Humble Braggarts

Lofty Lessons from Warren Buffet and the Sudha Murthy School of Humility

So, here I am, sitting in a three-day workshop by Rajiv Talreja, the kind of event that promises to transform you into a money-making machine if only you listen hard enough and nod at the right moments. Somewhere between the lecture on “networking your way to nirvana” and “how to hustle harder without losing your soul,” the conversation takes a sudden turn towards Warren Buffet.

Ah, Warren Buffet. The man, the myth, the legend. The billionaire who lives in the same humble house he bought in 1958, who eats burgers with Pepsi like he’s America’s granddad at a summer barbecue. It reminded me of Sudha Murthy and her famous steel tumbler—every story I’ve heard about her involves her carrying that tumbler around, a symbol of her no-frills approach to life, even when she’s chatting with global leaders or dodging starstruck Tata employees.

But before I could mentally put on my cape and embark on a hero worship spree, basking in the glory of these paragons of humility, a voice piped up from somewhere in the back of the room. “Yes, of course, but let’s not forget,” the voice said, dripping with a mix of skepticism and just the right amount of shade, “ the humble old automobile is ferries him from his flat to the aerodrome, Mr. Buffet travels business class. And when he’s out most of the time, which is like 20 days a month, he checks into a five-star hotel.”

And there it was, the unvarnished truth. Warren Buffet, the grounded man who eats his burger with Pepsi… does it because his PR team probably told him it’s relatable. Let’s be real: when you have more billions than you have grey hairs, you don’t have to be humble. You choose to be, or more accurately, you hire a team to make it look like you’re choosing to be. Because nothing says “I’m just like you” to the average Joe — like jetting off to your next business meeting from the comforts of a premium cabin, legs fully extended, sipping on something far better than Pepsi.

You see, the secret to being seen as humble when you’re a billionaire isn’t in the things you do, but in the things you don’t show. Like how many times Buffet probably swipes that Black Card for a suite at the Ritz because, honestly, who’s counting? It’s like that steel tumbler Sudha Murthy carries around—sure, it’s great for photo ops and TED talks, but I’m pretty sure she’s not sipping roadside chai out of it every single day.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the fine art of public perception management. Warren Buffet’s burger and Pepsi combo isn’t a diet plan; it’s a brand strategy. He could probably afford to bathe in Cristal if he wanted to, but what’s the point? No one connects with a man who turns every meal into a scene from “The Great Gatsby.” Instead, he eats like your dad at a tailgate, and suddenly, he’s everyone’s favorite billionaire uncle. You know, the one who might just toss you a casual stock tip at Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, I’m here, trying to figure out if this workshop has snacks, because I can’t get through another hour of this without at least a biscuit. I’m looking around the room at all the eager faces, each one nodding like a dashboard bobblehead, convinced that they too can become the next Warren Buffet if they just believe hard enough and remember to keep their LinkedIn profiles updated.

But the truth is, they won’t. Most of us won’t. Because the secret sauce isn’t in the frugality or the thrift—it’s in the narrative. It’s in getting people to buy into the idea that you’re not just wealthy, you’re wise. That you don’t just have money, you have values. And nothing sells that better than a story about eating burgers in a modest little house you could probably buy and sell ten times over in your sleep.

So here’s to Warren Buffet, the man who made billions by making people believe he was just like them, only smarter. Here’s to Sudha Murthy, who can carry a steel tumbler with the same gravitas most of us reserve for our smartphones. And here’s to me, just trying to make it through this workshop without losing my sanity—or my lunch money.

In the end, maybe there’s a lesson in all this. Maybe the true path to success isn’t about being frugal or humble, but about being able to sell those traits as if they’re rarer than diamonds. And maybe, just maybe, if I sit through this workshop for two more days, I’ll finally learn how to do that. Or at least figure out where they’re hiding the good snacks.