I wasn't born into a rich family. My parents worked hard to bring the three of us up, myself and my sisters. We were living in an outhouse of a large bungalow. We were surrounded by richness. As a child, it seemed to me that the prosperity deity visited every house around us but stopped short of entering our house. What was the difference between us and the others? How was it that every one seemed to be rich except us? What had we done that caused us this misery? Although I couldn't understand much of what went on at home, I developed a hatred towards this thing called 'currency'. That seemed, in my mind, to be cause of all our unhappiness at home. I could vaguely understand the arguments and differences of opinions between my father and mother as they talked about the financial situation. They worked very hard. My father was a railway clerk and my mother was a primary school teacher. I don't remember my father ever taking a day off from work unnecessarily or my father resting at home during the day even on school holidays. Her hard worked helped her slum school develop into a private school.

They wanted to ensure that their three children got the best education possibly under the circumstances. They totally believed that if we got educated we could find a good job in a private company and eventually help remove the desperation that surrounded us. Sometimes, my father had to borrow groceries from a provision shop nearby. My mother would do some additional part-time work such as taking care of financial accounting for the bungalow owners who housed us for a very small rent. For over twenty years we lived in that house. The maximum rent that was charged them was less than 150 rupees I think. Even if that wasn't paid for a month or two they wouldn't trouble my parents.

The owners tried their best to provide care for our family. They treated my mother as their own daughter. But for a small child who was growing up with such anger inside as a rebel against status quo, everything seemed to be wrong. My friends were mostly rich. Never once could I pay for a hotel bill. They paid all the time. Often, it would kill my self-esteem. I questioned the ill-logic of two old people living in an air conditioned bungalow with several of the rooms being unoccupied while the five of us were attempting to squeeze into the only room that was our living, dining, study and bed room under a short roof with a single ceiling fan. In a warm and humid Chennai climate, one can imagine how sticky one's skin can get. We hated it if anyone by mistake touched the other person while sleeping. The owners cared a lot for our family. They went out of their way to help us in so many different ways. If I sit now and think back I cannot thank their unending generosity till their last breath. They even took the extraordinary step of mentioning my mother's name in their 'Will' papers. The money from the benevolent gesture didn't mean much in the end as we have gotten better off by then. But the act was unforgettable and touching even to this day in my mother's heart.

The rebel in me grew up feeling angry with the division in the society. My parents worked hard, surely harder than anyone else in the neighborhood we knew then. Yet, they were struggling to make their ends meet.

Once I remember tearing a one rupee note in my anger against money. I kept thinking what is the cause of poverty. Why has this sickness, this disease come into this world?

Much later, more recently in fact, when I was researching into innovation and prosperity I realised that poverty strikes when one is not able to constantly strive to upgrade one's skills relevant for the society and put in hard work.

We have a saying in our house, "When times are tough you simply work harder."

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I Am New,
Krish Murali Eswar.
Photo Courtesy: Mani Babbar