How I Almost Became a Crorepati

A Slightly Honest, Slightly Dangerous Memoir

Let me begin properly.

I was a young man then.
Good job. Respectable job. A salary that arrived every month exactly on time, not early, not late, like the Vandebharat Train. It was not a big salary. But it was enough.

Enough for bus travel.
Enough for the occasional movie.
Enough for tea with friends.
And enough for a tiny savings that made me feel like Warren Buffett on our street.

Enough is a very quiet word, but it carries more peace than abundance ever will.

Life was simple.

My mother would stand in the veranda if I returned late from the office.
“Why so late?” she would ask.
But her eyes would already be smiling.

I had brothers. One only sister. Friends who were always ready for small adventures, not world tours, but Kovalam beach, Neyyar dam, or a picnic with lemon rice wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper.

We were not rich.
But we were not worried either.

Life moved like a calm Kerala river, steady, predictable, mildly humid.

When life flows gently, we rarely notice that we are already wealthy.

Then I got married.
A loving wife.

Then came one child.
Then another.

Then came expenses.

They did not walk in. They marched in like a Republic Day parade.

School fees. Milk powder. Doctor visits. An electricity bill that behaved like it was pursuing an MBA in strategic growth.

Responsibilities do not knock softly; they rearrange the furniture of your dreams.

One evening, my wife said gently, very gently, which is always dangerous:

“Look at your friend Reghu. Big car. He travels by flight. World tours. And see us…”

That “and see us…” echoed in my head like temple bells at 4 a.m.

Something inside me shifted.

Until then, I had wanted peace.
Now I wanted power steering.

“I also should become a Crorepati,” I declared internally.

Comparison is the small spark that quietly sets contentment on fire.

Enter Reghu, My Financial Guru

I asked Reghu, “How did you become rich?”

He leaned back like a management consultant who charges by the blink.

“Simple,” he said. “Mingle with rich people. Join big clubs. Network. Learn what they do. Do what they do.”

That’s it.

Years of education, and this was the secret.

Why didn’t my school textbooks include a chapter titled ‘Networking for Dummies’?

Reghu kindly introduced me to some “big people.”

And thus began my long and highly scientific research.

Ambition often begins as curiosity wearing a borrowed coat.

The Club Near Kowdiar

For many years, I mixed freely with rich men.

Not ordinary rich men.

Men who say “one crore” the way we say “one rupee.”

We met at an old club near Kowdiar in Thiruvananthapuram. Wide veranda. Cane chairs. Ceiling fans rotate lazily, as though even air must earn interest before moving. Servers walk softly, careful not to disturb the floating currency in the atmosphere.

I enjoyed watching them.

Their spotless white mundu with a golden border.
Their crisp shirts.
Heavy gold chains resting like obedient pythons.
Rings thick enough to secure bank loans by themselves.

When six or seven of them sat together, it felt like Onam, minus the humility.

If a speck of dust dared to land on their shoulder, a waiter rushed forward as if saving national pride.

Sometimes I felt like brushing the dust myself.
Not for the dust.
For the blessing.

We are often drawn not to wealth itself, but to the confidence it seems to wear.

Their Brains!

More than their clothes, I admired their intellectual stamina.

After shouting all day about land deals in Kazhakkoottam, apartments in Kochi, and contracts in Dubai, you would think they were exhausted.

No.

They would sit in the club and read stock reports, business magazines, and even gossip columns, and understand everything.

One evening, a man leaned forward and said calmly:

“I told him, fifty crore. Final. Not one rupee more. Take it or leave it.”

Fifty crore!

I nearly dropped my lime soda.

I wanted to scream:

“Sir! Please offer it to me once! I promise I will not leave it! I am very adjustable!”

But I remained silent.

Sometimes, silence is the only asset we fully own.

The Mystery of Small Money

Big money? They don’t blink.

Small money? Ayyo!

One night, two of them rushed in, glowing with excitement.

“Pepper price jumped!” one announced.
“Forty paise profit in twenty minutes!” the other said proudly.

Forty paise.

They ordered a celebratory dinner.

I have written full-length articles and earned more than that.

Did I celebrate?

No.
I paid school fees.

Money is strange. It is not the amount. It is the movement.

It is not wealth that excites the human heart, but the illusion of winning.

High Finance and Low Cousins

One evening, I heard:

“Call Mumbai. Offer them half a per cent.”

Imagine calling an entire city and offering half a per cent.

Inspired, I called my cousin in Kochi and offered him a 2-rupee profit on a coconut deal.

He disconnected the call and later asked my wife if I was sleeping properly.

That, I realised, is the difference between high finance and low relations.

Scale does not create wisdom; it only magnifies character.

The Lifestyle Upgrade

I also carefully studied their daily routine.

Very important.

If you want to become a crorepati, never wake up at 5:30 a.m.

That is for school teachers and milk vendors.

Crorepatis wake at ten.

They cannot be seen buying milk in early morning light. It affects brand positioning.

Breakfast must not be dosa or idlis.
Certainly not kanji.

It must be something imported and unpronounceable.

Avocado. Quinoa. Steel-cut oats. Words that sound like distant relatives from Canada.

Coffee must come in a cup smaller than a steel tumbler but costs ten times more.

Late nights are compulsory.

Discussion.
Laughter.
Expensive drinks.

In the morning, their faces resemble boiled tapioca.

But they confidently say, “Mind is very sharp today.”

Sometimes exhaustion wears the mask of importance.

The Five-Rupee Legend

Every rich man has the same origin story.

“When I first came to the city, I had only five rupees in my pocket.”

Those five rupees have more motivational power than any management seminar.

I tried this technique.

Borrowed five rupees.
Left town dramatically.
Returned with determination.

Unfortunately, I saw a tea shop.

Tea and banana fry ended my business empire before lunch.

Opportunity often arrives disguised as a distraction.

The Dark Secret

Then came the most shocking lesson.

I once asked about a very rich older man.

“How did he make all his money?”

One man laughed.

“By squeezing it out of widows and orphans.”

Widows and orphans!

“And how?” I asked.

“He crushed them in business deals. Took advantage of their weakness.”

So simple.
So ugly.
So occasionally true.

Wealth earned by breaking the weak leaves invisible cracks in the soul.

I thought deeply.

Could I do that?

No.

Most widows I know are stronger than businesspeople.
Orphans have suffered enough.

Riches at that cost seemed too expensive.

Not every profit is worth its price.

The Political Shortcut (Highly Confidential Advice)

During my research, I discovered another important strategy.

Very important.
Dangerously important.

One evening at the club, I noticed something interesting. Whenever a certain local politician entered, even the crorepatis slightly adjusted their posture.

Phones were put away.
Voices became softer.
Smiles became wider.

One businessman whispered to me,
“Connections are capital.”

That sounded profound. I wrote it down mentally.

In certain rooms, influence outweighs currency.

Later, I asked one of the wealthy members quietly,
“Is it necessary to know politicians also?”

He looked at me as if I had just discovered gravity.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “Business without political acquaintance is like sambar without salt.”

That was serious.

He explained patiently:

“Attend public functions. Smile. Shake hands. Offer congratulations. Stand near them in photographs. Don’t speak too much. Just be visible.”

Visible!

I immediately attended a local function—ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new road that had been repaired for the third time in two years.

I stood strategically near the stage.

When the MLA arrived, everyone rushed forward.

I also rushed.

Unfortunately, I rushed slightly late and ended up holding the plastic chair instead of the ribbon.

In the photograph printed the next day, the politician was smiling confidently.

I was visible, half-visible, behind the mic stand, looking like a man waiting for a bus.

Still, I felt progress.

Later, someone told me:

“Don’t worry. In politics, patience compounds faster than interest.”

Power moves slowly, but it remembers who stands nearby.

That day I understood something important.

Political networking requires stamina, strategy, and the ability to clap enthusiastically for speeches you do not understand.

Some of the crorepatis had mastered this art beautifully.

They knew when to stand.
When to smile.
When to donate quietly.
And when to disappear.

I realised quickly that I was not built for this level of advanced diplomacy.

I clap sincerely only when I agree.

This is a financial weakness.
And perhaps a moral strength.

Integrity may not multiply wealth, but it protects sleep.

 The Real Discovery

After years of observation, I discovered something surprising.

The happiest people I know are not crorepatis.

They are teachers cycling home at sunset.
Shopkeepers are closing shutters.
Fathers returning home tired but smiling.
Mothers waiting with tea.
Children laughing without calculating profit.

That wealth does not fluctuate with the stock market.

Joy does not compound in banks; it multiplies in homes.

Even today, I sometimes sit in that veranda in Thiruvananthapuram.

I watch the rich men discuss crores.

I sip my modest lime soda.

And I smile.

Because I learned something valuable.

Making a crore may be possible.
Keeping your peace is harder.

Money can enlarge your house; only contentment enlarges your life.

Between a heavy gold chain and a light heart,
I chose the light heart.