The Envelope on the Table (878 words)

 

Raghav was rummaging through an old box in his home in San Diego. He was to leave for India in a week for his wedding to Anupama. Among the papers and keepsakes, he found the small book of Sri Vishnu Sahasranamam that Raju mama (Uncle) had given him when he was twelve years old. He had always preserved it as a priceless possession.

His mind drifted back to those days in Chennai. The book had been a simple, pocket-sized notebook, costing less than a rupee back then. Raju mama had distributed it freely to all the children in the colony who attended his classes. Every evening at 6 p.m. sharp, they would assemble in mama’s house to recite the slokas. Before long, none of them needed the book anymore, as they had committed the verses to memory.

A strict disciplinarian, mama would get upset if anyone came late, yet every session ended with candies, raisins, or small plantains for the children. Beneath his stern exterior lay a soft heart. He quietly helped many poor children with tuition fees and books, though he never spoke of it. Only his wife would occasionally confide these things to Raghav’s mother. Even though he had a son in a high position up North, he never left Chennai or his simple routines. He was well-versed. in Valmiki’s Ramayanam and could quote profusely and aptly from it. He never talked about himself or his generous acts.

Raghav decided that once he reached Chennai, he would personally invite Raju mama. He had lost touch even when he was in school, after his father was transferred from the city. Life had taken him to Delhi, then IIT, and finally to the US for his MS and doctorate.

 Only a fortnight earlier, he had unexpectedly obtained Raju mama’s email ID from a childhood friend from their Sahasranama group. Unsure if he would be remembered, he had written immediately, narrating one vivid incident, how, on a day of torrential rain, no one had turned up for the recitation except himself, soaked from head to foot. He still remembered mama scolding him for coming in the storm, then fetching a towel to dry gently his hair. The next day, mama had praised his devotion in front of the group.

To his delight, Uncle wrote back saying he remembered both the incident and Raghav’s face. They exchanged a couple of warm emails, and Raghav shared the news of his upcoming wedding. Mama blessed him and said he looked forward to meeting him and receiving the invitation.

Raghav landed in Chennai that morning. His parents had already arrived from Delhi, and many relatives were gathered at home. He wanted to meet Raju mama that very evening, but his parents insisted he accompany them for some shopping.

The next morning, he took the wedding invitation, the gifts he had brought for Uncle, and some sweets, and drove to the old colony he had lived in more than fifteen years earlier. The houses looked almost the same, with only a few additions in front. As the car stopped outside his old block and he stepped out with the packets in hand, he noticed a small crowd gathered near the entrance. Something about the scene felt ominous.

He approached an elderly gentleman and asked, though he already knew, which flat belonged to Raju mama. Noticing the invitation and sweets, the man hesitated, then said gently,

“Don’t you know? Raju passed away last night. It was a massive attack, and he passed away even before any medical aid. May I know who you are?”

Raghav, stunned, replied that he was an old student and resident of the colony. He asked if mami was home.

“Yes, she is inside,” the man said. “Poor mami… she is devastated.”

Raghav returned to the car, left the gifts behind, and went upstairs. Mami was seated near mama’s head. Mama looked much older, but the sharp features he remembered were still there. Raghav went to her, tears streaming down his face.

“Mami, I’m Raghav. Do you remember me? I had told Uncle I would meet him… I should have come yesterday. It’s my misfortune that I missed seeing him.”

She nodded, wiping her eyes.

“Even last evening he was talking about you,” she said. “He wrote something on a piece of paper and left a sealed envelope for you on the table. When I asked what it was, he brushed aside my question and only said I should give it to you. When I told him he could hand it over himself, he didn’t answer. It feels as though he had a premonition.”

Mami wept again as Raghav tried to console her. After a while, she walked to the table and handed him the envelope. He slipped it silently into his pocket.

It was only the next day that he opened it. Inside was a small note and a five-hundred-rupee note.

“Dear Raghav,

My blessings to you. I am afraid I may not be able to attend your wedding. Please accept my best wishes and this small token of my affection. I still remember your young face that evening in the rain. You made me very happy that day….”

Raju mama

 

The Shadows from the Past (1039 words)

The resort was nestled amidst the verdant plantations and the undulating green plains. Their room was overlooking the lush garden with flowers of different hues. It had been drizzling since last night, and the morning sun was not yet visible. Pranesh and Praveena snuggled together on the sofa and were sipping tea. They were married just a week earlier. The ambience was peaceful and ideal for newlyweds on their honeymoon.

Just then, the phone rang. She rose to pick it from the bed. A voice, in almost a whisper, said, “Praveena, don’t be shocked. This is Vijay, your forgotten and ditched lover. It was by chance that Reddy told me of your marriage to some well-heeled bloke and your honeymoon trip. Sorry, I forgot. Hearty congratulations. I wish to meet you and your hubby to greet you in person. I know where you are staying” 

“Hmm………thanks……………,” she could not say anything more with Pranesh watching her. 

“Dear, do not be scared. I will never harm you. You were so generous with your love in the past. I would be an ungrateful wretch to put you in any difficulty. I just need a tiny help to get over some pressing financial problems. I need one lakh rupees immediately. Pity you didn’t have a computer, and you wrote by hand all your passionate and romantic letters. Keep the money ready. I forgot to hand over your letters after you parted from me. I will bring them for sure. I am unable to forget you easily after our intimacy, “Vijay said in a soft voice. 

But she knew the viper had returned to bite her by blackmail. She looked at the sofa and found to her immense relief that Pranesh had gone to bath bathroom. 

“Look here, Vijay. I cannot talk much now. I have no money to give. I beg of you to leave me alone and not harm me’ she pleaded with him 

“Sweetie, I am told he is a rich guy. If you cannot pay, I will talk to him and make an honourable deal for the exchange of letters to the sum I need by tomorrow. How you play your cards is up to you,” he seemed adamant. 

As she was beseeching him with her pleas for mercy, Pranesh came out of the bathroom and asked her,” Who was on the line?” 

“One of my friends. He couldn’t attend our wedding. He wished to greet us in person. I told him we are away on honeymoon,” she replied 

“Ask him to attend the reception on Sunday at the hotel,” he said. Rushing suddenly towards her, he snatched the phone and said, “This is Pranesh, Praveena’s husband. Your name, Sir…. Vijay? Thanks. Please attend without fail the reception at Golden Hall on Sunday. I would be happy to meet you and talk to you. Bye till then,” said Pranesh in a warm tone before disconnecting the line 

“Why do you look so pale and haggard? What is bothering you, Praveena? I think it is a lack of adequate sleep these last few days ‘he teased with a mischievous wink. 

She knew Vijay was wicked only after being tricked by his sweet talk and handsome looks. Within a few months, she decided he was not made for her and broke off the relationship. No doubt she had committed a few indiscretions, and her letters to him were one such. Hr did not let her go easily and pestered her. She did not succumb to his threats. But she dreaded him now that she is married and shuddered at the harm, he could do to her. 

The reception hall was crowded, with guests coming one after another to the couple shaking hands, wishing them well, handing over the gifts, having pictures taken and walking towards the dining hall. It was hot and sweaty despite the AC hall. Praveena saw Vijay at a distance and started trembling. Pranesh, who was holding her hand, saw the change in her and quietly whispered, “Do not worry. The crowd is too much and would soon be over” 

“Congratulations, Praveena and Mr Pranesh.I am Vijay. We spoke the other day. Praveena is a very close friend of mine. I wish her all the best. Kindly accept this small gift, Praveena. I have another gift for you, Pranesh, which I wish to hand over after a small talk with you in private,” Vijay said 

“Thank you, Vijay. We can meet in half an hour. The guests are still pouring in. Meanwhile, you may kindly rest in the adjacent AC room,” Pranesh said. 

He signalled to someone standing nearby and said, “Take join you in 30 minutes” 

Once inside, Vijay saw four more heavily built men in the room. They closed the door as they approached him with a smug smile. Abruptly, one man punched his nose, asking him,” Buddy, don’t you wish to live peacefully? Since when have you taken to blackmailing?” 

When Vijay protested, more blows rained on him from the four men and his clothes were removed, leaving him in his underwear. Someone took the other gift packet and tore it open to find innumerable letters. At the same time, another guy lit the letters with a cigarette lighter to see them burn to ashes. Another guy kicked Vijay in his groin.

“Stay away from the couple if you value your life,” growled one.

It was then that Pranesh entered the room and asked with a feigned concern,” What is all this? Vijay, are you alright? 

Turning to the four men, he spoke sharply, “Can’t you people have taken the letters from him without being rough? Give him back his dress and take him to the dining hall.” 

“Sorry, Vijay. You wanted to say something. Do you still have anything to tell?’ he asked 

When Pranesh went back to the reception hall, Praveena asked, “What did he say to you?” 

“Nothing. I asked him to have his dinner, but he pleaded his inability due to urgent work. I don’t think he will come again. Do not worry,” he said with a smile 

What he did not tell Praveena was that he had overheard every word of their conversation through the parallel line in the bathroom.

 

Yet another unresolved murder (1046 words)

It was 9.30 in the morning. Sunil Pande, the inspector, had just arrived at the police station. His telephone rang, and the call was from Stay Longer Lodge. He got the information that one of the lodgers had been found dead. They wanted to open the door in the presence of the police. He rushed in his jeep along with two constables. He was informed that the room had been occupied by a man in his thirties the day before and that he had asked the reception to wake him up early in the morning so he could go to the market. It appeared that he was a regular visitor, a businessman coming to the city to make purchases for his business, and that each time he came, he procured a woman to spend the night with him. They were trying in vain since morning to wake him till they had someone peep into the room from the ventilator. He was seen lying in bed motionless. There was no one else in the room. 

When they entered the room, they found him dead due to suffocation, presumably with his face smothered by pillows. There were no external injuries. Two empty bottles of liquor were seen with two glasses. Evidently, he must have been drunk and might have been drugged till he was killed. When asked whether he had any visitors in the evening, Sunil was told that a young woman had come around 8 pm. Since it was customary for the guests to bring women for the night, the lodge people were discreet in not noting a note of their movements or addresses. They were not aware when she left. The man who had seen the woman did not remember her well, as she was not a regular visitor. However, a glimpse of her showed she was a tall and well-built woman with a big red bindi on her forehead. 

The inspector asked them all to wait outside and closely examined the body and the room while waiting for the homicide department people. The dead man was only in his undergarments. The woman must have spent the last hours with him before she murdered him and vanished. The man was also well built and could have offered resistance. Obviously, he did not, as he was fully drunk. A close examination of his wrists showed they were held together. A search revealed a crumpled towel in the bathroom. Except for about two hundred rupees and odd bits of paper in his wallet, there was no money in it. It was clearly a murder, but for what reason, he was clueless. It could be a large amount taken from his wallet since he had come for purchases. He found some strands of hair on the bed. He could make out nothing more till his eyes fell accidentally on a small pink button on the floor by the side of the cot. He put it safely, along with hair, in his pocket. 

He made sure the dead man had made no calls through the board or received any. He kept the victim’s mobile with him. He noted the number of the last outgoing call and rang the number from his own mobile. There was a faint hello from a woman. 

He said, “Hello, I need your usual help urgently”, and kept quiet for her response.

“Don’t feel shy. Who are you? Where are you staying? Which lodge? When do you want? Any specific requirement?” she asked

Sunil said, “Not here at my place. I need privacy. I wish to come there. I will leave the town in three hours. I have some spare time.” 

“Have you come here earlier? How did you get my number?” she asked. 

When he said he got it from his friend, she gave her address and said all the girls are sleeping and that she will manage to find one.

Sunil changed into normal clothes and took an auto. It was a red-light area, and he was taken to the madam of the house by a stout, well-built man. She was tall, well-built, and muscular with a large red bindi. 

He said, “I would have preferred to have the woman in my lodge, but since morning, there was a large crowd of people and police there. Somebody had a heart attack or something,” and watched her closely. 

He felt he saw a trace of fear in her eyes, but she maintained her cool. Then she became businesslike and said, “I will call a couple of girls. You can choose anyone.”

He said, “I don’t want anyone else. I want you only.”

She laughed and said, “I left this profession many years ago. I just run the show with a few girls. They are all young. I am in my mid-thirties.” 

He was adamant and said,” No, if I have any, it is only you. Expense is of no consequence. Will pay you whatever you want.” 

She hesitated for a moment and said, “OK. I can spare you just one hour, and from next time onwards, you should not insist on me.” 

“Can I use your toilet? “he asked. As he surveyed, he saw a big washing machine in the corner. He rummaged through it and found a pink blouse with one button missing. He matched the one in his pocket with others and found it was from this that it had fallen.

He revealed his identity and confronted her with strong evidence of the button and her hair. After some theatrics, she confessed that she knew him earlier and that he carried money. She was tempted on the spur of the moment by the huge amount he had in his wallet and killed him as she was in financial straits.

 After her pleadings and long discussions, he spent the next hour with her in the room and left the place a satisfied man. Sunil’s wife got a diamond necklace that she had been longing for in a few days.

The last report heard about the murder was that the police, despite their best efforts, were unable to break the case and that all leads led nowhere. They were still defending, the department was vigorously pursuing the case and hoped to nab the culprit soon.

 

 

Flight to Miami (713 words)

 I took a respite and sat in a chair watching my colleague handle the traffic at the counter. Our gate at the New York airport was as usual, busy with flights leaving every 30 minutes. After the gate is closed for one flight, the boarding work begins for the next flight immediately. I saw an old couple presumably from India as I surmised from the dress of the lady. She must be in her late seventies, and her husband, in a wheelchair, looked past 80. The lady stood in line for every flight at the gate to be asked when her turn came to wait. Maybe they were wait-listed passengers or had the buddy passes that entitled them to accommodation only if seats were available after meeting those who paid for tickets in full.

I could see that they had missed three flights already. Whenever the lady asked something, I saw, my colleague was irritable and even said once, “You have to wait. I do not know how long” She could not follow his accent with the American drawl. I felt both had difficulty in comprehending one another, and my colleague did not exhibit the patience and helpful disposition needed in a front desk job. She lingered, trying to explain, when my colleague said with certain acerbity. "Please move away. Passengers are waiting in line.” 

I could discern the irritation in his voice even from this distance. All eyes were on her. Embarrassed, the lady wiped her eyes with her upper robe and came near her husband in wheel wheelchair. He looked sick.

I decided to do something. I am a very tall black American, unlike my white colleague and when I went near her, she looked so small. I bent low and asked her slowly, word by word ’You seem to have some problem. I would like to help you. Please show me your tickets”

She looked at me, wondering whether to hand over the tickets to me, though I was in an airline uniform with badges and a name on it. Her husband nudged her and told her in a whisper in her dialect to give me the tickets. When I saw the tickets, I found they were bound for Fort Lauderdale, and the tickets were buddy passes entitling them to seats only when available. 

I told both the lady and her husband that I would take charge of the counter soon and that the lady should come along with her husband towards him when signalled.

I went to my colleague and released him for some rest. The next flight to Ft Lauderdale was full, and there were no spare seats. The next flight had only one spare seat. I could see a slight disappointment in the lady’s face when the counter closed after those two flights. I smiled at her and tapped my chest to show that I was there to help her.

The next flight was for Miami. There were two seats available. Others were waiting with buddy passes. I ignored them and called the old couple.” This flight is for Miami. Please ring up your family and ask them to pick you up at Miami. It is not far from Ft Lauderdale. I hope you have a mobile. Give me their number. I will inform them.” They said they have a mobile and would do the needful. I took them inside and spoke to the airhostess to help the old couple, who I said were waiting for more than four hours. She promptly put them in the vacant Business class seats, though theirs were economy.

Before exiting the plane, I turned to look at the lady. She waved her hand with a smile. It left me wondering whether I felt an affinity towards them because their brown colour was closer to my dark complexion than the fair colour of Americans or whether it was a natural concern in me for very senior citizens, or my maternal grandpa’s Kenyan ancestry and his study in India. Be that as it may, I must admit that a thought crossed my mind about what I would have expected of others had it been my mom in a far-off Eastern land.

The counter opened for the next flight for Ft Lauderdale, and I got busy...

 

The Saviour (742 words)

                           A Story for Thanksgiving Day

He lay twisted on the road with the toppled auto’s side wheel still rotating beside him. The world around him blurred for him with faces, silhouettes and a crowd of about a dozen or more people crowding around his broken body. They stared with wide, anxious eyes, the driver drenched in blood and still flowing, wringing their hands, waiting for someone to take the lead.

The truck that struck him had already disappeared into the distance, a hit-and-run. case. A life abandoned on the road.

He tried to call out, “Help me… please...” but his throat failed him. Not a whisper came from the onlooking crowd. Only the noise of passing traffic that did not halt. He could feel the warm rush of blood under him, the heat fading from his limbs.

People murmured to one another, shaking their heads. “Drunk truck drivers…”

“Police hassles… summons… courts…”

“Taxis won’t take a bleeding man…”

“Hospitals refuse these cases…”

Each excuse felt like a nail sealing him into loneliness. Some watched for a moment before slipping away, glancing at their phones and their watches. Everyone had somewhere more important to be than to help the dying man.

He felt panic rising. The minutes were slipping away even as he needed to be at a hospital without loss of time. He needed someone—anyone—to come to his rescue

His vision wavered, and drowsiness was slowly setting in. Sweat streamed down his temples. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, memories rushed in.

His daughter’s voice echoed through the house that morning:

“Appa, come home early today! We have the birthday party, remember? You promised!

He saw her bright eyes, her small hand tugging his shirt, her excitement bubbling like music.

He saw his little boy, clinging to his legs with chubby arms, pleading silently to be taken in his arms.

And then he saw his wife, her shy smile as he hugged her before leaving, the way her fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer, as though unwilling to let go.

Will they be waiting for me now?

A crushing thought: Will they have to wait forever?

He felt the darkness curling around the edges of his mind. There was still no policeman. Only bystanders. Watching him die and not a single hand reaching out.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone casually mentioned that they had already called the emergency number. He heard the remark faintly. A social task completed. A conscience soothed. And still he lay on the road, life ebbing away grain by grain.

Just when the world began to shrink into a small tunnel of fading light, a sudden voice cracked through the air, a loud, urgent shout commanding the crowd to move aside.

“Give way! Let him breathe! Move!”

A young man, no older than his mid-thirties, pushed through the ring of onlookers with fierce determination. He knelt by the dying man without hesitation, his eyes blazing, not with fear, but with purpose.

“Brother,” the young man whispered, “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

With the help of one other soul finally stirred into action, he lifted the limp body and rushed him into his auto rickshaw. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. In seconds, they were flying down the road, faster, louder and braver than the silence of the crowd had been.

At the hospital, doctors and nurses raced to their stations. They worked quickly, voices sharp, hands steady. Later, they would admit quietly among themselves that if the man had arrived even a few minutes later, he would have been gone.

When they turned to thank the auto driver, he only offered a small nod. His clothes were splashed with blood, and the floor of his rickshaw was soaked. But his face… it glowed with a quiet, humble happiness.

“I just did what anyone should do,” he murmured, already stepping back toward his vehicle. He did not expect any praise. No desire to be remembered.

He simply wanted to clean his auto and go home to his waiting children and wife.

But in that moment, in that simple man, lived a truth larger than the crowd that had watched without moving:

Blessed are those who give without remembering and those who take without forgetting.

And somewhere in a hospital bed, a father, a husband, a man who almost slipped away drew another breath, because one stranger refused to stand and watch. A sense of gratitude enveloped him

 

A tryst with a spirit (856 words)

  

Inspired by a visit to Chottanikkara in Kerala, I wrote this several years ago

Govindan,22 years old, was learning Sanskrit, Vedas, and Sastraic rituals from Kesavan Vadhyar, a learned pundit who was also a tantric, well-versed in astrology. The pundit was a strict person not given to unnecessary talk. He had forbidden his family members, particularly his young daughter, to pass through the front patio where the classes were held. Govindan had seen her a few times and found her very charming. 

Govindan was intelligent, and with his prodigious memory, he used to stun his teacher with his flawless recitation of the Vedas and slokas. 

He had to walk about two miles from his village to the teacher’s place. The road passed through a lonely and long stretch covered by shrubs and trees on both sides. He found one day a young girl of about 17 or 18 waiting at the beginning of the wood for someone to come along. Presumably, she was afraid to walk alone through the shady and deserted path. This became a regular feature with both reaching the spot around the same time. If she were delayed, he would wait for her. He got to know of her as Vijaya from his village and became friendly with her, which over a period blossomed into love. He cursed the weekends as he would miss her company. 

One day, when he was slightly delayed, the pundit asked him in a stern voice, “I have been seeing you coming late frequently. Are you not able to start early from home to be on time?” 

When Govindan did not answer, the teacher got annoyed and said, “Why are you silent? I cannot wait to commence the classes for your sake” 

It was then that one of his classmates blurted out, “Govindan is escorting a girl from his village and gets delayed if she is late” 

“What is all this nonsense I hear? Who is that girl? Is she related to you? Are your parents aware of your accompanying a girl daily?” he asked angrily. 

Trembling in fear and feeling embarrassed, he replied in a low voice “She is from my village and afraid of walking in the lonely road alone. Her name is Vijaya and she follows me daily.” 

“For a young student given to the study of Vedas, to hobnob with a young girl is highly deplorable. Let me see the girl tomorrow,” he said 

The next day, Kesavan Vadhyar was waiting at the gate when he saw Govindan, accompanied by Vijaya, coming at a distance. His eyebrows shrank, and his face became red in anger, but he maintained his calm. When Govindan entered the class, he bellowed, “Go and wash your legs and hands and come to my room alone”. 

“I have seen Vijaya and, with my tantric powers, could find out that she is possessed by an evil spirit out to harm you. You must get out of its clutches by stopping coming with her. Wear the amulet that I will give on your right hand. She cannot harm you as long as it is there. Never take it out. You should not wait for her, and if she is there already, stop talking to her and ignore her completely. She will persist and ask you why. If you are determined in your silence, she will stop coming with you and go after someone else. Do you understand the seriousness of the matter? Follow my instructions for your well-being,” he said and tied an amulet after chanting some mantras. 

That news reached Govindan’s parents the same evening from one of the students who had eavesdropped on the conversation. Strangely, Govindan’s dad did not speak about it to him, even when the young man feared his dad’s wrath. It was 9.30 pm. Govindan could not sleep with his mind torn by the day’s events.

 He then heard his dad’s voice clearly in the stillness of the night. He was speaking to Govindan’s mother in their bedroom. “That girl Vijaya is a very nice girl, studious, well-behaved and efficient in work. Her father met me two days back and wished Govindan’s hands for her. I promised I would talk to you and revert. That Kesavan Vadhyar has some ulterior plan. He wants Govindan for his daughter because our son is not only handsome but also very intelligent. So, the cunning man has scared our boy by concocting some story of a spirit having possessed Vijaya. I have heard that both Govindan and Vijaya are friendly, and I suspect are in love with each other. I wish to help them” 

“I have seen that girl a few times at the temple. She will be a good match for our Govindan” his mom replied 

Govindan could hardly believe his ears and could not sleep that night, elated at the pleasant outcome 

The next morning, his dad called him and said, “Govinda, you may stop attending Kesavan Vadhyar’s classes. I will admit you in another patasala (school) in the same area. I have some nice plans for you. I will tell you at the appropriate time.” 

Govindan was on cloud nine and restless, wanting to break the news to Vijaya at the earliest.

(The happy ending story ends here with no sequel)

 

Ammanji and His Mysterious Box (706 words)

My great-granddaughter gave me a Polo mint this morning, and it brought back memories of an elderly granduncle who, during my teens, would hand me a small, round white mint candy every time I met him. I had written about him years ago, and the memory felt warm enough to revisit.

I was a schoolboy then. Since my school was close to home, I came home for lunch every day. One afternoon, as I stepped in, I found my mother in tears. She asked me to accompany her to my grandfather’s house a few miles away. When I inquired why she was crying, she said, “You know Ammanji, your grandfather’s cousin. He passed away last night, and the cremation is in a few hours. I need to go now, and you must come with me.”

I agreed. All I really knew about him was that he constantly chewed raw arecanuts and kept, in his almirah, a carpenter’s kit, some cobbler’s tools, and an old wooden box. Still, I was secretly happy at the chance to skip school that day.

I had seen him many times during my visits to my grandfather’s house, a frail, short man with thick glasses, dressed in a white upper garment that was neither a vest nor a shirt. He wasn’t a real cousin of my grandpa, just a distant relative. He had lost his wife early in life and had no children or close family. My grandfather, comfortably well-off and living in a sprawling old house full of helpers, had persuaded him to come and stay there. And though no one quite knew the exact relationship, everyone called him Ammanji and treated him with dignity and affection.

He had once been a schoolteacher, known for his command of English. A voracious reader, he rarely returned from the local library without a new book. Though reticent by nature, he could fill a room with laughter when he chose to speak, his comments always laced with gentle wit.

I suspected he had little income beyond what he needed for daily necessities and for his beloved arecanut. To be honest, I never felt particularly drawn to him and even feared him a little; his features reminded me of a bulldog. Yet he always smiled when our eyes met. He would hand me round white mint candies, the kind that tasted even sweeter after a sip of water.

He had a small wall-mounted almirah of his own. Inside it sat a little wooden box that fascinated all of us children. He rarely opened it in anyone’s presence, but we knew he peeked into it twice a day,  once in the morning and once in the evening, staring quietly for a few minutes before locking it again. The key, tied to sacred thread across his shoulder, was never out of his sight. We boys often speculated and invented imaginative theories: perhaps it held gold jewellery belonging to his late wife, or bundles of currency, or, as one mischievous boy suggested, old love letters.

 Once, I mentioned his strange habit to my uncle, hoping for some revelation. Instead, I received a sharp rebuke for poking my nose into others’ private matters and was warned to mend my behaviour.

As I accompanied my mother that day, memories of the arecanut, the mint candies, and the mysterious box played in my mind. The atmosphere at my grandfather’s house was heavy with grief. My grandfather, whom I had always seen as strong and stoic, was in uncontrollable tears. Many elders and former students of Ammanji had gathered, praising his teaching and his gentle, virtuous character.

About ten days later, I went with my mother again for the concluding rituals. The subject of the mysterious box naturally came up. My grandfather asked one of my uncles to fetch it, and using the key recovered from Ammanji’s body, he opened it. All of us, uncles, aunts and cousins, crowded around eagerly.

To everyone’s disappointment, the box was almost empty. Inside lay only a few coins, a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, and a faded, postcard-sized black-and-white photograph, turned brown by time. My grandfather’s eyes grew misty as he picked it up.

“Ammanji and his wife,” he murmured.