The Brass Pot

The Brass Pot and the Billionaire

A tale of greed, guilt, and the awakening of a buried conscience

BY: Ubaid
---

Long ago, in a bustling city, there lived a wealthy merchant named Faqir Chand. He was the richest man in town — and also its stingiest. His plump belly jutted out like a ball, his short legs shuffled beneath it, and when he walked, it looked as if a football were rolling down the street.

Faqir Chand’s wife, however, was a kind and generous soul. Every Tuesday, she distributed flour to the city’s poor — the blind, the crippled, the hungry. On those days, the gates of their grand mansion would be crowded with beggars waiting for her alms.

The merchant despised this habit but dared not object openly, out of respect for his wife. Once, he tried reasoning with her.

“These beggars waste your charity,” he grumbled. “They sell the flour for a few coins, smoke opium, and laugh at our foolishness.”

His wife smiled gently. “It is because of this giving, Faqir Chand, that God has blessed us with wealth. Have you forgotten the days when you had nothing?”

Faqir Chand winced. He hated being reminded of his poor past. He fancied himself a man of noble lineage — not one who once pawned his belongings to survive.

Like most rich men, he was obsessed with making more money. His warehouses overflowed with rice, sugar, salt, oil, and grains. When prices rose, he rejoiced; when they fell, he lost his sleep and appetite.

Then one year, the rains failed. Drought spread across the land. Crops died, and the price of food shot up. Faqir Chand saw his chance and stopped selling grain altogether, waiting for prices to soar even higher. His wife’s weekly charity was also stopped — not a grain of flour left the mansion gates.

One morning, while he was enjoying his breakfast and puffing his hookah, a poor man appeared. Folding his hands humbly, he said,
“May you live long, Sethji! My children are starving. Please spare a few handfuls of chickpeas. I will feed them and pray for you forever.”

Faqir Chand glared at him. “Get out! I will not give you a single grain.”

The man left quietly. But the next morning, he returned — holding a small brass pot in his hand.

Before the merchant could shout again, the man spoke calmly.
“Sethji, perhaps you don’t recognize me. But maybe you recognize this pot? Look — your name is engraved on it: Faqir Chand, son of Ghasit Chand. Twenty years ago, when you came to this city penniless, you pawned this very pot to me for four annas. You even wrote a receipt in your own hand.”

The color drained from Faqir Chand’s face. He quickly looked around to make sure no one was listening.
“Yes, yes, I remember now,” he muttered nervously. “You did the right thing bringing it back. Here, take four annas and give me my pot.”

The man laughed softly. “Four annas? Sethji, the world has changed in twenty years. When you pawned this pot, you were a beggar. Now you’re a millionaire. How can the price remain the same?”

“Fine,” snapped Faqir Chand, “take five rupees!”

The man twirled the pot in his fingers. “Oh no, Sethji. I think I’ll auction it in the bazaar. Imagine — ‘The brass pot once pawned by the great merchant Faqir Chand!’ I’m sure it will fetch at least a thousand rupees. The whole city will learn how its richest man once pawned a pot for four annas.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the stunned merchant speechless.

That night, Faqir Chand could not eat or sleep. His mind burned with shame and fear. What if the man really told everyone? What if people discovered that the mighty merchant had once been a beggar?

His past came flooding back — the hunger, the long walks, the hopeless search for work. He had indeed pawned his only possession, a brass pot, just to buy a meal. Later, through hard work, he became a clerk for a wealthy trader. But greed had crept into his soul. When his master died, Faqir Chand secretly stole a pouch of gold and used it to start his own business. From that one dishonest act grew the empire he now owned.

The next morning, unable to bear the anxiety any longer, he went to the poor man’s shop — a small, broken stall on the edge of the market. The brass pot hung from the ceiling on a piece of rope.

“Ramu,” he said quietly, “I’ll pay you a thousand rupees. Just give me back the pot.”

Ramu smiled sadly. “Sethji, you don’t have to pay me anything. I will return your pot freely. But listen — I am not as foolish as you think. I only wanted to remind you who you once were. You were a poor man like me. Now you hoard grain while people starve. You care more for your pride than for human life.”

Faqir Chand lowered his head. “What do you want me to do?”

“Save the starving,” Ramu said. “That is your duty. That is real wealth.”

The merchant’s eyes filled with tears. “You are right, Ramu. You’ve opened my eyes.”

That very day, Faqir Chand ordered his warehouses opened. For a whole week, he distributed food freely to the poor. He also donated money and clothes to the needy. His act of generosity inspired other merchants in the city to do the same.

His wife rejoiced. The poor blessed his name. But only one man knew the true reason behind this miracle — Ramu, and the brass pot that had awakened a miser’s buried humanity.


---

Moral: True wealth lies not in gold and silver, but in compassion and remembrance of where we came from.