Muran 5 : Richest girl i know

Richest Girl I Know

    On my first day of college, my father dropped me at the hostel, said, “Be good,” and left. I was eighteen, joining RVS College of Engineering — chosen not for its reputation or course, but for one reason alone: I got to stay in a hostel far from home.

    For the first time, I could breathe, speak, and exist without fear or judgment.
It felt less like moving out and more like being born again.

    Most kids form a sense of self when they’re two — that’s why it’s called the terrible twos. For me, it happened at eighteen — that age when you think you know everything about the world, love, people, society, and yourself.

Why, you ask? 

Let me introduce you to my father.

He was called the Hitler of our area — not just by me and my brothers, but by everyone within shouting distance.
And no, this isn’t a Santhosh Subramaniam kind of strictness; this was Emdan Magan level tyranny.

    Mental torture, verbal abuse, physical violence — you name it.
He’d hit us with anything — belts, ladles, even cooker lids. Once, when I was eight, he scared me with a hot iron rod for lying. I never lied again.

       We weren’t allowed to have opinions, fun, likes/dislikes, or allowed to rest. Respect had to be earned, and even then, the best you got was less yelling.

When I once scored 98 out of 100, he only asked, “What about the other two marks?”

    Don’t get me wrong — he was a good man, a responsible provider, just not a good father. He was disciplined, honest, had no debts, no drinking, no parties. He did what he believed was right. He just didn’t know how to love us. He lived his life for the family, but never with the family.

Now u get the gist, back to day one at college.

I sat with this unfamiliar sense of freedom. I was so excited. That’s when I met my roommate for the next four years: Veera.

Veera was naïve and quiet, the kind of girl you had to lean in to hear. She was from the same town as me and was a school topper.
She once said, “I just want to make my dad happy.”
My mind voice went, Same here — like I even have a choice.

The first weekend, she was homesick — we both were.
It was my first time away from home, too. We went back together.
My dad wasn’t happy to see me. He asked, “Why did you come back so soon?”

I didn’t know what I felt — shame, worthlessness, something heavy and nameless.
Weeks passed. Veera went home every weekend; I didn’t. I wasn’t wanted there anyway.

One evening, we talked about our dreams.
“I want to be rich,” I said. “Make money, live free.”
She smiled. “Me too.”
We giggled and pinky-promised to make it big someday.

Our circle grew — a gang of boys and girls from our town.
During a festival, we all decided to travel together. On the bus, there was one seat left beside a friend who was a boy.
I hesitated — What will people say? What if someone tells my dad?

Before I could decide, Veera took the empty seat next to him, offered me hers. I was grateful. Later, I asked, “What if your dad finds out?”
Her answer left me stunned. Was this the same quiet Veera?

Then came our first-semester results. I failed math. My heart sank.
My father’s face flashed before my eyes — rage, belt, silence.

I wasn’t alone, though. Half the class had failed — even Veera. Two subjects, for a topper like her, was unthinkable.
She broke down, crying uncontrollably. “How could I let this happen? How will I tell Appa?”

I tried to console her. “It’s okay, paathukalam. Worst case, you’ll get a few scoldings.” I thought her dad would be much stricter than mine.
She looked at me through tears. “No, my dad would never scold me. I’m crying because I disappointed him.”

That’s when she shared her story, unfiltered.

Her father ran a tiny petti kadai. They lived and slept inside the shop — she on a rice sack, her brother on another. There wasn’t even room to stretch their legs.
But what they lacked in space, they made up for in love.

“He made us laugh every night,” she said softly.
“Whatever little food we had, we shared together. He’s never even frowned at me. I’m his treasure, his top priority.
He believes in me completely. Even if I fail, he’ll still love me the same.
I just don’t want to let him down.”

I was speechless. So this kind of love does exist.

That’s when I finally understood her courage that day on the bus.
She wasn’t fearless — she was trusted.
That trust gave her wings.

Her answer echoed in my head:
‘My dad trusts me. If someone said something bad about me, he’d tell them, “I know my daughter.”’

She never broke that trust.

I used to think — if only my dad were rich, I’d be treated like a princess too.
But I was wrong.

You don’t have to be a king to treat your daughter like a princess.
You just have to be a king at heart.

That day, Veera’s dad changed me.

I realized being broke is temporary — but being poor is a mindset.
I wanted to earn money to be loved.
She wanted to earn money because she was loved.

And that made all the difference.
That day became a core memory — proof that love has nothing to do with money.