Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of Never Say Die by Shripal Morakhia

I didn’t plan to read Never Say Die slowly. It just happened that way. A few pages at a time. Then a pause. Then a longer pause. Not because the book drags, but because it keeps nudging something personal. The kind of nudge that makes you put the book face down, stare into nothing for a moment, and think, Alright… I need to sit with this.

Most business memoirs arrive dressed for applause. They sparkle with certainty. They reassure you that every fall was strategic and every scar intentional. This book walks in without polish. No spotlight. No victory lap. It feels like someone pulling up a chair across from you and saying, “This is how it really went.”

Shripal Morakhia’s story doesn’t begin with ambition blazing the trail. It begins with disruption. A settled life planned in the US. An MBA done. A career mapped. And then the sudden death of his father. The kind of loss that doesn’t ask for permission before changing everything. He returns to India not chasing opportunity, but answering responsibility. That moment quietly anchors the entire narrative. You can feel it shaping every decision that follows.

As the story unfolds, success does come—big, visible, undeniable. Companies are built. Risks are taken. Markets are conquered. But what struck me is how little triumph is celebrated. Success is treated almost like weather: intense, fleeting, never fully in your control. The narrative doesn’t linger there for long, because life doesn’t. Cycles turn. Fortunes thin. And then comes the fall.

When the book enters its darker stretches, it doesn’t soften its voice. There’s no dramatic soundtrack playing in the background. The losses are described plainly—money gone, reputation shaken, stability erased. Even the family home slips away. These moments don’t scream. They ache. And as a reader, you feel that ache settle somewhere deep. I remember slowing down here, reading fewer pages each night, because the emotion carried weight.

One image stayed with me throughout: this book feels like watching someone dismantle a life brick by brick—not voluntarily, but because circumstances leave no choice. And then, much later, watching the same person try to rebuild without the arrogance of believing the structure will look the same again. That’s where the real transformation lies. Not in bouncing back, but in rethinking what “back” even means.

The writing itself mirrors this journey. The prose is direct, sometimes repetitive, occasionally uneven—and that’s exactly why it works. Reflection in real life isn’t neat. You return to the same questions again and again, hoping they’ll answer differently this time. The pacing slows during introspective passages, but instead of frustrating me, it felt honest. This isn’t a book racing toward redemption. It allows uncertainty to breathe.

What moved me most was the openness around mental health. These pages are not written to shock or inspire artificially. They are written with the exhaustion of someone who has been there. Depression is not treated as a footnote to failure, but as a lived experience—messy, frightening, deeply human. The courage here is not in surviving alone, but in admitting how low things went.

And then comes the quiet shift. Not a comeback montage. Not a triumphant return. Just small, inward changes. Breathing. Meditation. Letting go. Relearning time as something other than pressure. Morakhia speaks of becoming “Shripal 2.0,” and what I appreciated is that this version isn’t louder or bolder—it’s calmer. Less driven by proving. More grounded in acceptance. Wealth, power, prestige—all begin to feel temporary. Time becomes the real measure.

The central theme that stayed with me is endurance. Not the loud, chest-thumping kind. The quiet kind that shows up even when motivation is gone. The kind that keeps going without guarantees. This book reminded me that life, much like business, doesn’t move in straight lines. It curves. It collapses. It pauses. And sometimes, surviving the pause is the real work.

This is not a book for someone looking for quick inspiration or step-by-step frameworks. If you want bullet points and formulas, this may frustrate you. But if you’ve ever built something—anything—and watched it wobble, this book will feel familiar. If you’ve faced a season where certainty disappeared, it will feel companionable.

By the time I finished Never Say Die, I didn’t feel pumped. I felt steadied. As if someone had quietly reminded me that falling apart doesn’t cancel your future. That failure is not the opposite of success—it’s often its neighbour. And that resilience doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it just sits with you, breath by breath, and refuses to leave.

Read this book when life feels loud. Or when it feels uncomfortably silent. Either way, it will meet you honestly. And that honesty lingers long after the last page.

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