India, Dec. 15 -- "It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor," said Seneca, the Roman philosopher in the first century. I once believed richness was the rustle of crisp notes, the gleam of gold bangles, the scent of a freshly polished car. My definition sat locked inside bank vaults and velvet boxes. Then life - with its sly grin and gentle cruelty - peeled away that illusion, like gilt paper revealing an empty box. It was a monsoon morning when the truth began to stir. The rain had washed the sky till it shone like polished glass; clouds drifted lazily, the kind a child might draw with a blue crayon and an unsteady hand. I walked through the old park, where gulmohar trees leaned over like kindly elders, their scarlet flowers scattering across the wet ground. The grass squelched underfoot with a satisfying softness, the scent of earth rising in rich, loamy waves. On a mossy bench sat an old man, his shirt frayed at the collar, his sandals barely held together by stubborn straps. Yet his eyes danced like temple bells in a breeze. A squirrel darted near his feet, and he laughed, not the polite, measured chuckle of drawing rooms, but the free, tumbling laughter of a child chasing a kite. I hesitated, then sat beside him. "You seem very happy," I ventured. He tilted his head towards the banyan tree, where the first sunbeam of the day spilled through like molten gold. "I woke up today," he said. "I can see, I can walk, I can pray. What else could I possibly want?" His words landed on me like the gentle patter of rain - soft, persistent, impossible to ignore. I was reminded of Kabir's lines: "Moko kahan dhunde re bande, main to tere paas mein (Why search for me elsewhere when I'm right here beside you?)." That day, wealth slipped out of my bankbook and into my senses. Richness was no longer in coins, but in the moments that made the soul hum: The curl of steam from my morning tea, the sudden hug from my niece smelling faintly of marigold oil, the koel's dusk call slicing through stillness. I've known people with palatial homes whose hearts are as hollow as unstruck gongs. And I've known a street vendor, his pockets lighter than a falling leaf, who sings bhajans at dawn with a devotion that could light a thousand lamps. It struck me then - peace, calm, and health are the paramount treasures. Without them, even a mountain of gold feels like a paperweight on the soul. Happiness is the new rich, contentment the rarest jewel. The philosopher, Epictetus, said, "Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants." It is the truth age gifts us, if only we listen. Rich is the one whose mind dances at every sight of God, whose laughter spills childlike, unchained by worry. Now, my definition of wealth has shifted from safes to the sky, from possession to perception. I no longer count my worth in what I own, but in how lightly I can carry my days. So, when someone asks if I'm rich, I smile. I think of peace wrapping my heart like a soft shawl, of health that lets me climb my favourite hill without the breath breaking into ragged pieces, of nights when sleep arrives unhurried and whole....