Sham Sahni

I was born on August 24, 1951, in Ambala City, in the loving home of my parents, Shri Ram Murti Sahni and Rukmani Devi Sahni. The story of my life begins there — not with ambition, achievement, or distance traveled, but with the tenderness of home and the values quietly placed in my hands before I knew how much I would need them.

Ambala was more than the city of my birth. It was the first school of my life and, in many ways, the first home of my heart. Its streets, neighbors, festivals, and daily routines taught me how people could live close to one another, care openly, and find celebration in ordinary days. Even now, I feel grateful for a town that shaped me gently, long before I understood how deeply it was forming my character.

My childhood memories are filled with the laughter of my sisters, cousins, and friends. We played simple games, studied together, shared meals, and found happiness in moments that seemed ordinary then but feel precious now. Those early years gave me a sense of belonging so deep that it traveled with me everywhere life eventually led.

Festivals and fairs brought Ambala to life with anticipation, color, processions, and the unmistakable warmth of community. Every celebration seemed larger because it was shared, and every gathering became a reminder that joy grows when it belongs to everyone. Those early days taught me that home is not defined only by walls or streets; it is held in the affection of the people who fill a place with love.

In a joint family, childhood does not belong to one child alone. It is shared — with cousins, siblings, elders, neighbors, and the constant movement of daily life. My childhood unfolded in such a home, where silence was rare and togetherness was constant. The voices of children, cousins, elders, and ordinary routines created a music of their own, and even now that sound remains one of the most cherished melodies of my early years. With nine children in the household, including my cousins and me, we built a world of laughter, mischief, friendly competition, and companionship. In such a full home, no heart ever had to feel alone.

The rooftop was our kingdom. On warm nights, we slept beneath the open sky, with the moon above us and the breeze moving softly around us. We whispered stories, invented games, and listened to the quiet sounds of the night, unaware that such simple evenings would one day become some of the most tender treasures of childhood.

When the rains came, the peace of the rooftop turned instantly into joyful commotion. All nine of us would hurry inside, calling out, laughing, and carrying our bedding as quickly as we could. What might have seemed like an inconvenience instead became a memory of shared delight, reminding me that even small disruptions can become beautiful when they are experienced together.

Within that busy household, I learned cooperation, patience, and the grace of making room for others. Family was not something we described in grand words; it was something we lived each day. It meant sharing space, helping without being asked, forgiving small annoyances, and discovering that the closeness of family could become a lifelong source of comfort and strength.

Some lessons arrive quietly and remain for a lifetime. The most enduring lessons of my life did not always come from classrooms or textbooks. Many came from ordinary conversations at home, spoken in simple words by my mother and father. They did not teach with ceremony or long lectures; rather, they planted quiet seeds in my heart, seeds that would, over time, grow into the principles by which I tried to live.

One evening, when I was in fourth grade, my mother asked me, “What is the difference between a human being and a cow?” I answered as a child would, describing legs and horns, but she wanted me to think more deeply. She explained that an animal cares for itself and its own family, while a true human being also cares for people beyond the boundaries of family.

Her words became one of the guiding principles of my life. Even as a child, I sensed their weight, though I could not yet understand their full meaning. With time, I came to see that success is not measured only by what we build for ourselves, but by what we are willing to give to others. Service, compassion, and responsibility became values I returned to again and again, especially in moments when life asked me to choose what truly mattered.

My father offered another lasting lesson while walking with me toward his farms. He pointed to a tall date tree bearing very little fruit, and then to a shorter mango tree that was heavy with fruit, its branches bending low. He explained that a successful person should be like the mango tree — productive, generous, and humble.

Those two lessons — care for others and remain humble — became pillars of my life. They followed me through school, college, work, family, and every chapter that came afterward. Whenever difficulty tested me, or whenever success tempted me to forget my roots, I could still hear the quiet wisdom of my parents reminding me who I was, where I came from, and what must never be lost.

Education entered my life not only through books, but through discipline, routine, and teachers who saw possibilities in their students. My years at AS Higher Secondary School gave my childhood a rhythm of structure and discovery. School was not merely a place of lessons and examinations; it was also where I learned to think beyond the obvious. Even the daily walk of approximately a mile and a half in the summer heat became part of my education, as we moved carefully from one patch of shade to another, almost like solving a jigsaw puzzle.

One of my favorite teachers was Shri Amarnathji, my mathematics teacher. His coaching inspired in me a love of mathematics and taught me how to approach a problem with patience, focus, and confidence. More than formulas, he gave me intellectual courage — the ability to think critically, take thoughtful risks, and move beyond easy answers.

At school, we were also taught to respect every religion and to remain tolerant of different beliefs. Many teachers left a lasting impression on me because they encouraged me to aim higher and become better. Their faith in me helped strengthen my own confidence.

In 1966, I lost my grandmother. She was a beautiful and gentle woman, full of wisdom and kindness, and because she lived with us, her presence was woven into the rhythm of our daily lives. Her passing was one of my first experiences of grief, and it taught me that love does not disappear when a life ends. The people we love continue to live within us — in their blessings, their habits, their quiet gestures, and the tenderness they leave behind.

Leaving home is often the first true test of what home has given us. In 1967, I left the familiar comfort of family to begin undergraduate studies in electrical engineering at the National Institute of Technology in Kurukshetra. It was my first time living away in a hostel, and the transition carried both excitement and loneliness. For the first time, I had to create my own discipline, hold myself accountable, and grow into independence while carrying the memories of home quietly in my heart.

The first semester was the most difficult. I had to adjust quickly to independence, academic demands, and life among students from many different backgrounds. Those years taught me resilience and self-reliance. They introduced me to a broader world and helped me begin the process of becoming an adult.

During my college years, important family milestones also occurred. My elder sister Usha and my brother Dr. Shadi Sahni were married, and my father asked me to help organize the weddings. They were large events with little room for error, and the responsibility became a meaningful lesson in planning, leadership, and accountability.

After completing my education in India, I prepared for another defining step: leaving for the United States for higher studies. On January 4, 1973, I began a journey that would change the direction of my life. It was a moment filled with hope and uncertainty — dreams ahead of me, the love of home behind me, and a quiet awareness that I was entering a world that would test my courage while allowing me to carry my upbringing like an inner compass.

America first entered my life through snow, silence, and cold unlike anything I had known. When I arrived in Burlington, Vermont, winter greeted me with a force I had never imagined. Snow stood waist high, the temperature hovered around −10°F, and annual snowfall could reach 144 inches. For thirty consecutive days, the temperature did not rise above zero. Vermont introduced me to a cold that tested both body and spirit, yet in that unfamiliar landscape I also discovered a quiet determination within myself: the resolve to endure, to adapt, and to keep moving forward.

Study in America required another significant adjustment. The workload was demanding, and the method of learning differed greatly from what I had known. The emphasis was not simply on passing examinations, but on developing a genuine understanding of the subject. It challenged me, but it also expanded my way of thinking.

After college, I worked as General Manager at an Oldsmobile and Cadillac dealership. Moving from electrical engineering to managing a dealership was unexpected, but I found the experience thoroughly rewarding. That chapter changed the direction of my life and showed me that growth often comes from paths we do not anticipate. It also prepared me for the greater responsibilities that would soon accompany marriage, family, and the building of a future in a new country.

On May 4, 1978, Madhu and I were married, and a new and beautiful chapter of life began. Marriage brought joy, responsibility, adjustment, and lessons that could only be learned by walking together through change. Our early married life was not easy, especially as we chose to move from Vermont to Boston and begin again in a new place. Yet with Madhu beside me — with her strength, patience, and unwavering commitment — even difficult moments became bearable. A devoted life partner is not merely a companion; she is one of life’s greatest blessings.

In 1981, I began my first venture, SSK Leasing. It provided a strong beginning and opened the door to a new phase of work, responsibility, and independence. In 1983, our family received its first wonderful blessing with the birth of our son, Nikhil. Three years later, in 1986, we were blessed again with our daughter, Neha. Life became busier, but it also became fuller, richer, and more meaningful.

In 1985, life brought one of its deepest shocks when I lost my brother-in-law in the Air India crash. That tragedy changed my life and altered the direction of my journey. I was asked to choose between my business and my family, and because of the values my parents had placed within me, the decision was clear. Even today, I remain at peace with that choice, though it came from a time of profound pain. It strengthened me, humbled me, and reminded me that family is not only a bond of love, but also a responsibility of the heart.

During the years when Neha and Nikhil were in school, our days were long and demanding. Madhu and I drove them every morning, often beginning around 6:30 a.m., and because of business responsibilities, our days sometimes extended until 11 p.m. Those years required patience, sacrifice, and teamwork, but they were also deeply fulfilling. Both children went on to study at the University of Pennsylvania and Oxford, and witnessing their growth made the entire journey worthwhile.

Nikhil was married in 2011, and in 2013 we welcomed our first grandchild, Kimaya. With her arrival, an entirely new chapter began: grandparenthood. We discovered a different kind of happiness, filled with tenderness, laughter, and the joy of watching another generation grow. In 2016, we were blessed with our second grandchild, Kethan. That same year, Neha was also married. In 2017, Yuvi Babu joined the family, and in 2021 we welcomed Zoya, our fourth grandchild.

I briefly retired in 2013, but in 2020 I began another new venture, GLG. Today, Madhu and I divide our time between our grandchildren and GLG, and this stage of life feels like a golden chapter — quieter in some ways, yet rich with love, purpose, and reflection. As I look back over 75 years, I feel thankful not only for the journey itself, but for the people who gave it meaning, the choices that strengthened it, and the blessings that continue to unfold in ways I could never have imagined.

A life becomes clearer in reflection. As I look back, my life appears not as a single straight line, but as a collection of moments that slowly shaped me: the warmth of Ambala, the laughter of a full household, the wisdom of my parents, the discipline of school, the independence of college, the courage required to begin again in a new country, and the love that deepened through marriage, children, and grandchildren. These memories are not merely events from the past; together, they form the emotional map of my life.

The roots of my life remain strong because they were planted in love, humility, service, and responsibility. No matter where life led me, those values traveled with me. They shaped how I worked, how I led, how I cared for others, and how I understood the true meaning of success.

I share this story not only to preserve the past, but also to pass on the values that sustained me through it. Every generation receives something from the one before it, and my hope is that these memories offer my children, grandchildren, family, and friends a deeper sense of where we came from and what has mattered most along the way.

My story is not only about where I went or what I accomplished. It is about the people, places, and lessons that made me who I am. From Ambala to America, the journey changed my surroundings, but it never changed the foundation upon which my life was built. That foundation — formed by love, humility, gratitude, service, and faith in family — remains my greatest blessing. If these memories carry anything forward, I hope they carry that legacy: a life is richest when it is lived with purpose, shared with love, and rooted in values that endure beyond one generation.