Maggie Thatcher was at her peak then. Racism was neither uncommon nor rare in the UK. And there was certainly no notion of multiculturalism. A brown man working in that country was either at the receiving end of racist invective, or simply invisible. In those two years in London, holding down my first job after a master’s degree in Calcutta, I was confronted by questions of life and living, of lived realities and hostilities. I was confronted by myself. Coming back to India became an existential imperative.

It was in those grim times, over 30 years ago, that I first realised what my ideological — not just political — leanings were. I had no interest in multiplying money, in chasing more money with money. In investing in the idea of a future dictated by property prices.

Growing up, we had no luxuries, no excesses in Calcutta — the city my grandfather had moved to 84 years ago from Kerala. But as children, we never wanted for anything vital. Perhaps that is the root of my ‘lack’ — or, shall I say, different kind — of ambition.

I just wanted to return and work for development at the grassroots level. And I wasn’t alone. Others were affected by the same ‘youthful idealism’ that led me back to the East. It saddens me that that is not the case today. So much needs to be done, and social development can only be done when one is young. The older you grow, the harder it becomes to choose that path.

Fourteen years after returning to Kolkata and working as a social activist, I set up the Talimi Haq School for slum children in Howrah. I worked there full time for three years. Now, I mentor the teachers who run it. (A sudden change in my family’s circumstances meant I had to take responsibility of our flow meter manufacturing business.)

Since I worked for modest amounts of money through most of my working life, my savings were meagre too. I never had enough to buy a house. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have bought property in the city to grow wealth or to better the prospects of my children. I would have felt trapped.

I never felt obliged to leave (pecuniary) keepsakes for my children. And after my eldest son passed away last year, such ideas became even more irrelevant. The only thing I felt I ought to do for them as a parent was to give them a good education, and I did that — at a considerable cost, making several sacrifices to send them to the residential Rishi Valley School in Chittoor district. And I know they valued it. A student of humanities, my younger son too cares little for conventional ambitions. So it’s unlikely that he’ll ever hold this against his father. But who knows if he’ll feel differently some day… I’ve seen how property can destroy families and relationships, how it can infect the air with negativity and ill-will. I didn’t want that for them. And with my background in economics — as a student and teacher — I knew the pitfalls of making long-term financial commitments without considering that fortunes can change overnight.

Yes, I still live under the roof of my grandfather — a house with several stakeholders, almost all of whom live abroad, making its legal status complex and unnavigable, now and in the future. But I have never felt insecure. And I doubt my son, who may or may not inherit any part of it, does either.

Unlike those who banter at tea stalls about poverty — and not astrophysics or molecular biology — simply because they can, I have spent decades trying to understand the issue and address it. Their knowledge of the poor is about as sound as mine of making money. If you really want something — whether it’s wealth or the eradication of poverty — you’ve got to work towards it. I chose to do the latter, that’s all.

( As told to Soity Banerjee )

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