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Sense of worth vs upper-class entitlement

Tribuneindia.com invites contributions to SHAHARNAMA. Share anecdotes, unforgettable incidents, impressionable moments that define your cities, neighbourhoods, what the city stands for, what makes its people who they are. Send your contributions in English, not exceeding 250 words, to shaharnama@tribunemail.com Do include the name of your city and your social media handles (X/ Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn)

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Illustration: Anshul Dogra
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Last month, I had my own Buddha moment — not in Bodh Gaya, but at a traffic light in Chandigarh’s Sector 37, during the morning rush-hour traffic.

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My moment of enlightenment — I had always known that humanity is divided into antagonistic classes. But that day I felt the sting of contempt — the way the upper class look down on the “lesser” mortals.

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My Maruti had barely grazed a white Range Rover. A tap most drivers dismiss. But a woman in her thirties, still in her night suit, erupted. “You don’t know the three-second rule?” she said loudly, followed by a sentence that cut deep: “Know your aukaat.”

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It wasn’t about driving. It was about hierarchy. Her SUV demanded reverence; my modest Maruti had trespassed against its status. The dent was negligible, but humility wasn’t enough. She wasn’t guarding her car, but her rank.

I’ve always thought Chandigarh was different. A city of teachers, lawyers, doctors, civil servants — where dignity came from work, not wealth.

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I come from a “rajji hoi” family — middle-class, educated, reasonably accomplished. I know the rich can be vain, yet rarely have I seen class arrogance so naked in public. I was wrong.

Her fury — reducing me to “my aukaat” — wasn’t personal. It was distilled contempt: the belief that money grants virtue and command. Status symbols mustn’t just be preserved; they must humble others.

I apologised and complied silently. She demanded my papers like a cop, photographed my plate and face as if logging evidence. For a light tap, I was treated like a suspect. But behind her aggression was fear: without superiority, her identity was fragile. If we’re all equal, what remains of those who live by being above?

As I drove away, her voice lingered, but so did a quiet strength. She had the SUV, the fury, the photos. What she lacked, and could never seize, was my sense of self.

Sixty years have taught me this: dignity doesn’t drip from wealth. It rises from within — from knowing who you are, and never confusing riches with worth.

Manu Kant, Chandigarh

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