted for years, and school felt like a closed chapter. But a close friend suggested, “Let’s at least complete our 10th. Join an institute with me.” So I joined a local open-learning institute, mostly to pass time, not dreaming of a job with a 10th certificate, but for friends. That institute was more than I expected. I quickly became popular, not for studies, but for my edits. Students noticed my work, especially when someone pulled up my Mafiya Edition Instagram page. “Bro, you made this!?” “Arrey tu wahi hai na jisne woh camera edit banaya tha?” “Bhai, tera kaam to full cinematic hai!” Just like that, the guy who failed school was now someone people looked up to. I made friends in almost every batch. Even teachers opened my Instagram on the classroom projector to show others. This wasn’t a school; it was the first place where I was known for something I built myself.

Then, something life-changing happened. In early October 2018, my brother brought home a basic laptop. It lagged and froze, but it had Adobe Photoshop. Until then, all my edits were mobile. Photoshop was a different universe—overwhelming interface, menus, toolbars. But I wasn’t scared; I was excited. I watched tutorial after tutorial, replayed steps, tried each tool, unafraid to experiment. My first full Photoshop artwork became unforgettable. I had a candid photo of myself sitting on a stone ledge at Qutub Minar. I loaded it into Photoshop, then added a DSLR camera on a tripod, positioned it, inserted a high-rise building, placed myself on top, scaling everything proportionally. Finally, I created a beam of light from the camera’s lens, aimed directly at me, sitting at the edge of the building, under a dark sky with an orange sunset glow. The image, dated October 10, 2018, was surreal. It told a story. It screamed: “Look at me. I’m not just editing—I’m building ideas.” This wasn’t just an edit; it was a declaration. Photoshop wasn’t a tool anymore—it had become part of my identity. After that, I didn’t stop. I made more, pushed myself harder, tried new compositions, worked late into the night. I still didn’t have a powerful PC, no money, no degree—but I had vision. In that small institute, in that modest room with a budget laptop, I understood one truth: “This is the first thing in my life I’m actually proud of.” Maahi also entered my life around this time, but her part would come soon. My journey was finally pointing somewhere—with purpose.

If 2018 gave me confidence as a creator, then 2019, at age 21, gave me direction. A tuition friend introduced me to CIPL, an MLM company selling courses, websites, and digital packages. I was skeptical, but the idea of owning a website—something with my name, design, and voice—felt like an independence I’d never experienced. Until then, I was dependent on Facebook and Instagram, my work living in someone else’s algorithm. The moment I logged into that CIPL-provided dashboard and saw I could customize a website, even basic, something shifted. It wasn’t just a product; it was a stage where I could choose what to say, how to present it. The joining fee was ₹11,000, including a ready-made website, digital marketing training, and affiliate commissions. Being creative, I thought about making it unique. I quickly sold the package to three friends, but unlike me, they weren’t as technical or creative and soon lost interest. I didn’t. I stayed.

Even though CIPL gave me a ready-made site, I couldn’t help but rework everything. I changed banners, re-edited visuals, rewrote descriptions. Soon, I wasn’t promoting CIPL; I was crafting something new. As I kept working on the MLM website, I started modifying it, rebuilding everything from scratch. At one point, I thought: “Why am I growing their brand? Why can’t I create something of my own—something 100% mine?” That’s when the name Piximfix came to life. “Pixim” for Pictures + Imagination, and “Fix” for editing, correcting, perfecting. It was a fusion of my creative identity, something no MLM system could fully offer. No more MLM chains, no fake pressure to recruit. Piximfix.com was born with a single goal: to create a digital platform for content, design, tech, and creativity—all in my own voice.

In the early days of Piximfix, my vision was clear, but execution was forming. My first big idea was a Photoshop course, a deep, tool-by-tool breakdown with videos. I recorded the first few clips but lost motivation and shelved it. So instead, I shifted to blog posts, experimenting with writing about tools, apps, and plugins. Early articles covered blending images on mobile, cinematic color grading, “Top 5 apps every editor should try,” and affiliate-style content like “Best budget smartphones for creatives.” My hope was to build an audience through Google, establish authority without formal credentials, learn SEO through trial and error, and share what I knew from my struggles. But traffic was slow; I didn’t truly understand SEO then, writing from passion, not keyword intent. Even without formal training, a guide, or a degree, Piximfix became the first business I could call my own. That year, I learned how to sell vision, how to build websites, and what I didn’t want—MLM dependency, fake hype, copying others. Most importantly, I learned I had what it takes to start a real digital career. By the end of 2019, Piximfix was just a small site with no earnings or fame. But to me, it was everything. It was my shift from “freelance editor” to digital entrepreneur. CIPL gave me the spark, but the vision of freedom—owning my voice, building my own brand—lit the fire.

Love, Lockdown, and Quiet Growth (2020-2021)

By 2020, two years after meeting Maahi on Facebook, our connection became serious. At that age, there were no signs she would ever change. She never asked for money. Her tone, words, and obsession gave me a strange guarantee that no one else could come between us. She was over-obsessed, always wanting to track my movements: where I was, what I was doing, who I was talking to. For example, I once went to a small internet café, and within minutes, her phone pinged: “Why aren’t you replying? Are you okay?” She had opened Google Maps and knew I was there. She insisted I share a live location to “feel connected.” Even when I was playing cricket, I’d get texts: “Who is with you? Send their names.” One evening, I stepped out to buy milk, and fifteen minutes later, my phone lit up: “I opened your Insta story. You’re at the kirana store. Do you really need 1 liter?” To be honest, I liked it at the time. Her love didn’t feel fake; it felt strong, deep, maybe even unbreakable.

But slowly, something inside me started getting disturbed. It wasn’t about her actions directly; I wanted to focus on my future and needed space, mentally and emotionally. I didn’t know how to tell her without hurting her, so I did something immature: I created a fake fight, hoping for a break. I falsely accused her of talking to other boys, sending a message: “I know you’re hiding something—why are you always online with someone else?” Within minutes, her phone erupted with apology texts, tears in her words: “Main tumhe bhool hi nahi sakti. Tumhari yaad meri saans hai” (“I can’t forget you. Your memory is my breath”). She called nonstop for two hours, begging for forgiveness. That reaction made me realize she wouldn’t let go. Even when I tried to push her away, she’d pull me back with guilt-laden declarations, as if our history had become a magnetic trap. So I went silent, stopped replying, ignored calls. But she didn’t stop. She reached out to my friends, and I told one to lie: “Say my family found out about our relationship, and that’s why they sent me back to Bihar.” That lie gave me breathing room, but deep inside, my heart still missed her. A few months later, she sent a long, emotional message, asking why I left without a reason. I finally replied, saying I’d come back to Delhi soon. To my surprise, she believed everything, even my fake stories. That’s when I realized how deeply she loved me. On April 5, 2020, she sent an emotional poem: “Tu hi mera pyaar hai… tu hi meri bandagi… Tu hi mera khwab hai… tu hi meri zindagi.” She wrote about dreams, never wanting to wake up, hugging me and sleeping on my chest. On May 4, 2020, days before our 2-year anniversary, she messaged: “Finally aj itne time baad apki voice suni… I’m happy jaan.” “Aur ab to 8 May v aari h… finally we going to complete 2 yrs…” “Be always mine. 🤞🤞” She truly thought we were still strong. Even after the silence, the fake excuses, the distance—she never gave up. Looking back, I understand now: I was the confused one, not her. She loved me without conditions, and even if I didn’t know how to respond, I can never deny how real her feelings were in that phase.

Meanwhile, while the world hit pause during the COVID lockdown in 2020, I hit “publish.” I didn’t have an office or a team—just my laptop, skills, and endless ideas. My room became my studio, and Piximfix became an obsession. Days were spent editing images, testing blog layouts, uploading posts, tweaking SEO tags, and optimizing headlines—all by myself. Despite external uncertainty, Piximfix quietly grew. I made video tutorials, wrote blog content, and explored affiliate tools. My Instagram and TikTok clips showed snippets of my workflow—editing until 2 AM, playing with light, layers, and LUTs, uploading like my life depended on it. No audience clapped, no one noticed yet. But my Google traffic slowly picked up. I didn’t shout about it; I just kept working in silence. And that silence was louder than anything else.

2021 wasn’t loud like 2020. It felt quieter, like I was working behind the scenes while the world moved forward. In 2021, I stumbled upon Karuna’s profile on Facebook and realized she was following my work on Instagram. She told me she’d become a fan of my Photoshop edits and was learning graphic design herself. When we reconnected online and reminisced about Class 3, I finally admitted something I’d kept hidden since childhood: “I liked you from day one of school.” She was surprised. Then she told me she had a boyfriend, which hit me hard. I felt jealous, but didn’t want to complicate things. She explained she’d met him after leaving that government school. So I stepped back. A few months later, she reached out again, asking if I could help her get a laptop for graphic design. By then, I’d learned not to let my feelings cloud my judgment. I realized her requests weren’t the same as the innocent affection we’d shared as children. I saw she’d changed and needed practical support more than emotional reassurance from me. So I gently declined and began to distance myself, knowing it was time to let our shared past stay in its own place—sweet memories, but memories nonetheless. We drifted apart again—this time for good—once I recognized that our paths had truly diverged.

One thing gave me a real push with Piximfix: it got approved for Google AdSense. It may sound simple, but for me, it felt like a turning point. After all the effort into the blog, design, and articles, I finally saw a door open. It wasn’t about huge income yet, but it was official. Google said yes to my work. That meant something. I didn’t celebrate in a big way; I just smiled quietly to myself, thinking, “Okay, now this can really become something.” I kept editing, maintaining the site. Traffic wasn’t huge, but I knew how to build it. I learned more about SEO, studied ads, and made small updates. Things with Maahi stayed in the background. We weren’t close emotionally anymore, but I didn’t cut it off either. I wasn’t ready to end it, even if my heart had moved on in silence. 2021 felt like a setup year—quiet, focused, and low-profile—but important. Because this was the year I proved to myself that Piximfix wasn’t just a project. It had the potential to grow. I had something real in my hands now.

Breakthrough, New Paths, and the Looming Storm (2022-2023)

If 2021 was quiet and foundational, then 2022 was the breakthrough I’d been waiting for. This was the year Piximfix turned profitable in a real way. I had cleared my 12th via open learning and was about to start college, but I felt a strong pull toward Piximfix. It was gaining momentum, like a seed finally growing roots. At the same time, I chased a creative dream: animation, design, film. So I joined MAAC (Maya Academy of Advanced Cinematics)—one of India’s top multimedia institutes. It was a bold move. I was nervous at first, but within weeks, I got noticed. Teachers asked me to explain Photoshop tools, even let me correct shortcuts during demos. My classmates listened, looking at me not like a beginner, but like someone already good. One day, the institute announced they were selecting standout artworks to feature on their walls. I submitted one of my own pieces, made long before MAAC. The next day, when I entered, I saw my face printed and pasted on the wall. That moment… I won’t forget it. Walking into that classroom and seeing my poster plastered on the wall felt like a sudden warmth spreading through my chest—almost like a physical hug from the universe. My heart skipped a beat; my palms sweated, and my legs went weak for a second, as though I were standing on the edge of a cliff. In that instant, all the years of being called a “dropout” and feeling like a nobody dissolved. I could feel the cool air, smell the faint scent of markers, and hear a student whisper, “Yeh uska kaam hai… baap re!” (“So this is his work… wow!”). In that moment, I felt seen—not as the kid who failed ninth grade, but as an artist whose vision mattered. It healed a wound I’d been carrying: the wound of being made to believe I didn’t deserve a place in any classroom. To rewrite my story in that instant meant reclaiming my identity. I felt tears threatening to spill, but I clenched my jaw. For once, I thought: I belong here. That sense of belonging stayed with me, whispered in every step, as if the walls themselves were saying, “Yes, you are one of us.”

But as time went on, I felt myself drifting away from classes. My heart was still in creativity, but I had already found my stage: Piximfix. So I made a decision: I left MAAC halfway through the course. Teachers tried to convince me to stay, even called my mother, saying I had real talent. But something in me knew—it wasn’t about certificates or studios. I wasn’t there to be sold another dream; I was building my own. That same year, I quietly dropped the idea of graduation too. I stopped chasing degrees and gave everything to Piximfix.

The “unblocked games” niche was a breakthrough, discovered accidentally. While researching trending topics using Semrush, I typed in a few fun keywords. A golden phrase popped up: “unblocked games for school.” The traffic potential was huge, and competition was low. I didn’t even know what “unblocked games” were, but I realized kids in the U.S. were constantly searching for ways to bypass school network restrictions. So I created content tailored to their searches: posts with catchy titles like “Top 15 Unblocked Games You Can Play at School,” internal linking, lightweight blog themes, and keyword-rich headers and FAQs based on Semrush. It wasn’t just luck—it was trial and error, data tools, and relentless testing. I didn’t take a course or have a mentor; I just kept observing, testing, and adjusting until Google rewarded my posts. That’s how I built the 2022 traffic engine. By the end of 2022, I was making around ₹1 lakh per month. This wasn’t a viral moment; it was slow, steady growth. My traffic increased due to consistency, my posts ranked, and my tools—especially the Cookies Manager system—were shared. People messaged me asking how I made it work. I even got small affiliate deals, and Google AdSense gave me proper payouts. With this income, I finally upgraded my life: a better phone, a high-performance laptop, a new gaming chair and desk, creating a proper workspace. It wasn’t about flexing; it was about building my zone, a space that said—“Yes, I made it this far on my own.” And perhaps the biggest sign of how far I’d come? I didn’t think about Maahi that year, not even once in a serious way. The girl who had once taken over my thoughts was no longer part of my mindspace. There were no flashbacks, no late-night messages, no emotional replays. Just silence. It wasn’t forced—it was natural. My purpose was louder than my past. My love for her had dissolved. I had finally moved on. 2022 was when I started walking with my head up. Not because I became rich—but because I proved to myself that my voice, my vision, and my skills had value. This year, I wasn’t chasing someone else’s life; I was writing my own.

2023 began with a flicker of hope that soon turned into a nightmare. Early in the year, I was still riding the high from 2022: Piximfix was earning, sponsors were paying, and I treated myself to a ₹65,000 phone, a ₹18,000 gaming chair, and a new desktop table. It felt like every day I was buying something new on Amazon, finally enjoying a life I had only imagined. My brother’s construction business boomed at the same time—he handled large contracts, we moved into a better house, and even bought a new car. Life felt secure. Friends looked at me with a mix of jealousy and admiration, and for a moment, it seemed like our struggles were behind us. However, there were internal warning signs in my brother’s business that we, caught up in the high, didn’t fully heed. Overconfidence from early profits led him to take on more work than realistically manageable, often without full advance payments, growing too fast without a safety net. Cash flow planning was poor; payments from clients were often delayed, yet he kept operations running by taking short-term market loans, expecting incoming payments to cover them. This created a chain reaction when delays occurred, leading to more borrowing. Dependency on outside labor meant paying higher rates during peak demand, and rising material costs, which he hesitated to renegotiate in contracts, silently shrank profit margins. A few good months bred overconfidence and a blind faith in luck, with debt quietly stacking from relatives, suppliers, and banks, all without proper audits or financial forecasts. We were running on instinct, not strategy.

Then, late one night in 2023—drunk, emotionally overwhelmed, and honestly, just lonely—I messaged Maahi, simply writing, “Hi.” Deep down, I was craving comfort—someone to share my mess with. The financial pressure at home, my website collapsing, my brother’s mental state—it was too much to carry alone. I missed the way she once made me feel seen and cared for. Part of me also hoped for closure, to confirm whether leaving her back then had been a mistake. I remembered her as loyal, and I admired her past self, hoping our paths had realigned. I didn’t expect a reply, yet she answered almost instantly. That message marked the beginning of her chapter in 2023. Her messages brought back that old warmth: “No one else can replace you. You’re the only one I want.” I felt a spark—yet I was different now. I had responsibilities. When I asked if she had moved on, she insisted she hadn’t. That brief reassurance felt good, but soon her behavior started raising red flags. She began asking for money—for food, for shopping, for “small needs” here and there. Still, I wanted to believe it was innocent. But then I noticed she avoided talking to me in her free time, wouldn’t reply late at night even when online, and was slow to respond despite being active on social media. If I tried calling, she made excuses. When I casually asked to see her Instagram account, she flat-out refused, which felt suspicious. Those little things—the timing of her messages, the deflections, the money requests—built a pattern. She wasn’t emotionally available. It didn’t feel like love; it felt like obligation or manipulation. That’s when it hit me: she wasn’t the same Maahi I had loved, and maybe I wasn’t the same boy she once cared for either. Some connections are meant to stay in the past.

Meanwhile, the world around me was collapsing. Watching Piximfix’s income collapse felt like a slow-motion fall I could see coming but wasn’t fully prepared for. It wasn’t sudden panic—it was slow dread mixed with helplessness. I knew the digital landscape was shifting with AI and unpredictable Google algorithms. Deep inside, I knew: “If I don’t adapt, I’ll lose everything.” Each time I checked my analytics, the numbers were worse. I kept trying—updating posts, testing formats—but the results barely moved. It felt like screaming into a void. AI tools flooded the internet, and Google’s algorithm changes hit Piximfix hard. Although sponsor revenue kept me afloat at first—almost ₹1 lakh total for the year—behind the scenes, my traffic graph was plummeting. Posts that once ruled “unblocked game” searches vanished from Page 1 almost overnight. By September, the sponsors had vanished. My AdSense was gone. Piximfix’s income dropped to zero. The same year, the external factors hit my brother’s business, exposing the unstable foundation. Post-Diwali pollution restrictions, construction halts, and market uncertainty caused it to falter. The pressure at home became unbearable. Every day brought new arguments—tense, painful fights—especially about the money he had taken from me and others in the family for his projects. We’d ask, “Where did the funds go?” He had no clear answer. Sometimes he’d say, “Everything will fix itself.” Other times, in his lowest moments, he’d whisper, “I’ve got nothing left… everything is destroyed.” Those words terrified me. He had borrowed heavily—around ₹25 lakh in bank loans, plus the ₹16 lakh my mother secured at high interest—and those funds dried up in failing projects. We had also borrowed heavy amounts from the market on high interest. Suddenly, our smooth life started falling apart. The breaking point wasn’t a single day but a pattern: loan collectors calling nonstop, high-interest debts stacking up, sleepless nights, and my mother taking on extra work even when she was already exhausted. The moment it truly hit us all was when we did the math—and the total family debt came out to nearly ₹1 crore. It didn’t feel real at first.

Watching my brother sink deeper into depression was the hardest part. He wasn’t just struggling—he was sinking. Some nights, I saw it in his eyes: the silence, the stare, the weight of someone who had started to believe there was no way out. I could see the thoughts of suicide in his eyes, and that scared me more than anything. He was cornered, desperate. I would wake up at 2 AM to find him in the kitchen, staring at a cup of half-made tea, silent, unmoving. His usual animated greeting—“Bhai, chai pioge?”—was replaced by a hollow whisper: “Bhai, main thak gaya hoon” (“Brother, I am tired”). Each morning, I forced myself to pretend I was okay so he wouldn’t worry, even though nights were torture for me—I would toss and turn, my mind replaying every moment he’d said, “Main nahi jhel sakta” (“I can’t endure this”). To cope with that fear, I took several small but determined steps: I maintained a constant presence, sitting beside him in silence when his eyes drifted into that empty stare, wanting him to feel he wasn’t alone. I borrowed money from friends to pay small advances for his next construction project, hoping a new task might pull him back from the edge, handing him the money with silent eyes, saying, “Bas ek aur chance de de” (“Just give it one more chance”). Some nights, I’d slip out of bed and stand by his door, and if I heard him pacing or crying softly, I’d sit on the floor outside and say, “Bhai, kal subah phir koshish karna” (“Brother, try again tomorrow morning”), reminding him that life was worth living for at least one more sunrise. Internally, I felt like a juggler with all my balls on fire, holding back tears when creditors called or my website showed zero revenue, masking my panic so he wouldn’t fall deeper. Some mornings, I’d wake up dizzy, my chest tight, thinking: If he goes, there’s no one left for Ma or for me. Still, I’d force myself to put on a brave face, drive him to site visits, discuss material costs, or sit with him trying to find new gigs—hoping that action might pull him back from darkness. Each small act felt like paddling against a powerful tide, and every night, I battled the terrifying thought: What if I’m not enough to keep him anchored? Through all this, Maahi’s presence remained a distraction I couldn’t afford. I reached out to her repeatedly, hoping for the emotional support I once felt, but each reply only highlighted how far apart we had become. In 2023, I learned three brutal truths: Love without action is just words. Success can vanish overnight. Family comes first. By December, Piximfix traffic was barely a fraction of what it once was. My brother’s business teetered. Our debts rose. Yet, even from this dark place, I refused to give up. 2023 taught me that true resilience is standing up on the days you want to collapse—because your family’s future depends on it.

The Present: Holding On and Building from Zero (2024)

The new year, 2024, started under a cloud. I woke up on January 1, 2024, still carrying the weight of 2023—nearly ₹1 crore in family debt, a website that no longer earned, and my brother sinking deeper into depression. Every day felt like a forced march through quicksand. From January to April, even though Maahi had reappeared at the end of 2023, I barely acknowledged her messages. My focus was on one thing only: survival. I spent every night at my desk, sleeping briefly in the afternoons. I would shut my eyes at 4 AM and wake up at midnight, determined to squeeze productivity out of darkness. I tried everything to revive Piximfix: updated old “unblocked games” posts to chase a sliver of traffic, tested new SEO tactics, adding fresh keywords and meta descriptions, reached out to sponsors, hoping someone would believe in me again, and explored freelance work—but most leads went nowhere. Meanwhile, my brother’s business kept bleeding money. Every attempt to stabilize the construction venture just dug the hole deeper. I felt helpless watching him. Coping with his depression while I was drowning in my own pressure was the hardest thing. I borrowed money from my friends—not for myself, but to keep his projects running, to give him just one more shot, one more day of hope. I knew it was a gamble, putting my own name and peace on the line. But the turning point never came. The debts piled up. The calls from my friends started, some understanding, others blunt: “Bhai, mujhe bhi paisa chahiye. You promised.” I started feeling like I was holding two cliffs apart with my bare hands—my brother on one side, my own sinking name on the other. I had sleepless nights, panic attacks, moments of complete exhaustion.

By May 2024, I realized Maahi’s chapter needed a final goodbye. Her messages, once a spark, had become another distraction. When she asked for more money—under the guise of needs I couldn’t verify—I knew the truth: our paths had diverged long ago. One evening in early May, I texted her: “I can’t keep giving. I need to focus on my family.” She replied with pleas and tears, insisting she still loved me. But I stayed firm. On May 11, 2024, a date that marked roughly a year since I had begun dreaming of building the plugin that might change our fortunes, I ended it with Maahi: “I wish you well, Maahi. But I need to move on.” That message closed the door. For once, I let that part of my heart rest.

After May, from June to September, life felt raw. My savings were gone. Sponsor revenue had dried up in September 2023. My AdSense was zero. Piximfix traffic was a shadow of its former self. I made another bold move: I sold my phone, the one that had cost ₹65,000, just to gather cash. It hurt more than words. But that money bought me temporary breathing room. With nothing left to lose, I turned back to the plugin idea I had conceived in late 2023. I had zero formal coding background—my last experience with code was watching YouTube snippets about HTML in 2018. Yet I felt a flicker of stubborn belief: If I could learn Photoshop from scratch, I could learn this too. That belief was fueled by desperation, pride, and a deep need to reclaim agency. I created a custom-built WordPress plugin system designed to control access to premium browser cookies like Netflix, ChatGPT, and other platforms. The purpose was to ensure users engage meaningfully with content before accessing cookies. Instead of instant access, my system introduces a task-based unlocking flow (scrolling, clicking specific areas, waiting for countdown timers, reCAPTCHA) that protects content from bots and freeloaders, adds security, boosts interaction, and increases the value of each visit. When a user lands on a cookie post, they’re guided through steps with visual cues, buttons, and popups, powered by JavaScript and PHP. The system remembers sessions and uses server-side verification to prevent skipping steps. Only after completing all tasks does the “Get Cookies” button appear, which copies content or redirects to a secure section. Behind the scenes, country-based redirects, cookie post titles, and session flags are tracked. My plugin transforms a simple cookie-sharing website into a protected, intelligent, and highly interactive system. Despite zero coding background, I believed it could work. I used ChatGPT as my guide: I described exactly what I wanted, and ChatGPT wrote code snippets, explained integration, and helped troubleshoot. I worked nights, piecing together PHP, JavaScript, and MySQL configurations. For months, progress felt glacial. I remember one late night in July: I had typed a PHP snippet into my editor—function simulate_traffic($user_id) { … }—just as ChatGPT suggested. When I hit “Save” and reloaded the page, I saw the dreaded white screen of death in WordPress, with a bright red message: Fatal error: Uncaught Error: Call to undefined function simulate_traffic() in /public_html/wp-content/plugins/telegram-plugin/telegram-plugin.php on line 42. My heart sank. I stared at that message for a full minute, feeling a mix of shame and frustration. My fingers trembled as I typed into ChatGPT: “It says ‘Call to undefined function.’ How do I fix this?” ChatGPT responded with a way to properly include the function file and suggested I needed to wrap it in the right WordPress hooks—something about add_action(‘init’, ‘simulate_traffic’);. I pasted the corrected code, cleared caches, and reloaded. This time, I got a tiny success: a test row showing up in my Google Analytics dev console that read source: Telegram. It felt like finding a single drop of water in a desert. That victory reminded me why I started: Because even from zero, I could build something real. Every time I saw an error—syntax mistakes, undefined variables, missing semicolons—I turned to ChatGPT late at night. Slowly, that white desert of ignorance turned into green shoots of code that worked. Yet on October 11, 2024—my birthday—I finally saw it work. The plugin connected, ran tests, and showed me simulated traffic in Google Analytics. My hands shook as I whispered, “I did it.” That moment, the true “birthday plugin” achievement, was a lifeline. It proved that even from absolute zero, I could build something myself.

From October to December, even though the plugin worked, it wasn’t an instant fix. Real traffic remained low, sponsors were gone, and the AI tide kept rising. But I kept pushing updates. My brother, meanwhile, continued borrowing, taking more high-interest loans, convinced each new injection of cash would turn things around. But every project stalled. By December, our combined debt hovered around ₹1.1 crore. The interest alone was crushing us. My mother, exhausted and stoic, took on extra cleaning jobs. I pitched in by running errands, negotiating payment plans, and delivering flyers for a few hundred rupees. It felt like every step forward was met by two steps back. Yet at the end of each day, I reminded myself: “We’re still here. We’re still fighting.” Through all of it, I never stopped trying for my brother, because as much as I was falling apart too, I still believed: “If I don’t give up, maybe neither will he.” Even now, I carry that same fight—not just for my own survival, but for his. Because when someone you love is that close to the edge, you don’t walk away. You hold on, even if your fingers bleed. In those dark nights, a tiny spark remained. My plugin had shown me I could code; my website had proven I could grow an audience. And despite my brother’s struggles, I saw a flicker of resilience in him too—he still woke up every morning and tried again.

2024 didn’t end in triumph. It ended in survival. And that was, for now, enough. What 2024 taught me: Sacrifice is real. Closure frees energy. Build from zero. Resilience over glory. Money, traffic, and sponsorships can vanish overnight. What lasts is the will to keep moving, one hour at a time. 2024 wasn’t about making it big. It was about refusing to break. And in that, I found a flicker of hope that carried me into the next year.

The Weight of Now, The Power of Story

This year, I feel like I’ve reached the absolute breaking point—not just financially, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually. After everything I’ve endured over the years—failing school, rebuilding myself through Photoshop, creating Piximfix from scratch, helping my family rise from nothing, then watching it all crash again—2024 has drained every last drop of strength I had left. There are nights I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, wondering how much more I can carry. Piximfix, once my lifeline, now struggles in silence. My plugin, even though it works, hasn’t yet delivered the breakthrough I hoped for. I’m running low on time, resources, and faith. My friends are now asking for the money I borrowed. I don’t blame them—they trusted me. But I have nothing left to give.

And my brother… He’s still trapped in the illusion that one more loan, one more deal, one more miracle will fix everything. He borrows from every possible corner, refusing to accept that we are drowning. I’ve tried to explain, reason, even cry in front of him. But nothing changes. Every time he says, “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay,” it cuts deeper—because I know he’s just trying to believe it himself. Meanwhile, my mother keeps pushing herself past her limits—working longer hours, hiding her exhaustion behind a forced smile. She comes home quietly and starts cooking as if we’re not surrounded by storm clouds. It hurts to watch her pretend we’re still okay.

And me? Saying I’m “the invisible wall holding up this collapsing house” feels like confessing I’m wearing a suit of armor made of glass: on the outside, I look steady—calm voice, deliberate actions, plans for “tomorrow.” But inside, my chest feels tight every morning, like a weight is pressing on my lungs. There are times when I walk around, hands in pockets, heart racing so fast I feel nauseous, yet I force myself to calm down, swallow hard, and keep moving—because if I don’t, everything falls. My mother’s quick “Aao khaana khao” (“Come eat”) echoes in my mind, and I can’t let her dinner table collapse. My brother’s silent tears at the breakfast table haunt me, so I push down mine and nod, as if everything is okay. Friends call asking, “Tum kaisi ho?” (“How are you?”). I manage a weak smile, saying, “Sab theek hai” (“All is fine”), but my arms tingle and my stomach turns.

The exact breaking point came one night in November 2024. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and heard my mother’s soft footsteps in the hallway—she’d stayed late cleaning a neighbor’s house. I thought: Even if I collapse now, who will carry this? Who will feed my brother tomorrow? My heart pounded. I felt the air leave my lungs. In that moment, I realized: If I can’t speak my truth, if I hold this story inside, the quiet will swallow me whole. So I made the decision: I will no longer let silence kill me more than my struggles. I rolled over, grabbed my phone at 1 AM, and started typing—first a sentence, then two, then a paragraph. I wrote until 4 AM, spilling every scar, every fear, every tiny spark of hope into that document. By the time I hit “Save,” I felt like a shutter had lifted: I could finally breathe, if only a little. Because then my story wasn’t just a weight in my chest—it was a shield in my hand, something I could use to remind myself (and anyone who reads it) that I refused to disappear into silence.