The founder
Hello, I’m Kunal.
Eight months. That’s how long a man in New Jersey had been trying to sell a flat in India.
Not a difficult flat. Not a disputed one. A perfectly ordinary two-bedroom he owned with his sister, in a building he’d grown up in, with clean papers and a willing buyer. And still — eight months of nothing.
Because here’s what nobody tells you about owning something in a country you’ve left. The law isn’t your obstacle. Geography is. The registrar’s office opens at ten and closes at five, and by the time it opens, he’s asleep. Every signature has to cross an ocean twice and come back with a stamp on it. And every single person he called in India explained the problem to him with great authority, great sympathy, and then quietly did nothing.
He didn’t need advice. He had a WhatsApp group full of advice. He needed a person standing in the room.
So I stood in the room. Power of attorney drawn properly, capital gains worked out to the rupee, TDS handled before it became a nightmare, money moved cleanly to his account abroad. He signed one set of papers. Three weeks later he called me, slightly stunned, to ask if that was really all of it.
It was.
I understand that man better than he knew. My childhood was in Delhi, but home has always meant Nagpur — and I have spent most of my adult life away from it, which is its own quiet education.
Kolkata came first, for a B.Com Honours at St. Xavier’s, where I learned that precision is a form of respect. Then Mumbai, and an RVG hostel — a few hundred of us under one roof, all far from home, all learning to run a life at a distance from the people who loved us. You look after each other in a place like that. Someone’s father falls ill and someone else makes the calls. Someone can’t get home, so someone else goes in his place. I didn’t know it then, but that was the real apprenticeship. Everything since has been a variation on it.
The formal one came later: Chartered Accountant, trained at BDO India, where I spent three years learning to read what a document is actually saying rather than what it’s pretending to say. That training matters — but it was never the hard part.
The hard part is the thing you already know. You’re building a whole life over there while a piece of your life sits back here, in a file, in a queue, in an office that shuts at five, quietly ageing.
I should tell you the other half of me too. I’ve spent years on stages with a microphone in my hand — anchoring events, writing speeches for people who have to stand in front of a crowd and mean every word. People assume that has nothing to do with tax law. It has everything to do with it. Both are the same craft: taking something tangled and saying it so plainly that a human being can act on it. If a professional has ever left you more confused than before you called them, you’ll understand why I’m particular about this.
So that’s the work. Property that needs selling. Taxes that need filing. Money that needs to come home, or go. Parents who need someone to check in on them on a Tuesday. Legal papers, KYC, the whole unglamorous machinery of still belonging to a place you no longer live in.
You’ve got a life to run over there.
Let me be your hands over here.