How I became a performance artist

My father believed in achievement. Not the quiet, personal kind. The kind you could measure, compare, and weaponize. To be top of the class was expected. To be the best wasn’t enough. And when I wasn’t, I got whipped.

There’s one beating I remember more vividly than the rest. I must have been four. Maybe five. He used his leather belt again and again until my skin swelled and split. When it was over, he sent me to the neighbour’s house to ask for ointment. To stop the bleeding. I remember standing there barefoot, crying. Trying to explain what I needed, though I barely understood it myself.

I wasn’t looking for relief. I wasn’t trying to feel better. I just knew I couldn’t return empty-handed.

That’s what fear does. It teaches you how to survive. Not how to feel. And I carried that survival instinct into every part of my life. School became a stage. Achievement, the performance. I became the best student in every year. Student of the Year. Class President. Valedictorian. People thought I was driven. I wasn’t. I was cornered. And the only way out was forward.

Chapter 1

The first time I ever stood up to him was during my first year of university. My chest tightened. My throat burned. I didn’t speak with courage. I spoke with desperation. Like a trapped animal chewing through its own leg to escape.

That conversation broke something. My grades slipped. The straight line I’d drawn through childhood began to bend, then unravel. But even when the physical threat was gone, the need to prove myself stayed. It mutated.

I entered the corporate world and kept performing. Promotions, bonuses, titles. I bought the house. I bought the Porsche. I told myself I was doing it on my terms. But the truth is, I was still chasing approval from someone who wasn’t even in the room.

And then he died. On my birthday.

For a long time, it felt like his final move. It still does. One last “f you.” One last reminder that even in death, he could live in my head rent free.

Chapter 2

For years, I told myself I loved watches. But I wasn’t collecting timepieces. I was collecting reactions. I bought what I thought a serious collector would buy. Watches that impressed people who claimed to know more than me. Watches that said, I know what I’m doing.

I wasn’t buying for me. I was buying for the room.

Then, I traded a Tudor Black Bay Burgundy for the IWC Mark XX.

Tudor is beloved. For good reason. The Black Bay is the poster child of respectable taste. The kind of watch that tells the world you’ve done your homework. But I couldn’t feel anything for it. Maybe it was the burgundy bezel, too rich, too loud, too sure of itself. Or maybe it was me. Maybe I was tired of trying to be the kind of man who would wear that watch.

I looked at it often, searching for connection, waiting for it to feel like mine. It never did. It felt like a costume. One I couldn’t quite commit to. Like I was still auditioning for a role I no longer wanted.

The moment I traded it didn’t feel like a flex. It felt like a release. A quiet rebellion. A line in the sand that said I’m done performing.

The Mark XX isn’t the most expensive watch I’ve owned. It doesn’t scream for attention. It doesn’t ride the algorithm. And that’s exactly why I wear it.

It’s the latest in a lineage that goes back to the legendary Mark 11, developed in 1948 for the British Royal Air Force. The Mark XX honors that legacy without leaning on nostalgia. It’s a modern instrument watch. Precise, utilitarian, and quietly confident.

The 40mm stainless steel case sits just right on my wrist. The lug ergonomics are spot on. The high contrast dial, with its white numerals, triangle at 12, and rhodium plated hands, is legible in any light. Even the date window, usually a dealbreaker for me, is tastefully recessed with a double stepped frame. It belongs.

I chose the blue dial. Not because it’s bold. But because it isn’t. It walks the line between navy and black depending on the light. I’ve learned I don’t like color on my watches. But this blue, this blue is the edge of what I can handle. And it’s perfect.

Inside ticks IWC’s in house calibre 32111. Five day power reserve. Soft iron inner case for anti magnetism. Water resistance up to 10 bar. Tool free strap changes. It’s not loud. It’s not flashy. It just works.

Everything I need. Nothing I don’t.

I wear the Mark XX almost every day. I’m wearing it as I write this. Not to prove anything. Not to perform. Just because it feels right. It reflects where I am. Not where I’m trying to get to. This watch doesn’t speak loudly. But it speaks clearly. And for the first time, so do I.

Chapter 3

For years, coffee was my quiet corner. Something I didn’t have to be good at. Something I didn’t have to turn into a job or a metric. It was just mine. A morning ritual. A weekend project. A rabbit hole I could disappear into for hours. It asked nothing of me but attention. And gave so much in return.

Even when I was still trapped in the performance cycle, coffee was the one thing I did just for me. No stage. No audience. Just the sound of the grinder, the bloom of the brew, the taste of something made with care.

And then last year, I walked away from the only world I’d ever known. Truth is, I was asked to walk away.

I left corporate life and took my first job in coffee.

Chief Brand Officer at Brewing Gadgets.

It felt strange to put a title next to something that had always been a passion. But also right. Because for the first time, I wasn’t climbing. I was choosing. Not chasing someone else’s definition of success, but building a life around what already mattered to me.

I have a lot planned for Brewing Gadgets. Because coffee is a passion. Because it’s my way of thanking Goutham for having faith in me.

And because, after all this time, I’m still trying to prove my father wrong.