Kamal Ghorui
“Rich” can have a host of meanings. My earliest association with the word is Richie Rich, the comic character. Of course, it means different things to different people.
Minal, my neighbour, believes, “It is wealth. Not the income-tax-related one (though that too), but the type sold to us in glossy reels where someone tosses their hair in a penthouse that looks like it hasn’t seen a pressure cooker whistle in decades.”
We’ve been conditioned to believe that richness smells like imported candles and looks like a wardrobe curated by someone called a “personal stylist”, which, frankly, sounds like a very expensive way of saying, “I can’t pick my own clothes.” Mrs. Kohli, a friend in Dubai, thinks it is a person’s net worth. Jemima, a colleague’s daughter, quips, “You’re rich if you can make Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, Sundar Pichai and the three Khans dance to your tune at your son’s wedding.”
When I asked my mother, she said you are rich if, like the Miller of Dee (Charles Mackay), you have no fear, are untouched by sorrow, and have nothing to hide:
“He worked and sang from morn to night,
No lark more blithe than he;
And this the burden of his song
Forever used to be:
‘I envy nobody-no, not I-
And nobody envies me!’ ”
A person may not own a penthouse, swing a designer bag like it’s a newborn, or glide around in a car that purrs louder than a satisfied cat, yet she might be rolling in invisible wealth.
She may carry, inside that perfectly ordinary head, an entire encyclopedia; no, scratch that, a Wikipedia with better editing. It is a mind that doesn’t just read books but devours them like Sunday biryani.
Her heart? Not cluttered with comparison or curated envy, but full, full like a monsoon sky, heavy, satisfied, ready to burst into something life-giving. Her home may not have a nameplate screaming “Villa Serenity” (because, let’s be honest, serenity is usually missing from such villas).
Instead, it exists in a not-so-posh neighbourhood, minding its own business, smelling of tadka, freshly brewed chai, and roasting chapatis.
It’s warm, not because of central heating, but because of that unmistakable flavour of care, where someone is always asking if you’ve eaten. Cosy like an old shawl: slightly frayed, deeply comforting, and impossible to throw away.
Now let me tell you a small story about generosity, because that’s where real wealth flexes its muscles. A few months ago, at one of those “refined” gatherings where brands are louder than personalities, the bill arrived.
Suddenly, the table, once echoing with laughter and “Oh my God, you must try this place in Tuscany”, went quieter than an examination hall. Eyes dropped. Phones emerged, not to pay, but to perform the ancient ritual of calculating exact shares.
One woman zoomed into the bill as if decoding national secrets, determined to pay precisely Rs 423.50, no more, no less. Meanwhile, a nanny sat in a corner tending to a child, not offered any food.
Cut to another day, another world: a modest home, steel plates, extra rotis appearing unasked, and someone insisting, almost offended, that you must eat more. No calculations. No mental arithmetic. Just an instinctive, almost reckless generosity that says, “There is enough. There will always be enough.”
Funny, isn’t it? Those with the least often give as if they own the sun, while those dripping in labels hold on to their wallets as if they contain their last surviving organ.
And then there is the ultimate luxury: sleep. Sleep that’s not tracked on an app like a stock market investment, but real sleep, where you hit the pillow and disappear faster than your motivation on a Monday morning.
If you can sleep without replaying every awkward conversation since 2003, congratulations. You are richer than half the people scrolling through insomnia at 3 am.
Now, let me introduce a plot twist Instagram didn’t see coming. Somewhere far removed from our Gurgaon brunches and “I simply adore Murakami” conversations exists an influencer who refuses to fit into our aesthetic boxes.
She doesn’t look like she walked out of a Pinterest board titled “Bookstagram Goals.” Her English isn’t polished enough to make convent schools proud. She isn’t posing with a latte that costs more than her monthly data pack.
And yet, she reads. She watches thoughtful, layered cinema.
Pujarini Pradhan, remember the name. She has probably read more books than the entire “currently reading” shelves that have remained “current” since 2021.
She hails from a village, wears simplicity like second skin and does not perform sophistication for the camera. No fake accents, no curated bookshelf backdrops, no fancy lighting.
Meanwhile, back in Gurgaon, we have elite book clubs where novels are discussed the way politicians discuss accountability; loudly, vaguely and with impressive vocabulary that often hides the fact that half the room skimmed a summary online.
There is always someone declaring, “I think the text interrogates existential angst,” while wondering whether existential angst is gluten-free.
We sip artisanal coffee, underline random sentences to appear profound, and post pictures captioned “Lost in literature,” when, in reality, we are mostly lost in Wi-Fi dead zones.
And then comes Pujarini, revolutionary. No hashtags screaming for validation. Just a girl who reads because she wants to, not because it fits into a grid.
It is almost unsettling, isn’t it? That someone without the props of privilege can possess the substance we keep pretending to have.
So perhaps it is time to redefine rich.
Rich is not what hangs in your wardrobe but what lingers in your mind.
Rich is not how many people watch your stories, but how many stories live within you.
Rich is not about having a house that looks like a magazine spread, but a home that feels like a hug you didn’t know you needed.
And rich, truly, unapologetically rich, is being able to give without calculating, to read without flaunting, to know without announcing.
The rest?
Just very well-lit illusions.
END OF ARTICLE
