Picture this: Rhea’s sitting at her tiny desk in her 1BHK, surrounded by bills that seem to multiply faster than roaches in a monsoon. Her phone’s buzzing with notifications—EMI reminders, her mom’s voice note about “beta, when are you sending money for Diwali?”, and a Swiggy pop-up tempting her with a pizza she can’t afford. She’s 28, working as a marketing exec in a fancy Bangalore startup, but her bank account? It’s giving “sad Bollywood song” vibes. Every month, it’s the same drama—pay rent, send money home, maybe sneak in a coffee with friends, and then pray the credit card doesn’t haunt her dreams.
You know what happens when you’re always counting pennies? Your brain turns into a grumpy accountant. Rhea’s no different. She’s got this mantra stuck in her head: “There’s never enough money.” It’s like a bad jingle she can’t unhear. She skips dinners with colleagues because “it’s too expensive.” She haggles with the auto guy for five rupees, only to feel like a villain later. And don’t even get her started on her cousin’s Instagram—destination weddings, Maldives vacations, and Rhea’s over here wondering if she can afford a new pair of chappals.
But then, one random Tuesday, something shifts. She’s at a team lunch (she went because her boss insisted), and she meets Arjun, a quirky consultant who’s got this calm, chai-stall-guru energy. He’s not flashy—no Rolex, no “I’m a big shot” vibes—but there’s something about him. Over butter naan, he casually drops, “Rhea, you know, money’s like water. If you grip it too tight, it slips away. Let it flow, and it finds a way back.” She laughs it off—typical uncle advice, right? But his words stick, like a catchy song you hum without realizing.
That night, lying on her creaky bed, Rhea wonders: What if I’m the one blocking the flow? Am I holding on too tight?
Pause for a second. Have you ever felt like Rhea, always worried there’s not enough—of money, time, or even love? What’s one thing you’re gripping onto so tightly that it’s weighing you down?
Fast forward a week, and Rhea’s still in her scarcity spiral. You know how it is—when you’re broke, every little thing feels like a conspiracy. The office coffee machine breaks, and she’s thinking, “Of course, now I have to spend on chai outside!” Her mom calls, asking for extra cash for her brother’s coaching classes, and Rhea’s heart sinks. She loves her family, but the pressure’s real—middle-class guilt hits harder than a monsoon downpour. And then there’s her friend Priya, who’s always posting about her side hustle, selling handmade candles like it’s no big deal. Rhea’s like, “Great, another reminder I’m stuck while everyone’s thriving.”
At work, it’s no better. Her boss is piling on tasks, but her salary? Stuck like a rickshaw in traffic. She overhears colleagues planning a team outing to a fancy resort, and she’s already mentally drafting her “I can’t make it” excuse. It’s not just about money—it’s the exhaustion of always feeling behind. She’s tired of saying no to life. Tired of checking her bank balance before buying a 50-rupee ice cream. Tired of believing she’s one bad day away from disaster.
Then, Arjun shows up again, this time at a company workshop. He’s talking about mindset, and Rhea’s rolling her eyes internally—here comes the motivational nonsense. But he says something that hits home: “Scarcity isn’t just about money. It’s about how you see the world. If you believe there’s never enough, you’ll always find proof.” He shares how he started his consulting gig on the side, not because he had extra cash or time, but because he decided to trust there was enough—enough ideas, enough opportunities, enough him.
Rhea’s skeptical, but curious. Could she do that? Start something small? She’s always loved baking—her chocolate brownies were a hit at every family function. But a side hustle? That’s for people with money to burn, right? Or is it? As she walks home, dodging potholes and street vendors, she wonders: What if I stopped waiting for ‘enough’ and just started? What’s one thing I’m good at that could change the game?
Tell me, when was the last time you felt like Rhea, trapped by the idea that there’s not enough? What’s one small step you could take to break that cycle?
You know what happens when you’re stuck in a rut? The universe sends you a sign, but it’s usually disguised as an annoying uncle or a random chai stall chat. For Rhea, it’s Arjun again, catching her at the office pantry, where she’s microwaving her dabba of leftover rajma-chawal. He’s sipping his cutting chai, looking like he’s about to drop another life lesson. “Rhea,” he says, “money isn’t the problem. It’s your lens. You’re looking at life like it’s a stingy shopkeeper who won’t give you an extra mirchi. Shift the lens, and you’ll see abundance everywhere.”
Rhea’s like, “Arjun, that’s great, but my bank account isn’t exactly singing ‘Hare Krishna’ right now.” He chuckles and tells her about the law of flow—spiritual, but not the woo-woo kind. “Think of it like this,” he says. “When you hoard your time, money, or even love, it’s like blocking a river. The water gets murky, right? But when you give—your skills, your kindness, your brownies—it flows back, sometimes from places you didn’t expect.” He shares how he started his side hustle by teaching Excel to college kids for free. No big investment, just his time. Soon, word spread, and he was charging for workshops.
Rhea’s mind is spinning. She thinks about her brownies—her nani used to say they could make anyone smile. What if she shared them, not just with family, but with the world? Not to get rich quick, but to start a flow? She remembers her mom giving extra rotis to the neighbor’s kids, even when they were tight on cash. That was abundance, wasn’t it? Not waiting for “enough” but creating it with what you have. Suddenly, her scarcity lens feels like a pair of foggy glasses she’s been wearing too long.
Pause for a moment. What’s one thing you’re holding onto tightly—time, money, or maybe even a grudge? What would happen if you let it flow, just a little?
Okay, so Rhea’s inspired, but inspiration without action is like a Bollywood movie without a dance sequence—pointless. She’s back at her 1BHK, scrolling through Instagram (and ignoring Priya’s candle posts). She grabs a notebook—yes, an actual pen-and-paper one, not her phone’s notes app—and starts scribbling. Arjun had told her, “Start small, but start now. Don’t wait for a perfect plan.” So, she brainstorms her brownie side hustle. Step one: bake a batch. Step two: share samples with colleagues. Step three: maybe post on WhatsApp groups or Instagram. Simple, right? But her brain’s already whispering, “What if nobody buys? What if you fail?”
Here’s where Arjun’s practical tools come in, like a cheat code for life. He’d given her three steps at the workshop: First, name your gift. Rhea’s gift? Her brownies, obviously—crispy edges, gooey centers, pure love. Second, share it small. No need for a fancy website or a loan. She could start with a small batch for her office gang, maybe even the chaiwala downstairs. Third, trust the flow. Arjun said, “Don’t obsess over the outcome. Just put it out there, like tossing a pebble in a pond. The ripples will surprise you.”
So, Rhea bakes. She spends her Sunday mixing batter, burning one tray (oops), and perfecting another. Monday, she brings a box to work. Her colleagues go nuts—her grumpy boss even smiles! By evening, she’s got five orders from the office WhatsApp group. It’s not a crore, but it’s something. For the first time, Rhea feels a spark—like she’s not just surviving but creating. She’s nervous, sure, but there’s a quiet voice inside saying, “Keep going. There’s enough.”
Tell me, what’s one small gift you could share with the world today? And what’s stopping you from taking that first tiny step?
You know what happens when you finally take a leap, like Rhea with her brownies? The universe gives you a high-five, but also a pop quiz to see if you’re paying attention. Rhea’s sitting cross-legged on her balcony, munching on a slightly overbaked brownie (baker’s perk, right?), staring at the Bangalore skyline twinkling like a budget Diwali. Her phone’s buzzing with a few more orders from her office folks, and her heart’s doing a weird mix of somersaults and panic attacks. She’s made a couple of hundred bucks this week—not enough to quit her job, but enough to buy her mom a nice saree for Diwali.
But here’s the thing: Rhea’s mind is still half-stuck in scarcity land. She’s overthinking—What if orders dry up? What if I mess up a batch? What if Priya’s candles outshine my brownies? It’s like her brain’s a Bollywood villain, always plotting drama. Then she remembers Arjun’s words: “Pause, Rhea. Notice the flow.” So, she does. She thinks about her colleague who teared up eating her brownie because it reminded her of her late mom’s baking. Or the chaiwala who grinned ear-to-ear when she gave him a free sample. These aren’t just sales—they’re connections, little ripples in that pond Arjun talked about.
Rhea pulls out her notebook, scribbling down what’s working: her brownies make people happy, her colleagues are cheering her on, and she’s feeling… alive. For once, she’s not just surviving the month. She’s creating something. But can she trust this feeling? Can she keep going when the doubts creep back like uninvited relatives at a wedding buffet?
Take a second. When was the last time you noticed the small wins in your life, like Rhea’s brownie orders? What’s one moment this week that made you feel like you’re part of something bigger?
So, Rhea’s on this path, right? It’s not a straight road—more like a bumpy Bangalore street with potholes and stray dogs. But she’s learning that abundance isn’t a fat bank account or a viral Instagram post. It’s about trusting there’s enough—enough love, enough ideas, enough you. One evening, she’s at a local temple with her mom, lighting a diya. The priest is chanting, and Rhea’s mind wanders to her brownies, her bills, her life. Her mom nudges her, whispering, “Beta, don’t ask God for more. Thank Him for what’s already coming.”
That hits Rhea like a perfectly timed dialogue in a Rajkumar movie. She’s been so busy worrying about “not enough” that she forgot to be grateful for the flow—her supportive colleagues, her mom’s pride, even Arjun’s annoying-but-wise pep talks. Back home, she starts a tiny ritual: every night, she jots down three things she’s thankful for. One day, it’s her neighbor offering to help pack orders. Another, it’s her boss giving her a half-day to deliver a big batch. Slowly, gratitude becomes her chai-time samosa, her daily dose of joy.
And here’s the kicker: Rhea’s brownies? They’re picking up steam. She’s got a small Instagram page now, and her cousins are begging to help with deliveries. She’s not rolling in crores, but she’s sleeping better, laughing more, and dreaming bigger. As she puts it over chai with Arjun, “It’s like I’m finally letting life in, instead of locking the gate.” He winks, “See? The universe always delivers—faster than Swiggy, sometimes.”
So, my friend, as Rhea’s story wraps up (for now), here’s left with a little spiritual reminder: abundance starts when you trust the flow and say thanks for the ride. What’s one thing you’re grateful for right now, even if it’s as small as a good brownie? And how can you share your own gift with the world, just to see where the ripples go?
