It is said that a man’s true identity is not found in his earnings, but in his intentions. To receive an opportunity is a matter of fortune, but to remain grateful for that opportunity is a matter of character. This story is a living testament to that very gratitude and the profound importance of giving.
On a sweltering afternoon, the kind where the very air shimmers with heat, a sleek, black car pulled to a halt on the dusty shoulder of a road on the outskirts of the city. Inside was Vikram Singh, a man whose name was synonymous with wealth and industry. His gaze fell upon a figure slumped against the trunk of a banyan tree—a beggar.
Vikram stepped out, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the beggar’s tattered clothes. He approached the man, who looked up with weary, hollow eyes. “Brother,” Vikram began, his voice laced with genuine curiosity, “you look healthy and strong. Why are you begging?”
The beggar, whose name was Raju, flinched as if struck. He hadn’t expected a question, but a coin, a crust of bread, anything but this probing inquiry into his very existence. He hesitated, the shame of his situation coiling in his gut. “Sahib,” he finally mumbled, his voice rough from disuse, “for months… there has been no work. The city has no place for a man with no references, no address. If you could give me any employment, any at all, I would stop this today.”
Vikram studied him. He saw not just a beggar, but a man with a straight back and calloused hands that spoke of a life once lived by labour. A flicker of an idea sparked in his mind. He smiled, a warm, disarming smile that reached his eyes. “Employment? I may not be able to give you a job,” he said, and Raju’s shoulders slumped further. “But,” Vikram continued, pausing for effect, “I have a proposal better than a job. How would you like to become a partner in my business?”
Raju’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Partner? Sahib, what are you saying?” He stammered, “This is… is this true? Is such a thing possible?”
“Yes,” Vikram said, his voice firm and sure. “I own a rice mill. I will provide you with the rice. You will sell it in the market, with your own strength and honesty. At the end of the month, we will share the profit.”
A fragile, impossible hope bloomed in Raju’s chest. His eyes, moments ago vacant, now welled with a gratitude so profound it was almost painful. “How will you split it, Sahib?” he asked, his voice trembling. “I will take 20%, and you 80%? Or I will take 10%, and you 90%? Whatever you say, I will be grateful.”
Vikram placed a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. The touch was electric; it was the first human touch of kindness Raju had felt in years. “I only need 10%,” Vikram said gently. “The remaining 90% will be yours. So that you can truly move forward.”
The next morning, before the sun had even painted the sky, Raju was at the mill. He collected a small sack of the finest rice Vikram produced. He didn’t just sell it; he offered it. He found a spot near a busy temple, and with a clean cloth and a gentle smile, he began. He spoke of the rice’s quality, its fragrance. He didn’t beg for customers; he served them. His honesty was a beacon in a marketplace full of deceit. He gave the correct measure, every single time. His business grew. The small sack became two, then four. He started getting regular customers. He rented a tiny, cramped room to live in, a palace compared to the footpath. He bought new clothes. The light returned to his eyes, replaced by the fire of self-respect and ambition. He worked with a devotion he didn’t know he possessed, his heart overflowing with unspoken thanks for the man who had seen a human being in a beggar.
A month passed. The day to share the profits arrived. Raju sat on the floor of his little room, a mountain of currency notes spread before him. The profit was far beyond his wildest dreams. Ten percent of it was a fortune in itself. He stared at the money, the crisp notes rustling under his fingers. He had worked for this. He had sweated for it. He had walked miles, hauled heavy sacks, and smiled until his cheeks ached. I did all the work, a small, insidious voice whispered in his mind. He just gave an opportunity. Why should I give him so much? 90% for me? He only asked for 10%… but that 10% is still too much. It’s mine. All of it is mine. My sweat, my toil.
The gratitude that had filled his heart began to curdle, replaced by a thick, black sludge of greed. By the time Vikram arrived, the poison had spread. Vikram, dressed simply, knocked on the door. Raju opened it, but his posture was different. He didn’t stand aside with respect; he blocked the entrance.
“Raju! It’s good to see you looking so well,” Vikram beamed. “The profit must have been good. I’ve come for my small share.”
Raju’s face was a mask of practiced regret. “Sahib… come in. There are… complications. Some accounts are still pending. There was an unexpected loss in the last week. Some credit is stuck with a dishonest shopkeeper.”
Vikram’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes grew calm and steady, like the surface of a deep ocean. “Raju,” he said softly, “I know the exact profit. I have my own sources in the market who track the sales. Why are you breaking your word?”
The calmness in Vikram’s voice was more unnerving than any anger. Cornered, the greed that had taken root in Raju erupted. His eyes flashed with a desperate, ugly light. “You are not entitled to this profit!” he spat, the words tearing from his throat. “I did all the work! All of it! I built this from nothing! You just gave me a sack of rice! The sweat is mine! The blisters are mine! What right do you have to my money?”
He stopped, panting, the venom of his words hanging in the air between them. He had expected Vikram to argue, to fight, to threaten him with the police. But Vikram did none of these things. He simply looked at Raju, and in his gaze was not anger, but a deep, profound sorrow. It was the disappointment of a gardener watching a beloved plant wither from within.
Vikram took a slow step forward, and for the first time, Raju felt a flicker of fear. “You are right, Raju,” Vikram said, his voice barely a whisper. “The sweat is yours. The blisters are yours. The long days are yours. But tell me… who gave you the strong arms that carried those sacks? Who gave you the sharp mind that calculated the profits? Who gave you the health that allowed you to work from dawn till dusk?”
The questions landed like stones in the still water of Raju’s conscience. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words came.
“Did you create the air you breathe? Did you grow the food that gives you strength? Did you make the sun that rose every morning to light your path to the market?” Vikram continued, his voice gentle but relentless. “I only gave you an opportunity, a single seed. But the earth that nurtured it, the water that fed it, the life force that made it grow… that was not mine, and it was not yours. It was a gift. A gift we both received.”
He paused, letting the truth sink in. “When we receive so much, every single moment, from an unseen hand, can we truly call anything entirely our own? To give a small part back, in thanks, for the benefit of others… that is not a loss. It is the only way to make our prosperity meaningful. It is the wealth of the soul.”
Raju stood frozen, the mountain of money on the floor behind him now looking like a pile of worthless paper. Vikram’s words had peeled back the layers of his greed, exposing the raw, shameful core beneath. He remembered the day he was a beggar. He remembered the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He remembered the hope. And he remembered the words that had flooded his heart that day, words that now felt like a betrayal.
A single, hot tear escaped his eye and traced a path down his cheek. He had gained the world, but in his greed, he had lost himself. The profound truth of the old hymn echoed in the sudden, crushing silence of the room:
“Tera tujhko arpan, kya laage mera, Mera mujhme kuch nahi, jo kuch hai so tera…”
(To offer what is Yours to You, what is mine in it? Nothing in me is mine, whatever is, is Yours…)
Slowly, without a word, Raju turned and walked back into the room. He returned a moment later, not with a handful of notes, but with the entire pile, and placed it at Vikram’s feet. He then knelt, touching his forehead to the ground, not in front of the money, but in front of the man who had taught him the greatest lesson of his life. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Vikram knelt too, and gently lifted him up. He didn’t take the money. He picked up a single note from the pile. “This is more than enough,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “This is my 10%. The rest… use it to build a life. And remember, true prosperity is not in how much you have, but in how much you are willing to share.”
Vikram walked away that day, leaving Raju standing in the doorway of his small room, a changed man. He had been given a fortune, but more importantly, he had been given a mirror. And in it, he had seen that the measure of a man is not the height of his wealth, but the depth of his gratitude. For success comes from hard work, yes, but also from the grace of opportunity and the kindness of others. And the man who forgets his source ultimately shrinks his own heart. It is gratitude and giving that truly make prosperity worthwhile.