God, Who Is Lucky?

It was one of those busy, restless evenings in Mumbai—where traffic honks are a language of their own, and every soul seems to be chasing something. Fourteen-year-old Riyan Mehta was walking back from his coaching class, schoolbag swinging behind him, earbuds tucked in. His mind was a cocktail of stress: math homework, an upcoming science test, and the silent tension brewing at home between his parents.

As he reached the narrow lane that led to his society, he saw him again—the barefoot man sitting under the banyan tree near the old temple, just across the street. Riyan saw him almost every day. He wore the same faded kurta, sat on the same ragged mat, and always, always smiled at people passing by.

People called him Lucky Baba.

No one knew his real name. Some said he was once a professor who lost everything in a fire. Others claimed he’d been abandoned by his family. But whatever his past was, his present looked like the kind most people feared: homeless, poor, forgotten. Yet, the smile never left his face.

That evening, something made Riyan stop.

Maybe it was the weight of his thoughts. Maybe it was the man’s calm eyes, or maybe, just maybe, it was fate.

“Hello, beta,” the man greeted warmly, as if they’d known each other for years.

Riyan hesitated, then smiled back.

“You’re the one people call Lucky, right?” he asked curiously.

The man chuckled. “That’s what they say. Though I always wonder what they mean by it.”

“Well… it’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?” Riyan replied honestly. “I mean… you’re not exactly living the kind of life people call lucky.”

The man nodded slowly, and then asked the question that would live in Riyan’s mind for years.

“Tell me something, child. Between you and me—who do you think God considers lucky?”

Riyan blinked. “God?”

“Yes. God sees everything, doesn’t He? So who would He call the lucky one—you, with your bag full of books, or me, with nothing but the sky above me?”

Riyan was caught off guard. He had never thought about his life that way.

“I guess… me?” he answered uncertainly. “I have food, family, a home. You…”

“Don’t,” Lucky said calmly, finishing his sentence. “True. But I also don’t have anxiety, deadlines, or people expecting me to be someone else. I have the freedom to be—just be.”

Riyan frowned. “But don’t you want a house? A job? A family?”

“Of course,” the man said. “I’ve wanted all of that before. But when I lost everything, I realized something. Everyone prays to God asking for more—more money, more time, more respect. But I started praying for less—less pain, less worry, less confusion. And eventually, I found something most people are still chasing: peace.”

The words hit Riyan like a wave. His family was wealthy. He had all the gadgets, went to a good school, ate three meals a day—and yet, peace was something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

The man looked at him gently. “Tell me, beta—do you feel lucky?”

Riyan hesitated. “I… I don’t know. I keep comparing myself with others. Smarter kids. Richer friends. I always feel like I’m behind.”

Lucky Baba nodded knowingly. “That’s the disease of this generation. Comparison. You all run, run, and run, thinking the one ahead of you is better off. But the truth is, even that person is looking at someone else. And in the end, no one feels lucky.”

He reached into his cloth bag and took out a small, old notebook—its pages yellowed, corners curled.

“I want to show you something,” he said, flipping it open. On one of the pages was written, in neat handwriting:

“A man who finds joy in what he has is richer than a king who always wants more.”

Riyan read it twice.

“That’s mine,” Lucky said. “Wrote it when I had lost everything. It became my truth.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city humming in the background like a distant reminder of a race neither of them was running.

Riyan finally asked, “Do you believe in God?”

Lucky looked up at the fading sky. “I do. But not the one who only listens in temples or churches. I believe in the God who lives in people’s hearts. The one who teaches you lessons through strangers. The one who asks, not for rituals—but for kindness.”

Riyan felt something shift inside him. This man, who had no home, no money, no security—was teaching him the most important lesson he’d ever learned. Not from a book. Not from a teacher. But from life itself.

As he stood up to leave, Lucky smiled again and said, “Next time someone asks you who is lucky, don’t look at their clothes, their car, or their bank account. Look at their peace. Look at their joy. That’s where real luck lives.”

Riyan walked home that evening slower than usual, the noise of the city fading behind him. When he reached, his mother scolded him for being late, and his father asked about his grades. But for once, Riyan didn’t feel the pressure.

He looked at his dinner plate, at the roof above his head, at the quiet sound of the fan spinning.

And he smiled.

Moral of the Story:

Luck is not found in what you own, but in how you live. Peace, gratitude, and presence are the true blessings of life. Ask not “What more can I have?”—ask “How can I appreciate what I already have?”