Many years ago, on the festival of Eid, I was busy attending to the constant influx of people coming in to meet and greet me; from distant relatives, next-door neighbours, municipal agents, garbage men, a team of retired postmen of our colony, to long-lost friends, everyone kept pouring intermittently all through the day, some for the Eid Inaam (monetary charity) and some out of the social norm.

After Lunch around noon, when I sat down for a small break, I heard a knock on the door and, through the window pane, could see a line of glittering light in the bright sun.

When I opened the door, before me stood the family of the auto-rickshaw driver. There were several young girls accompanied by their granny at my door; they were the grandchildren of an Auto-rickshaw driver who had ferried us to school 15 years ago and was still in service whenever we needed him for any errands.

Interestingly, the auto driver was missing from the crowd.

I welcomed them all inside and offered each of them cool drinks and the Eid speciality, Sheerkhorma.

Their granny took her seat on the floor, but they all smiled and sat in a line on the sofa, sharing a mischievous look.

I was deeply moved by the genuine happiness vibrating from their attire and the artificial jewellery they wore. When I inquired about their shopping endeavours, they shared beautiful stories, giggling throughout the narrative about the local market, the sales and discounts and the latest movie model they tried to copy in their hairdos.

While serving them the sweets and savouries, I, for some unknown reason, was drawn towards the gold bangles I was wearing and the diamond ring; there were no particular thoughts or intent, perhaps an unconscious comparison of contentment with materialism, I guess.

Talking myself through it, I was trying to gauge how content I was with the jewellery I was wearing and the ones stacked in the bank locker and, despite all of it, continued to cling to the narrative of how I need to do more to have enough.

After they left, their brief presence taught me something profound.

When I asked myself, comparing myself to my visitors

What is enough for me?

I stood thinking for hours about how deep contentment can make shimmering, average-priced attire and an artificial jewellery piece priceless, while the real gold and diamond jewellery I possessed, without gratitude, held no such power.

That day, I learned how unrelated contentment and materialism can be. Another lesson from the growing years underwent a radical change.

I think a scarcity mindset often stems from baseless fears that conjure up narratives supporting it without evidence, when in reality, be it artificial or real, we all have enough.

Warmly,

Mehnaz Amjad