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This article first appeared in Personal Wealth, The Edge Malaysia Weekly on October 30, 2017 - November 5, 2017

I have always had a prejudice against gold. Growing up I never saw it as a form of savings, but something materialistic, not to mention showy.

For ages, the shiny yellow metal has been part and parcel of every Indian household and mine was no different. Here is some trivia: Housewives in India held 11% of the world’s gold in 2011.

But to me, this “store of value” was simply an exemplification of old-fashioned ideas, social norms, strictures and traditions that I have had to put up with all my life.

It all really started when I was 12 and forced to sit through a ceremony — announcing to the world that I had attained puberty — that seemed to go on for ages. There I sat, clad in a heavy silk saree, replete with gold adornments that were enough to render one a hunchback for life.

Okay, I exaggerate, but for a carefree and fidgety young girl, not only was the entire saga rather embarrassing but I came to realise that the amount of gold I had been forced to wear was a symbol of status and wealth. To avoid coming under the piercing criticism of not being able to afford enough gold, my dutiful mother even borrowed some of the jewellery. The excuse was that it was a

symbol of dignity and self-worth.

Frankly, its mystique eluded me. What was all the fuss about? I made a silent pledge to never constrict myself to such frivolous and superficial nonsense.

I thought I had won the argument, but 22 years later, it was gold that had the last word. The very metal I had shunned so shamelessly and for so long came forward to save me.

I received a notification out of the blue that I would have to pay up the arrears of about RM5,000 for a study loan or face being blacklisted by the Immigration Department or worse, have legal action taken against me. The thing is, having faithfully paid whatever I could afford every month, I had not been aware that I was in arrears. Worse still, the notification came with no grace period for me to make the payment.

The situation threw me for a loop. It could not have come at a worse time. Having just cleaned out my savings and investments on my first property, how was I to settle this? My mind turned and turned upon the problem, but I just could not see a way out.

There I was, in the throes of utter desolation when my mother came to the rescue. She thrust a heavy and weathered pouch into my hands and casually told me, “Take it to the jewellers and see if all of this is enough to settle what you owe.”

It was. I love you, Amma!

For the first time, I was unsettled. There I had been, quietly congratulating myself for my more enlightened stance towards gold that I had failed to grasp the obvious. My simple homemaker mother, despite my constant admonishment and ridicule, had quietly built up a store of it with whatever little she had to spare at the end of each month as a bulwark against urgent need.

I was humbled and chastened. So I have started putting aside a portion of my money in gold. Unlike my mother, I do not buy trinkets. Instead, I invest in a gold fund. But potayto, potahto; it is the same thing with a funkier name.

I have quietly eaten my words and swallowed my pride. If something is passed down through the generations, there is probably a lot more to it than meets the eye. This much I have learnt — don’t laugh at housewives. When push comes to shove, they are probably a lot smarter than you are. And they will end up having the last laugh.

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