When we think of begging, we picture desperation. Hunger. Survival. A trembling hand stretched out not by choice, but by circumstance. And for most people living on the streets, that reality is painfully true.

But every few years, a story surfaces that disrupts this image — the story of the “crorepati beggar.” A man with property. A bank balance. Rental income. Sometimes even a car. And yet, he continues to beg.

The public reaction is immediate: shock, anger, disbelief. How can someone worth crores still ask for alms? Is this greed? Habit? Exploitation? Or is the truth more complicated than our outrage allows?

Two names often appear in these debates.

Bharat Jain from Mumbai is frequently described in media reports as one of India’s wealthiest beggars. According to reports by The Economic Times, Times of India, and Hindustan Times, Jain reportedly owns property worth around ₹7.5 crore. He owns a flat in Parel and shops in Thane that generate rental income. Yet he continues to beg at high-traffic locations like Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus (CSMT), earning between ₹2,000 and ₹2,500 per day.

Then there is Mangilal from Indore, whose story resurfaced in January 2026 during Indore’s “Beggar-Free” mission. Media outlets, including The CSR Journal, The New Indian Express, and News24, reported that Mangilal allegedly owns multiple houses, auto-rickshaws, and even a car, while also running a money-lending business funded by his daily alms.

These stories disturb us because they challenge a moral framework we rely on: that charity flows from privilege to need. When that line blurs, trust fractures.

But how does this even happen? How do ₹10 and ₹20 coins accumulate into crores?

Economically, the explanation is less mysterious than it seems. A person begging in a high-footfall urban area can earn ₹1,000–₹2,500 per day. Over a month, that may total ₹30,000–₹75,000 — often untaxed and largely free of major living expenses, as food and clothing are sometimes provided by temples, charities, or donors. When living costs are low and income is steady, savings accumulate quickly. Some individuals invest this money in small properties or informal lending, allowing compounding growth over the years.

This does not mean most beggars are wealthy. In fact, research consistently shows that the vast majority of people who beg do so due to homelessness, disability, migration distress, lack of employment opportunities, or systemic exclusion. The crorepati cases are outliers — but powerful ones.

Psychologically, the situation becomes even more complex. For some, begging may shift from a survival strategy to a behavioural habit. When a daily routine yields high returns with relatively low entry barriers, it can become difficult to abandon — even if financial stability has been achieved. What begins as a necessity can slowly transform into a normalised occupation.

There is also a darker side. Law enforcement agencies and social workers have documented organised begging rackets in several Indian cities. Vulnerable individuals — including children and persons with disabilities — are sometimes exploited by syndicates that control territories and collect earnings. In such cases, the issue is not individual greed but organised coercion and criminal networks.

The real damage of sensational “rich beggar” headlines may not be financial — it may be social. Each viral story risks eroding public trust. When people begin to suspect that every outstretched hand hides hidden wealth, genuine need suffers. Compassion becomes cautious. Donations shrink. And the poorest — those without property, networks, or savings — pay the price.

This is why policy responses have shifted from punishment to rehabilitation.

The Government of India’s SMILE Scheme (Support for Marginalised Individuals for Livelihood and Enterprise), launched by the Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment, aims to move beyond criminalisation. Instead of simply removing beggars from streets, it focuses on identification, shelter, healthcare, skill development, and reintegration into mainstream livelihoods. The goal is long-term dignity, not temporary displacement.

Experts increasingly advocate for what is called “conscious charity.” This does not mean withholding compassion. It means directing it wisely. Supporting verified NGOs. Contributing to rehabilitation programs. Donating food, clothing, or services instead of unrestricted cash. Ensuring that help empowers rather than sustains dependency or exploitation.

At its core, the crorepati beggar phenomenon forces us to confront uncomfortable questions.

Is poverty always visible?
Is wealth always ethical?
And can charity survive suspicion?

The truth lies somewhere between outrage and denial. Yes, rare cases of financially stable individuals continuing to beg do exist. Yes, exploitation networks operate in some cities. But overwhelming data still shows that most people on the streets are not there by choice — they are there because systems failed them.

If we let extreme examples define the whole narrative, we risk abandoning those who genuinely need support.

Compassion should not be blind — but neither should it be cynical.

The challenge before us is not to stop caring. It is to care intelligently.

Because in the end, a society is not judged by how loudly it exposes fraud — but by how consistently it protects the vulnerable.

REFERENCES

• The Economic Times. “Meet Bharat Jain: How he turned pennies into a fortune.”
• Times of India. “Bharat Jain: A net worth of ₹7.5 crore.”
• Hindustan Times. “Mumbai’s wealthiest beggar and his property details.”
• The CSR Journal. “Indore’s ‘Crorepati Beggar’ who owns 3 homes and a Dzire.”
• The New Indian Express. “Elderly beggar at Indore's Sarafa Bazaar turns out to be crorepati.”
• News24. “Meet Mangilal: The beggar running a money-lending business.”
• Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment, Government of India. SMILE Scheme Guidelines and Official Portal.

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