Luck is an invisible ancestor in every story.

It can put you in Switzerland, and not Syria. In Ambani’s house, and not a leaking room in Dharavi. In a family of doctors, and not in a family standing outside a traffic signal with a steel bowl and tired eyes.

Born on the same planet with the species under the same morning sun but with completely different starting lines.

And then we have the audacity to call everything merit. What a beautiful joke. The kind of joke only the privileged can tell with a straight face.

One child gets piano classes, coding classes, swimming classes, and a therapist who says, “How does that make you feel?” Another child gets a school bag heavier than his body, a father’s debt, and a mother who counts coins before buying milk. One child is told, “Follow your passion.” Another is told, “Bas ghar chala le.”

And years later, the first one writes LinkedIn posts about discipline.

Of course hard work matters. But hard work is easier when life has already given you a chair, a roof, English, safety, nutrition, contacts, confidence, and parents who know which forms to fill. The poor are not lazy. They are exhausted before the race begins.

Luck matters more than we mention it. And we don't mention it because it reduces the romance of our achievement. It reminds us that we are less self-made than we pretend.

So be proud of what you build, but stay humble about where you began.

Because somewhere, someone more talented than you is still waiting for the luck you were born with.