The other night, I met a very wealthy, well-connected, and visibly successful gentleman.
The conversation was… less than pleasant.
Politeness was met with condescension.
Curiosity with interrogation.
Disagreement with derision.
Civility was interpreted as weakness.
Silence as inferiority.
Within five minutes, I was told how much he manages.
How many companies he has funded.
And why my views were invalid, because I hadn’t invested in even “one rupee” worth of equity.
And yet, something unexpected happened.
I wasn’t angry.
I smiled.
Because I was reminded.
Reminded of a time when I was that man.
When I had offices (and homes) in three continents.
When I oversaw hundreds of millions in transnational trade.
When people across cultures and time zones took my calls at ungodly hours.
When I believed my opinion mattered more because my balance sheet was bigger.
And I must have sounded just like him.
I couldn’t have known it then.
Because no one tells you when you’re at the top how deeply unpleasant you’ve become.
They nod. They comply. They laugh politely.
It takes a fall, sometimes a complete one, to truly listen.
I went bankrupt over a decade and a half ago.
And while the loss of money hurt, it’s the recovery of perspective that mattered more.
Today, I meet people from all walks of life.
Founders, labourers, teachers, parents, dreamers.
And I try, with every fibre of my being, not to treat them like I’m on a dais and they’re in the audience.
Wealth doesn’t entitle you to be heard.
Humanity does.
Experience does.
Humility does.
And here’s what I now believe:
If your success needs to be shouted from rooftops in every conversation, you’ve probably mistaken volume for value.
I’m grateful to that gentleman.
Not for his opinion, but for being the mirror I needed.
To remember who I was.
And who I never want to be again.
