I began writing this not thinking if it would grow into a blog article or not. Everything doesn’t always have to have a destination, does it? Maybe the purpose of this ramble is simply to help me ease back into the flow of writing — something I’ve missed over the past three months of an unforgiving migraine season.
I’ve been listening to The Art of Spending Money by Morgan Housel, and it reminded me of something I was almost on the verge of forgetting.
Money isn’t a romantic topic.
It can’t buy happiness. It doesn’t guarantee love or a long life.
But it is one of the most useful tools we have for building a life that feels like our own.
The best money we spend is rarely the money that impresses other people. It’s the money that can nurture the most authentic version of ourselves.
The problem is that we often spend according to a blueprint that we didn’t design.
Ten years ago, for my Medical College Convocation, I spent ₹8,000 on a blazing red Kancheepuram silk saree. At the time, that was almost 40% of my monthly internship stipend.
The funny thing is – I don’t particularly like sarees. I rarely wear them. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a ₹2,000 saree and a ₹15,000 one.
But buying that saree felt inevitable.
A graduation ceremony demanded elegance.
And elegant women wore expensive silk sarees.
Somewhere along the way, I had begun to believe that class and refinement were things that I could aspire to buy.
Looking back now, I don’t think I was buying a saree at all.
I was buying my place, my right to belong.
I was buying the external validation that would compensate for everything I felt I lacked inside.
Had I truly believed I was beautiful, intelligent, and enough, I doubt I would have needed the saree to tell that story for me.
We do this more often than we realize.
A “good” phone is supposed to cost a certain amount.
A “good” shirt.
A “good” car.
Somewhere, someone decides the price of belonging, and we quietly accept it.
For years, I squeezed my embarrassingly large feet into beautiful high heels that tortured me. They looked pretty, for sure. But they also hurt every single time I wore them.
What I was actually buying was the idea of what women were supposed to look like.
When you’re young, you don’t really know who you are.
You’re constantly trying on identities, hoping one of them fits.
At seventeen, I remember looking at a wealthy friend’s branded kurtis and thinking – That’s who I want to become.
There’s nothing wrong with owning beautiful things. They can absolutely bring joy.
But beautiful things are a poor substitute for knowing yourself.
Over time, I discovered that I didn’t actually care very much about shoes or designer clothes. What made me irrationally happy were paperbacks, fountain pens, scented candles, and journals.
Last Sunday, while wandering through the stationery aisle of a supermarket with my son Achu, I noticed a lemon-yellow fountain pen with Winnie-the-Pooh smiling from the barrel.
For a few minutes, my mind protested.
You’re a woman in your thirties.
It’s made for children.
This is ridiculous.
Then I bought it anyway.
It didn’t cost much.
But a week later, it’s still sitting on my desk beside my dermoscope and prescription pad.
Every time I write with it, watching the deep blue ink glide across the page, I feel a tiny, uncomplicated happiness that I hadn’t experienced since I was twelve years old.
Perhaps that’s the point.
The value of what we buy isn’t measured by its price tag.
It’s measured by how honestly it reflects who we are.
Maybe contentment isn’t found in finally owning enough.
Maybe it’s found in finally knowing enough about yourself that you stop trying to buy someone else’s life.
Beyond the comforts we genuinely need, the pursuit of more has no finish line.
There will always be someone with a larger house, a newer car, a better watch, or a larger paycheck.
It’s a race that cannot be won because it keeps moving the finish line.
Perhaps the easiest way to be content is simply to choose contentment.
To step off the treadmill.
To stop trying to keep up with the Joneses.
And if your version of happiness happens to be a lemon-yellow Winnie-the-Pooh fountain pen instead of a luxury handbag, perhaps you’ve already discovered something far more valuable than either.
