Weekend Musings: What Wealth Cannot Buy, and Poverty Cannot Steal

From Dharavi to Bimal Roy to Tagore — the dignity that endures beyond deprivation

Last week, I read an article on the redevelopment of Dharavi — a project moving ahead with almost no public consultation. The fear is simple and real: a vibrant, hardworking community that has lived there since the late 1800s may soon be pushed aside to make room for what would be a playground of the rich. Of nearly one million residents, fewer than half qualify for new homes. The rest may be moved to Deonar, near dumping grounds, or to distant salt plains — breaking a community that has held itself together for generations. Some will get nothing at all.

It struck me deeply, because just a few years ago I had walked through those lanes searching for clay artisans, spending days navigating through the maze. What met me was not despair, but fierce dignity. Every inch of space was valued. Every corner put to work. A single room doubled as home, workshop, factory, and warehouse. There was a quiet industriousness that made the place throb with life. People took pride in their work and found identity in that tiny stretch of land. For them, it was not just a shelter — it was a livelihood.

So when I read about plans that could uproot thousands, one thought returned to me: the poor do not cling to land; they cling to the meaning that land gives their lives.

This is not new. In 1902, Tagore wrote a poem, Dui Bigha Jomi, where Upen, a poor farmer, loses his ancestral land not through fault but because a wealthy landlord wishes to “even out” his garden. The land, just a little more than an acre, means nothing to the landlord — he owns hundreds of acres. But to Upen, it is memory, identity, and dignity. When he pleads, the landlord grows angry not because of the land but because a poor man has dared to say no. A power dynamic that is still alive today.

 Upen wanders for years with almost nothing, yet carries within him gratitude, humility, and an almost childlike reverence for the past. When he finally returns, nothing recognises him — except an old mango tree, the last witness of his childhood. Two ripe fruits fall at his feet, as if the earth itself remembers him. It is the universe whispering: “The world may forget you; I have not.”

 This is one of Tagore’s most beautiful moments. It reminds us that grace does not always follow ownership. The poor often receive blessings the rich are too distracted or proud to notice.

Then comes the humiliation. The gardener accuses him of theft and takes him to the landlord. Upen, with tears and a sad smile, tells him: “You are the saint today; I am the thief, of course.”

Those who hold power decide who is virtuous. Those who have nothing still try to remain human. Tagore shows how wealth can distort moral vision — where status determines guilt and power determines truth. Upen’s poverty has not made him small. It has made him clear-sighted. He sees the landlord’s corruption for what it is, and he sees his own innocence with perfect clarity.

Half a century later, Bimal Roy carried this emotional truth into Do Bigha Zamin (1953). The plot changed, but the heart did not. Shambhu, like Upen, loses his land. He goes to Calcutta, pulls a rickshaw under a burning sky, sleeps hungry, and watches his child grow up on pavements. Poverty erodes comfort, health, and hope — but cannot touch his character, the one thing wealth cannot buy and poverty cannot steal. He does not cheat, lie, or break. He remains gentle and deeply human, long after the world has stopped being kind to him.

 The rich have security.

The poor have conscience.

Both are forms of wealth. One lasts longer.

Even today, the pattern continues. The poor are displaced for development, pushed aside for highways, and hidden behind walls during VIP visits — as if poverty disappears when removed from sight. Yet in these neglected corners, people still show gratitude, resilience, and community. Often, they share more with others than those who have plenty.

Tagore compressed this tragedy into a moment under a mango tree.

Bimal Roy stretched it across a life lived on burning roads.

Both revealed the same truth — poverty may narrow a life, but it cannot narrow a soul unless we allow it.

When I think of Upen under the mango tree, Shambhu running through Calcutta, or the people of Dharavi guarding every inch of their world, I see a single thread running through time: Poverty can take away possessions, but it cannot take away character, memory, gratitude, or dignity — unless a person surrenders them.

And wealth, for all its advantages, cannot buy compassion, humility, or moral vision — unless the heart is already inclined that way. This is why the world of the rich often shrinks behind walls and boundaries, while the world of the poor expands into relationships, values, and shared humanity.

Real wealth is not measured in acres or towers. It lies in the ability to remember who we are. And real poverty does not live in the wallet. It begins the moment we stop recognising the humanity of those who have less. Between these two forms of wealth, each of us must choose which one we wish to carry forward.

Dharavi redevelopment

You may also want to read my piece on:  Light Beyond Darkness

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