In the serene tranquillity of the well-manicured and landscaped neighbourhood park, rightly named the Rock Garden in Greater Kailash 2, New Delhi, time seemed to slow down. Birds chirped without urgency, the sun filtered softly through the canopy of ancient gulmohar trees, and early morning walkers—mostly seventy plus like me—ambled around with the rhythm of a slow waltz. This was my sanctuary. And waiting faithfully at the park’s iron gate every morning was my Jeeves—my companion, assistant, and, in many ways, the lifeline to my fragile old-age routine.
Jeeves, not his real name but the one I had christened him with after the famous butler from Wodehouse’s world, was nothing like the literary Jeeves. He was paunchy, completely illiterate, wore shoes gifted by Richie rich for whom he would do errands like buying milk, bread and eggs from close by shops , and had the uncanny knack of observing people, gauging moods, and drawing his own understanding and perceptions about the person.
That morning seemed like any other. I had just completed my second round around the park, using my walking stick and support of Jeeves, my stick rhythmically tapping against the cobbled path. I paused to catch my breath on our favourite bench—the one that faced the trees and greenery, where I could see the big rock after which perhaps the park was named.. As I sat down, I overheard two young finance professionals, who were regulars in the park, discussing something in urgent, hushed tones.
“Did you check the market?” one said to the other, looking distressed.
“Yeah. It’s bad. It’s really bad. Everything’s down,” the second replied, swiping furiously at his phone.
They walked past without noticing me, still glued to their screens. They knew me well and we would often discuss the nation’s economy and Jeeves was witness to it. I, a senior citizen with wide interests not only in ginger tea and samosas but also stocks and upcoming IPOs, naturally assumed they were talking about the stock market. I mentally shrugged and dismissed it as routine market chatter.
Just then, Jeeves appeared, unusually subdued. His face, normally animated with questions about the day's lunch or my blood pressure, was pale and grim.
“What’s wrong, Jeeves?” I asked.
He hesitated, then leaned closer and whispered, “Sahab… woh… market band ho raha hai.” (साहब...वो...मार्केट बंद हो रहा है)
I stared at him blankly. “Which market?”
He scratched his head, looked around, and said, “Bank market, sahab. They said sab band hone waala hai. I put all my money in bank last week, as you told. Remember, you had opened the bank account for me.”
It took me a second to process what he meant. Only three days ago, I had taken Jeeves to the bank to open his first-ever savings account, proudly helping him deposit ₹1,00,000 that he had collected from years of working for various households. He had insisted on bringing the entire amount in cash, tied in a red cloth bag, and had kissed the passbook when the transaction was done.
“But who told you the bank is shutting?” I asked, trying to remain calm.
“Those two boys in the park. They were saying market down, market crashing. My friend Raju heard it too. He is guard at ATM. He said sab log bol rahe hain—money not safe.”
Before I could explain that “market” in finance jargon doesn’t always mean bank closure, it was too late.
Raju, the overzealous security guard, had already spread the word. Like the flap of a butterfly’s wings turning into a storm, this casual misunderstanding snowballed into a full-fledged rumour tsunami. Within hours, word had spread like wildfire: "Banks are shutting down! Withdraw your money immediately!"
By afternoon, the capital city turned into a scene from a thriller film. Long queues coiled outside bank branches. People fought over withdrawal slips. Elderly customers were dragged by panicking sons and daughters to empty their life savings. Rumours on WhatsApp ranged from “RBI has declared emergency” to “New currency coming overnight.”
A local news outlet got wind of the commotion and sent a reporter. They interviewed an anxious elderly woman holding her passbook to her chest like a talisman. She declared, “I heard from a friend’s maid’s cousin who works at a bank that everything is crashing!”
Within minutes, the story was live on TV. Breaking News- Financial collapse imminent.
Panel discussions followed. Economists debated the causes. Politicians issued statements urging calm. Even the Chief Minister had to issue a press release, reassuring people that all banks were safe and functional.
But it was too late—the damage was done.
While the city drowned in economic paranoia, Jeeves saw an opportunity.
In a quiet lane not far from the park, a small one-bedroom flat had been on the market for months. The owner, caught in the storm of uncertainty, feared the worst. Property rates had dipped almost overnight.
“Sahab, that uncle selling flat. He asked ₹30 lakhs before. Now he is asking ₹15 lakhs!” Jeeves said, eyes gleaming.
I tried to talk him out of it. “Jeeves, don't rush. This is temporary panic. Prices will rise again.”
But Jeeves had made up his mind. He cajoled me to give him money which he said he would return in due course which meant he may not do so. He withdrew his money too from bank—yes, every rupee—and bought the flat in cash, grinning as he signed the sale deed with a thumb impression.
Just days later, things began to settle. The stock market bounced back. RBI issued clarifications. Banks remained open. And WhatsApp forwards quietly stopped. Like all mass hysteria, the panic passed. People went back to work. Tea shops returned to gossiping about cricket instead of stocks.
And Jeeves?
He had doubled his wealth in less than a week. That ₹15 lakh flat now had buyers offering ₹35lakhs.
He walked into the park one morning, chest puffed out, holding a newspaper featuring his photo.
Headline: “Uneducated Worker’s Gut Call Outshines MBAs”
Suddenly, the media branded Jeeves as a “grassroots economic savant.” He became a darling of national TV debates. Financial influencers broke down his "strategy" using S-curves and behavioural economics. A national business channel ran a segment titled:
“Wisdom of the Streets: What Jeeves Can Teach Wall Street.”
Cambridge University, sensing global buzz, invited him to deliver a guest lecture.
He wore his best kurta, flew to the UK, and stood silently at the podium, smiling. The audience waited for words of insight.
He finally said, “Paisa kaise bana rupaiya muje nahin maloom. Sab uppar wale ki meharbanee hai.” (पैसा कैसे बना रुपैया मुझे नहीं मालूम। सब ऊपर वाले की महरबानी है)
The room erupted in applause.
It was an illusion—a comedy of misunderstanding that morphed into an economic case study. The Nobel Committee, desperate to remain relevant, awarded an American economist the Nobel Prize for mapping the “Jeeves Effect” in emerging economies.
Back home, Jeeves became a folk hero. School textbooks added a chapter on his “timely investment.” The finance minister quoted him in the budget speech.
And me?
I just laughed. Every morning, I’d walk to the park with my stick, still leaning, but not from old age—from the weight of irony.
The mirage of the world, its intricate entanglements, unfolded in this gripping tale. As Nobel laureates in physics of 2022 asserted, reality itself is a mirage, and my Jeeves, a humble man with no formal education, found himself at the centre of a grand illusion, proving that experts can be superficial and can be fooled by person with no formal education, born anywhere, even in the unlikeliest of places. It was not education, not pedigree, not analysis, but a misheard conversation in a park that triggered this tsunami. Sometimes, the world rewards not intelligence, but innocent misunderstanding wrapped in confidence. And sometimes, that’s enough to earn you a Padma Shri—or even a place in history.
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