Eventually, when death finds me, I won’t be fussed about the good times I skipped or the laughter I missed. My regrets will read like a quiet inventory—people I hurt, promises I broke, and opportunities I squandered. On this hard road of life, I have learned that I don’t deserve what I get in life, but I deserve what I fight for.
While the above paragraph might have read like it was a bleak musing of a fatalist's philosophical pronouncements—who is resigned to fate, I submit to you that it is not.
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October 28, 2025, was a particularly unusual day in Toronto. The weather was reasonably warm, and the sun shone brilliantly, making it a remarkable October day. The Toronto Blue Jays were supposed to battle against the LA Dodgers in game four. The city was buzzing with a vibrant blue wave, swept up in the optimism of another Cinderella run to the MLB World Series championship after a three-decade of dry spell. Even the weather seemed to join in the festive cheer.
On this day, however, I wasn’t sporting Jays gear, but in business attire for the first time for a business event since I retired from the investment industry almost over two years ago.
I wanted to do that. I really wanted to.
I was on my way to attend a Market Connections event, hosted by Tamils in Finance (TiF) at the Arcadian Court on 401 Bay Street, in the very heart of Canada’s financial district.
For me, the moment was deeply personal. The event was held in the same building where I began my career—starting in the mailroom as a scared, skinny teenager on the 12th floor at a tiny asset management company, learning the ropes, and dreaming big. Marching towards redemption. Redemption from a terrible past.
Those were some tough times for me. But there was no room left for despair, no room for bitterness, surrender, certainly no room for self-pity.
When I was very young, my Appā (Dad) once shared with me D.H. Lawrence’s famous poem about self-pity: “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” “What an amazing thought,” Appā said, marvelling at this poem. “In the natural world, self-pity doesn’t exist. Self-pity is unique to humans. It’s our burden—and the locus of our self-destruction. Self-pity is the fastest way to destroy yourself.” Appā was adamant on this.
I recalled the line as I was about to walk into the subway station at Lawrence heading to Queen: “A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.”
Eventually, after meeting a good friend briefly, I arrived at 401 Bay Street, as an invited guest, just one block north of the Scotiabank building that I used to clean at night. I have come a long way. But my journey hasn’t been one unbroken boulevard of green lights. There were plenty of hurdles, and the looming specter of misfortune hovered above me like the sword of Damocles.
I entered the lobby. Though the exterior of the building had a nice facelift, the lobby looked exactly as I remembered. I headed towards the banks of elevators, an act I had performed hundreds of times as the mailroom boy in my late teens with a giant black box in each arm, each carrying a few large round overnight trade tapes inside. The weight was too heavy for my skinny arms to tolerate, and the boxes would almost drag along the floor. Those were analog years. Computers didn’t talk to each other back then; this was before the internet. They needed human intervention.
After finishing the registration process, I stepped into the event room. Having participated in TiF events before, I recognized several familiar faces and dear friends. However, this time felt distinct. There were plenty of fresh, young faces around. A few hugs and hellos later with a cocktail in hand, I stood there and panned the room with my intense wide glance while the sweet melody of soft music drifted through the crowd.
To be able to stand there again, this time as a retired Bay Street executive, surrounded by hundreds of accomplished Tamil professionals, who looked like me was profoundly humbling and deeply meaningful. There were hardly any Tamils during the earlier years of my stint on Bay Street. The sound of interesting and intriguing conversations, as a mob of motivated young Tamils willingly pursuing prosperity in the business district was music to my ears.
I once heard the following. “The thing is you just don’t have enough work experience in Canada.” A response every new immigrant must have heard at least once, I’m sure. When I arrived in Canada, English was not my first language, but my hopes and dreams were recognizably Canadian. As it was with every Tamil who arrived here. For Tamils, Canada represented a flickering spark of humanity in a world that had gone dark. And still is.
By definition, a generation is about 20 to 30 years—the span of time in which children are born, grow up, become adults, and begin to have children of their own. For many of us Tamils, and for our parents, that is precisely how long it has been since we left Sri Lanka—crossing many oceans and nations in search of safety and opportunity for the next generation. Their long journey captured the zeitgeist of the Tamil diaspora experience, if not the objective reality.
A great sea change has occurred within the Tamil community in that single generation. What a collective journey this has been. Tamils have gone from misery to prosperity, from victims to victors. It is a collective success of epic proportion. The room certainly reflected this.
The evening itself was impressive—well-organized and flawlessly executed by an energetic team of volunteers of TiF. The program featured an accomplished Caucasian CEO of a major Canadian bank’s investor services division and a successful Tamil hedge fund manager, both of whom delivered thoughtful and inspiring remarks. The event was rich in content and overflowed with notable professionalism and much-needed punctuality. These attributes usually lack in Tamil events. When I witnessed this, I knew the reach of Tamils was inscribed on Bay Street.
But beyond the program, what truly struck me was the atmosphere—the unmistakable sense of purpose and pride among young Tamil women and men. I conversed with many of them. Their confidence was palpable and purposeful. Their mindset was bold and risk-taking, fuelled by a furnace of ambition and an eagerness to make their mark in the financial world.
To me, this gathering was more than a networking event—it was a symbolic gesture of the sacrifices made by many Tamil parents and elders who sought refuge in Canada many decades ago. They had to deal with a rancid cobweb of human pain and suffering which was barely noticed by others. They endured hardships so that their kids, and now this and the future generation, could thrive. To see their dreams reflected in the faces of these young professionals was immensely satisfying.
A community’s attitude in general towards life shapes its success, and the Tamil community stands as a testament to that unwieldy truth. We arrived in this country with nothing but wounds of war and stories of struggle. But through resilience, education, and unrelenting hard work, we built lives of meaning and contribution.
It’s important to remember that progress is never linear or born from a victimhood mentality. Remaining trapped in a sense of permanent grievance or helplessness does not empower anyone—it paralyzes. Victimhood might bring sympathy, but resilience brings strength. It allows individuals and communities to turn pain into purpose, and adversity into achievement.
We Tamils know this truth intimately. Our success in Canada is not owed to pity or privilege—it is built on persistence, discipline, and the unwavering belief that no matter how dark the night, bright dawn will come. We understood that circumstances made us victims, but our choices will make us remain as one. We rose not because we demanded to be seen as victims, but because we chose to see ourselves as architects of our own future. We inherently knew that sympathy never solved an issue, but self-responsibility did.
I wrote about this very idea in my memoir, Prisoner #1056, where I chronicled my own journey from persecution and imprisonment in Sri Lanka to rebuilding my life in Canada. The book is meant to be a testament to the transformative power of resilience—and proof that no matter how dire our circumstances, human spirit and determination can prevail.
An empty stomach and broken soul taught me many valuable lessons. At a very young age, life ended up teaching me in a most painful way the fragile nature of life and that not only was life unfair—but that it could never be fair. But the human spirit can endure a lot. It is very resilient; it can be broken, but not easily. The determination to persevere and find meaning in life is what ultimately makes you a winner.
Standing in that same building where my own journey began, I was reminded how resilience, not resentment, paved the road from the mailroom to the boardroom. It is the same quality that now propels a new generation of Tamil professionals toward even greater heights.
As I looked around the Arcadian Court that evening, I couldn’t help but think how proud our parents would be. What was once unimaginable has now become our reality. Thank you, TiF, for serving as a conduit!
To every young Tamil professional, let me say this: dream audaciously, work tirelessly, and never forget where you came from. I started in that mailroom, and through perseverance and hard work, I rose to the boardroom. You can go even further.
Avoid following your passion—success in life lies at the crossroads of your skill and your passion. Find out what you are good at and relentlessly pursue it with passion, discipline and dedication. Everyone wants success until they see the price tag. Dreams are easy to post on social media, but a dream doesn’t become a reality through magic. It demands sacrifices: sleep, comfort, family time and sometimes peace of mind. Dreams may inspire and motivate you, but the hustle and discipline will transform you.
The path to happiness begins and ends in the mind. The trick to life is enduring all the loss and pain of life, but relentlessly pursuing the goal you set for yourself and staying positive in your mind. Though past events are unchangeable, they can serve as important lessons in overcoming the struggles of life to strive for a better future. But if you spend too much time thinking about your past, then you won’t be ready for the future.
The experience you gain in suffering is what propels you forward to your desired destination. It is the fullest expression of what life is about. The determination to persevere and find meaning in life is what ultimately makes you a winner. It is not about revenge. A ‘life well lived’ is a form of protest and revenge against the pain of one’s terrible past.
Make your inventory ledger of regrets as small as possible—and fight for what you deserve in life! We all deserve the life we desire. But we must make it happen.
Be like that bird in D.H. Lawrence’s poem. Have no self-pity. Stand up with a stiffer spine as if you are going to draw a bow!
The Tamil story in Canada is never of self-pity but one of self-transformation—of turning tragedy into triumph, and struggle into strength. And as I left the event, one emotion lingered above all others: pride.
Pride in how far we have come. And even greater pride in knowing where the next generation of Tamils can take us.
