The grief of ‘Marwadi’ Hustle

“Babumoshai zindagi badi honi chahiye, lambi nahi” - Anand

My family is a classic Marwadi household, structured, disciplined, and driven by an unspoken rule that money isn’t just currency, it’s survival. We are five: my parents, my two elder sisters, and me, the youngest, the quiet observer, the one who saw things not necessarily as they were told but as they unfolded. My father started his journey at 17, taking charge of a small shop in Chennai. He didn’t have dreams in the traditional sense, not ones that soared into the stratosphere of the unknown. His dreams were pragmatic, measurable, profit margins, building a business and securing a stable future for the family. His childhood wasn’t stolen; it was willingly traded for stability. And that is, perhaps, one of the greatest forms of grief that I’ve ever encountered because even now, he’d never admit to feeling like he lost something.

This is what we are raised to do. If my father was conditioned to be the breadwinner, I was raised to ensure that the bread never crumbled. We are money-minded not by choice, but by design. Everything is an equation, every decision a calculation. The ‘Marwadi hustle’ is ingrained in us before we even understand its implications. It’s not just about making money, it’s about sustaining it, growing it, and safeguarding it. 

But here’s the cost of that mindset: every dream is converted into a cost-benefit analysis. Passion? Only if it pays. Hobbies? If they can be monetised. Even rest, even a moment of doing nothing, carries with it the weight of wasted time. Life becomes a ledger where emotions are nothing but footnotes. And before you even know it, you’re in on a haunting loop of responsibilities and unfulfilled wants.

I’ve seen my father dedicate the entirety of his life just to give my sisters and me the best possible things available, things he didn’t have access to. Education is one thing he pushed us to pursue and never stop looking up to. I’m truly so thankful for him and my mother for doing so but, this, also for some reason brings this pressure of doing good, excelling in whatever we pick up which reminds me of this song from the movie ‘Ta Ra Rum Pum’- ‘Saiyaan,’ that still gives me chills, especially the line – ‘Rahi ka jo kaam hai chalte hi jaaye’ (The traveler’s job is to keep moving). What if that’s all I am, a traveler in my own life, never arriving, never stopping, just endlessly moving towards something I can’t even define? And worse, what if it’s like Billu from the Imtiaz Ali film. A man watching his childhood friends succeed while he remains stagnant. The weight of expectations, the quiet acceptance of mediocrity, the fear of being left behind. I think about that a lot. What if I end up as Billu? What if I work and work and work, and all I have to show for it is exhaustion?

But this is not just my fear. It’s the fear of an entire generation that was sung to, ‘Rukh jaana nahi tu kahi haar ke, kanto pe chal ke milenge saaye bahaar ke’ (Don’t just give up and stop, walking on the thorns will give you the shade you need later). We are the generation that is raised to chase the unknown, but at the same time are bound by the known paradox of ambition and exhaustion, which we think defines us. 

I came across this poem by Omprakash Valmiki very recently, and it goes like, “Choola mithi ka, mitti talab ka, talab thakoor ka. Bhook roti ki, roti bajre ki, bajra khet ka, khet thakoor ka. Kua thakoor ka, paani thakoor ka, khet-khaliyan thakoor ka, galli mohalle thakoor ka, phir apna kya? Gau? Sheher? Desh?” (The stove is made of sand, the sand is from the river, the river belongs to the master. There is hunger for roti, the roti is made from wheat, wheat comes from the fields but the fields belong to the master. The well belongs to the master, so does the water, the fields and the crops. The streets also belong to the master, so what is ours? The village? City? Country?). 

Everything is owned by someone, controlled by someone. This is why we hustle, to own something, to carve out our space in a world where ownership is power. But do we really own anything, or are we just moving pieces in a system where the house always wins? And maybe it is like how George Orwell says in his book ‘Keep the Aspidistra Flying’, “Money has become the grand test of virtue” (for now at least). 

I think of Guru Dutt’s words in the movie ‘Pyaasa’, “Mujhe unse koi shikayat nahi hain, mujhe koi insaan se shiyakat nahi hain. Mujhe shikayat hain samaj ke uss daanche se jo insaan se uski insaniyat cheen leta hain, matlab ke liye apne bhai ko begana bana deta hain, dost ko dushman banata hain. Mujhe shikayat hain uss tehzeeb se, uss sanskriti se jahan murdon ko pooja jata hain aur jinda insaan ko pairon tale raunda jaata hai…aise mohal mein mujhe kabhi shaanti nahi milegi meena” (I don’t have any complaints for them. I don’t have any complaints about humans. I’ve complaints about that section of society that takes away humans' humanity from them, that makes them so selfish that brothers become strangers and friends become enemies. I’ve complaints about those beliefs that pray for the dead while the living is crushed beneath its feet…in this kind of environment, I’ll never ever find peace meena). 

And I haven’t related to something more in the longest time. Isn’t this what capitalism does? It takes, and it takes, and it takes until all that’s left is an excel of transactions. The world has become so ruthlessly capitalistic - we measure success in numbers, in net worth, in financial milestones. But how do we measure the true value of money? Which brings me to my next question which I’ve spent countless hours trying to answer and yet don’t know what is right – Is capitalism really that bad, or is it just the price we pay for security? 

Andrew Scott in his nationally televised play, ‘Vanya’ says, “only human beings have the capacity to create and to imagine things that don’t exist, but all we’ve ever done is destroy things. Maybe I’m losing my mind. When I plant, say, a birch tree and watch how it turns green or sways in the wind my soul fills with a kind of pride and I–”. This quote always makes me reflect how shallow my life really is, that I don’t pause, take a moment, look up, appreciate what I truly have at the moment; it's always the WANT for more. It’s like I’ve this deeply lost, hidden and unspeakable want for something beyond the daily, average life and if this life, here in this country, is it for me then I want none of this, I NEED to go past this standard understanding and living of life, this is how I was moulded. And this may seem all motivating but no one sees the sadness attached to this, how this would be such a shallow way of living where everything I’ve achieved is graded on the scale of money. 

And yet, I cannot complain. This life, this life that my father built with his sweat and sacrifice, is the reason I can even write this today. Growing up in a family where money was practically god, I have seen its power. It has opened doors, created opportunities, shaped destinies. Without it, I wouldn’t have had the chance to study at Krea or let alone write this piece, to even entertain the thought of a future beyond survival. But is security worth the cost of freedom? We are told money is freedom, but in reality, it’s just a different kind of captivity. Our generation doesn’t just want financial success; we are desperate for meaning. But capitalism demands otherwise, it asks for 16-hour workdays, for a side hustle alongside the main hustle, for dreams with an ROI (Return on Investment). It asks us to mortgage our lives before we’ve even lived them. And I wonder, when did security become a prison?

At the cost of sounding cringe, Frank Sinatra once sang, “I’m sure you knew that I bit off more than I could chew, let the record show that I took the blow but in the end let me say, not in a shy way, I did in my way” and I genuinely hope that one day, I can say the same. That even as I hustle, even as I build, I will not forget to live. I will learn to spend without guilt, to rest without shame, to feel without restraint. I want to travel not because it looks good on paper, but because I want to see the world beyond just dhanda, sauda and hissabs. This makes me think of the times I overloaded myself with this need to acquire all my dreams, when I pushed myself to brinks that possibly everyone beside me could see how physically it broke me everyday to wake up and do things that I wouldn’t have the energy to. ALWAYS push yourself – that’s what I’ve been told to work for my entire life – money, power and authority. This will no doubt change your life but in a real sense really what are we achieving in life? How can every thing be superficial to our generation, where is the will to just live? 

But I cannot even complain when I’m also nothing but a product of this masculine-projected-economic world and completely endorsing it as well. The struggles of our generation have only amplified in this era of crony capitalism. The rat race has become more vicious, the expectations heavier, the definitions of success narrower. We are all trapped in an endless loop of wanting more, achieving more, and yet feeling like it’s never enough. We chase this mirage of financial freedom, only to find ourselves entangled in a new web of anxieties – the fear of losing it all, the pressure to maintain a certain lifestyle, the constant comparison with others. We are the most connected, most informed generation, yet we feel more lost than ever. We are told to follow our passions, but the reality is that most of us are struggling to make ends meet. We are told that we can achieve anything we set our minds to, but the system is rigged against us. We are working longer hours for less pay, and we are drowning in debt. And yet, we are told that we should be grateful for what we have.

I don’t just want to make money. I want to make meaning. I want to build something, not just accumulate. I want to remember that beyond the numbers, beyond the bottom lines, beyond the constant hustle, there is life. And life, as fleeting as it is, deserves to be lived. Capitalism sells us the lie of agency. “Work hard, climb higher!” But when you’re born Marwadi, “choice” is a myth. We’re drafted into a generational relay race, each child clutching the baton of ambition tighter than the last. 

I see you, papa. The boy who still lurks behind your salt-and-pepper beard and hair. The man who quotes Ratan Tata but tears up at Lata Mangeshkar’s “Lag Jaa Gale.” The father who taught me to chase security but forgot to mention it’s a horizon - always receding. In Laal Singh Chaddha, they ask: “Hum samundar ka ek katra hain ya samundar hain hum?” (Are we a drop in the ocean, or the ocean itself?). We are both. You, the ocean that swallowed its own storms. Me, the drop trembling with salt. But despite everything, despite the exhaustion, the calculations, the existential dread, I will wake up tomorrow, and I will hustle. Because that’s who we are. That’s what you raised me to do. And in some twisted way, I love it. Because while we may not always own our time but we do own our resilience. And maybe, just maybe, one day, I’ll figure out how to live and then I’ll say – “Ke mar ke bhi kisi ko yaad aayenge, Kisi ke aansuon mein muskuraayenge Kahega phool har kali se baar baar, Jeena issi kaa naam hai” (That even after we are dead, someone will remember us, in someone’s tears, we will be the reason of smiles – this is what truly will be called living). 

There is truly only one thing I want to end this piece with – a poem by Zia Moheyeddin:

‘Zindagi se darte ho? Zindagi toh tum bhi ho, zindagi toh hum bhi hain. Aadmi se darte ho? Aadmi toh tum bhi ho, aadmi toh hum bhi hain. Unkahi se darte ho? Jo ghadi abhi nahi aayi usse darte ho? Roshni se darte ho? Roshni toh tum bhi, roshni toh hum bhi hain’ (Are you scared of life? But life is you and me both. Are you scared of humans? Both of us are humans. Are you scared of the unknown? The time that is yet to come? Are you scared of brightness? The brightness is both you and me).