Aryan Pattel sat across from me like a man trying not to drown in a glass of water. Sharp kurta. Nice watch. Shoes cleaner than his books. He had the look of someone who’s trying very hard to pretend things are under control while everything behind the smile is falling apart.
He’d booked me for a one-hour strategy session in Dubai. Paid the full 3,500 AED upfront. No discount, no questions. That alone told me two things—he respected the game, and he was desperate enough to hope one hour could fix six months of slow decay.
“I run a traditional Indian clothing business here,” he said. “Mostly weddingwear. Sherwanis, lehengas, Indo-western stuff. All imported from India. High quality. Handmade. Boutique inventory. My family’s been in textiles back in Surat for three generations.”
Cool. Sounded clean so far.
“We launched nine months ago. Had a few good orders. Some custom. One big wedding in January. We even got a little feature in a local lifestyle magazine. Things felt like they were moving. But…”
Here it came.
“But the money’s gone.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I’ve heard this line so many times now, I could tattoo it on the wall.
He said they had a few sales.
He said they had happy customers.
He said the product wasn’t the issue.
But somehow, after all of that… they were still broke.
I asked him to walk me through the money.
Not the hopeful version. Not the “here’s what we projected” version. The actual numbers. The real story—the one hiding behind the spreadsheets and the Instagram photos.
And when he started talking, it all became painfully familiar.
The showroom was rented in a posh part of the city. Not massive, but premium. Chandeliers. Wall-to-wall mirrors. Air conditioning that felt like a luxury hotel lobby.
The bags were custom printed with gold embossing. Not standard matte. Not eco-kraft. Gold. Because “branding matters.”
They had a launch event with mocktails, a violinist, and a red carpet. No lie. An actual red carpet.
They hand-delivered gift boxes to influencers who didn’t post a single story.
They brought on a branding agency for “tone of voice” and “visual identity.”
They hired a staff photographer to create cinematic reels “because customers love storytelling.”
They had a receptionist.
Let me say that again.
They had a f***ing receptionist. In a store that barely got five walk-ins a week.
I sat there, listening to all of this, and it was like watching a stage play unfold in slow motion. It wasn’t a business. It was a performance. A grand, glittery, overfunded lie.
I asked him who made the decisions.
He paused. Then said, “Mostly my wife.”
There it was.
“She wanted the store to feel like an experience,” he said. “She said, ‘If we’re charging premium, it has to feel premium.’ She’s into design. She handled the interiors, the launch, the packaging. She’s great at that stuff.”
I believe him.
I’m sure she is.
But what Aryan didn’t realize until he was knee-deep in credit card bills and unpaid supplier invoices was this:
Aesthetics don’t pay rent.
Vibe doesn’t replace value.
And your business is not your family’s canvas for self-expression.
But that wasn’t even the whole mess.
Because once I scratched past the showroom glitter, there was another layer—his parents.
See, Aryan didn’t just want to build a business. He wanted to make his parents proud. To show them that Dubai wasn’t a phase. That the money they helped him scrape together to get started was going to mean something.
So when they came to visit, he made sure everything looked perfect. The right showroom chairs. The custom logo on the glass. A little plaque with his name on the door. They brought guests. They took photos. They bragged to relatives. It was a whole scene.
But behind that one photo on Instagram of “three generations of legacy” was the same truth I’ve seen over and over again with immigrant founders: the need to look successful often bankrupts your ability to actually become successful.
I asked him why he didn’t say no to all this.
He didn’t even try to pretend.
“I wanted them to believe in it,” he said. “I thought if it looked the part, the sales would follow. That people would take us seriously.”
That right there?
That’s the lie that kills more businesses than bad products or bad marketing.
You don’t get taken seriously because you look expensive. You get taken seriously because you solve a problem that people are willing to pay you to solve again.
I looked Aryan straight in the eyes and told him the only thing that mattered:
You didn’t build a store. You built a stage. And now you’re trying to figure out why no one’s buying tickets.
He didn’t argue. He knew it was true.
He had one month of runway left. Less if his supplier in Gujarat raised prices again, which was likely.
He had a storage room full of unsold stock in sizes that didn’t move.
He had influencer debt—product sent out for free to people who ghosted the second they got their PR box.
And he had a very awkward dinner coming up with his in-laws who still thought the business was doing well because, quote, “the showroom is so beautiful.”
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t scold. I just told him the thing he came to hear, even if he didn’t know he came for it.
Burn the showroom.
Not literally. But mentally.
Close it if you have to. Go digital. Go direct.
Sell your existing inventory, one order at a time, even if it means hustling your WhatsApp list or going door to door at wedding planning expos.
Stop trying to impress people who don’t pay your bills.
Fire the branding agency. They’re not your team. They’re your debt.
Take your wife out for dinner. Tell her you love her taste. But right now, what the business needs is not taste—it’s traction.
And for god’s sake, cancel the receptionist. She’s not answering the phone because no one’s calling.
You’re not running a business.
You’re funding a lifestyle your business hasn’t earned yet.
That hit him hard.
But it didn’t break him.
He nodded, slowly. Thought about it for a minute.
Then said something I’ll never forget.
“I thought the problem was outside. But it’s inside. It’s us. Our need to look like winners.”
Exactly.
Because the most dangerous financial leak is the one caused by emotional validation.
When you need to feel successful more than you need to be sustainable, your money will evaporate every time someone says, “You should upgrade.”
And most people don’t notice until it’s too late.
That’s why he paid me 3,500 AED.
Not to run Facebook ad audits or SEO hacks.
He paid for perspective.
For someone to walk in, break the trance, and say the thing no one else around him had the guts to say:
You are the reason your business is dying. Not the market. Not the customer. Not the economy. You.
Because you let your ego write checks your revenue couldn’t cash.
You dressed up the mannequin before you had buyers.
You handed out champagne before you had customers.
You created a luxury experience… before you had a single repeat order.
And now?
Now it’s time to get dirty.
To strip it all down.
To rebuild—not from what looks good, but from what sells.
Aryan didn’t cry.
He didn’t argue.
He just nodded, stood up, and said, “It’s time to stop pretending.”
I shook his hand.
And then I watched him walk out the door, shoulders straighter than when he walked in.
That’s the kind of hour I live for.
Not because I like telling people they’re wrong.
But because I know what it’s like to lie to yourself in the name of ambition.
To convince yourself that style is strategy.
That aesthetics are evidence.
That money spent is money earned.
But the truth?
Business doesn’t care how beautiful your packaging is if your profit margins are trash.
Business doesn’t care how impressed your friends are if your cash flow is negative.
Business doesn’t care how proud your parents feel if your supplier’s about to cut you off.
The truth is simple.
Either your business feeds you, or you’re feeding it.
And Aryan?
He was feeding a fantasy.
Now he’s about to build a business.
No more champagne. No more gold-embossed boxes.
Just sales. Margins. Profit.
The real stuff.
The only stuff that lasts.
And if you’re reading this, wondering if you’re Aryan?
You probably are.
Now what?