The Rise: One Man’s Journey Through Business and Belief

Born in a small town nestled between the salt mountains of northern Pakistan, his first lessons in business didn’t come from a classroom, but from his father’s corner grocery store. Arman learned to weigh sugar on rusted scales, to greet each customer with sincerity, and to count every rupee twice. But what he remembered most wasn't the balance sheets — it was the way his father would pause each morning for Fajr prayer before unlocking the shop’s shutters.

“Business is trust,” his father would say. “And trust begins with God.”

Years later, Arman stood in a glass tower in Karachi, CEO of a startup that had just closed a seven-figure funding round. From the outside, he was a rising star in Pakistan’s tech industry — a TEDx speaker, a mentor, a feature in Forbes Middle East.

But inside, he felt hollow.

Success had come, but so had compromises. He’d lied to investors. He’d exaggerated metrics. He’d broken off ties with old friends to "stay focused." Even his morning prayers had become occasional — sacrificed for late-night strategy calls or investor pitch decks.

The final fracture came the day he pitched a new AI-based logistics solution to a panel of international VCs. Everything went well. Too well. In fact, the numbers he cited — growth, adoption, user retention — were partly fabricated.

He’d convinced himself it was “temporary storytelling.” Everyone did it. He’d fix the numbers later, once the growth actually happened.

But that night, he couldn’t sleep. For the first time in years, he didn’t hear the usual static of ambition in his mind. Instead, he remembered his father’s voice: “Business is trust.”

Two weeks later, an investigative journalist uncovered inconsistencies in Arman’s startup. The story went viral. Funding was frozen. Partners pulled out. Within a month, his company collapsed. The media called it “another tech flameout.” Former allies ghosted him. Former friends said, “We warned you.”

At 35, Arman returned to his hometown — no money, no company, no title. Just silence.

For the first week, he didn’t leave the house. He couldn’t bear the questions, the pity. He avoided mirrors.

But one morning, he walked to the old store. It had changed. His father was long gone, and the shop was now run by his younger cousin, who welcomed him with quiet respect and a cup of chai.

That evening, Arman prayed for the first time in months. He didn’t ask for wealth. He didn’t ask for a second chance. He simply asked for clarity.

Clarity came slowly.

Over the next few weeks, he began helping out at the store. Not because he had to — but because the routine calmed his restless mind. He began mentoring local students on basic business skills. He visited old teachers. He apologized to people he had ignored or stepped on in the climb.

And one night, sitting on the shop floor surrounded by dusty ledgers and leftover snacks, he had an idea.

What if he built a business that was not just profitable — but principled? One that served, not sold? One that brought technology to rural areas, but with transparency, not tricks?

Within six months, “SafaTech” was born — a startup focused on digital accounting tools for small businesses in underdeveloped towns. Its model was simple: empower, educate, and earn — in that order.

There were no inflated numbers. No flashy pitches. Just slow, honest growth.

He bootstrapped everything — taught coding to two high schoolers who would become his first employees, partnered with a retired banker to create training videos, and used his own small savings to build the MVP.

Three years later, SafaTech was deployed across 17 towns and had won a national innovation grant.

But Arman no longer sought stages or spotlights. He had seen what empty applause felt like.

Now, when journalists asked for interviews, he redirected them to his team. When investors came knocking, he asked about their ethical models before money.

He prayed regularly. Sometimes at dawn, sometimes in between meetings. But always with conviction.

One day, while walking past the old store, a boy called out, “Uncle Arman, is it true you were once in Forbes?”

Arman laughed. “That was another life.”

“But now you have more success, right?”

He thought about it. His company was smaller, but stronger. His heart was lighter. His soul quieter.

“Yes,” he said. “Now I have real success.”

And that night, as he walked back under a sky of familiar stars, he realized: the real rise had not been in business, but in belief — in finding his way back to the values that once seemed too simple, too slow.

The kind of rise you don’t find on charts.

But the kind that lifts you from within.