I was born in a very poor family. I used to sell tea in a railway

Host: The station was almost empty, except for the sound of rain tapping the iron roof and the occasional rattle of a distant train echoing through the fog. The air smelled of chai, of coal smoke, and of the faint metallic tang that comes from too many years of waiting.

A single dim bulb flickered over a small stall, its paint peeling, its sign barely legible. Steam rose from a battered kettle, curling upward in delicate spirals that caught the weak light before vanishing into the air.

Jack stood behind the counter, stirring tea with slow, deliberate movements. His hands were rough, his eyes steady — the look of a man who knew work not as duty, but as survival. Jeeny sat on an overturned crate nearby, her hair damp from the rain, her eyes watching him like someone trying to see not just the man, but the story beneath him.

Jeeny: softly “Narendra Modi once said, ‘I was born in a very poor family. I used to sell tea in a railway coach as a child. My mother used to wash utensils and do lowly household work in the houses of others to earn a livelihood. I have seen poverty very closely. I have lived in poverty. As a child, my entire childhood was steeped in poverty.’”

Jack: half-smiling, without looking up “Yeah. I know that story. The boy with the kettle, the man with the crown.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve thought about it a lot.”

Jack: “Maybe because I’ve lived some of it. Not the crown part.” He chuckles softly. “Just the kettle.”

Host: The rain picked up, a rhythmic hum that filled the silence between them. Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice warm but curious.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder how people like that — people born in scarcity — still find the strength to dream?”

Jack: “When you’re poor, dreaming isn’t a luxury. It’s oxygen. You dream because there’s nothing else left to hold on to.”

Jeeny: “But dreams don’t feed you.”

Jack: “No. But they keep you from starving inside.”

Host: He poured the tea into two small clay cups, the steam rising between them like a fragile bridge. Jeeny accepted hers with both hands, warming her palms, her eyes tracing the worn lines of his face.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how poverty shapes character?”

Jack: “Shapes it? It carves it. It takes everything soft out of you — then asks what’s left. You either become steel, or you break.”

Jeeny: “And which are you?”

Jack: after a pause “Depends on the day.”

Host: The station loudspeaker crackled, a voice announcing a delayed train in a language that neither of them really listened to. The world seemed paused between destinations.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s still carrying that childhood.”

Jack: “You don’t leave poverty, Jeeny. You just change its form. When you’re young, it’s hunger and cold. When you’re older, it’s fear — of going back, of losing everything again.”

Jeeny: “So it never ends.”

Jack: “Not really. You just learn to wear it better.”

Host: He sat down beside her, his hands wrapped around his cup, the heat seeping into his fingers. The smell of chai filled the air — ginger, sugar, survival.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How some people come from nothing and rise — not just out of it, but above it — while others get swallowed whole.”

Jack: “That’s because some people see poverty as a wall. Others see it as a mirror.”

Jeeny: softly “And what did you see?”

Jack: smiling faintly “At first, just the wall. Then, when I was older, I saw myself in it — small, hungry, scared — and realized I could climb it if I stopped pitying the reflection.”

Host: The wind blew, rattling the tin roof, scattering droplets through the open doorway. The tracks outside gleamed faintly under the rain — endless, stretching, indifferent.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Modi meant when he said he’d seen poverty closely. It’s not just about lacking money — it’s about learning what you can endure.”

Jack: “Exactly. Poverty’s not just a condition. It’s a teacher. A cruel one, but honest.”

Jeeny: “And what does it teach?”

Jack: “Gratitude. And grit. The two things most people lose when they have too much.”

Host: Jeeny sipped her tea slowly, eyes distant, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “Do you ever miss anything from that time?”

Jack: “Miss?” He chuckled. “I miss how simple things used to feel. One cup of tea could change your day. One good meal could make you believe in God again.”

Jeeny: “So happiness was smaller.”

Jack: “No. It was sharper.”

Host: The fire under the kettle sputtered, sending sparks into the damp air. Jack leaned forward, shielding it with his hands, coaxing it back to life.

Jeeny watched him — the way his hands moved, careful, practiced, reverent.

Jeeny: “It’s strange how we glorify poverty once we survive it. We call it humble beginnings, like it was romantic.”

Jack: “There’s nothing romantic about an empty stomach. But there’s something holy about remembering it — it keeps your pride in check.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? The thing that broke you also built you.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The train whistle sounded in the distance — long, lonely, familiar. They both turned toward the sound instinctively, as if it called to something older than memory.

Jeeny: “You ever think he — Modi — still hears that sound when he makes decisions? The whistle, the crowd, the echo of who he was?”

Jack: “Probably. You can take the man out of the railway station, but you can’t take the station out of the man. It’s in his pulse.”

Jeeny: “So is it in yours?”

Jack: nodding “Every time I build something, sell something, survive another day — I hear it. The sound of where I came from. Reminds me not to get soft.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the last drops falling like punctuation marks on the silence. The fire burned lower, the tea finished, but the warmth lingered.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, poverty might steal your childhood — but maybe it gives you something else too.”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “Vision. The ability to see what others overlook — the cracks, the needs, the people still waiting in the rain.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe that’s why the poor make better leaders — they remember the cold.”

Host: He stood, gathering the cups, his movements unhurried, as though every small act mattered. The light shifted — gray giving way to the first hint of dawn.

Jeeny watched him a long moment, then smiled quietly.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “You don’t hate the poverty you came from. You just haven’t forgiven it yet.”

Jack: after a pause, softly “Maybe. But every cup of tea I pour gets me closer.”

Host: The camera pulled back, capturing the small stall glowing faintly against the pale morning sky — a symbol of endurance, of quiet dignity.

Because Narendra Modi was right —
poverty, once lived, never leaves you.

It shapes your hands, your habits, your heart —
but it also sharpens your sight,
teaching you to find beauty in survival
and meaning in every humble thing.

And as the first train of the day roared into the station,
Jack and Jeeny stood side by side —
two souls remembering that sometimes,
the hardest beginnings
build the strongest voices.