Subramanian’s story explores the conflict between a wealthy scion and his father, highlighting family history, generational wealth, and the importance of understanding one’s past, exclusively for Different Truths.
The coffee was piping hot.
The young hothead was impatient enough to sip it steaming, and the early morning breeze on the terrace of his sprawling home egged him on. It was 6.30 a.m. He loved the beverage in such a setting, with the blue expanse up above and the sun showing its early dull gleam.
Bhairavan had done his civil engineering and apprenticeship in a flourishing real estate firm known to his father, Chandran. He knew with pride that Chandran was a celebrated builder in the city with always a dozen projects on hand. To say the least, his family owed its lingering repute to a lineage of three generations.
Chandran had completed several rounds of walking and settled down on the chair.
Chandran had completed several rounds of walking and settled down on the chair. A few chairs always remained upstairs, BTW.
Bhairavan took no notice of it belaboured by the feeling for some time that his wants had been cold-shouldered. His dad noted it.
“Why the sullen look?”
For a fleeting moment, Bhairavan didn’t reply. Then he fired.
“A guy of my background ought to have been one of the directors now. My friends jeer at me. Can’t believe that I have to raise it with you. Doesn’t it strike you, dad?”
Bhairavan was as quick at finishing his coffee as flying off at a handle.
Bhairavan was as quick at finishing his coffee as flying off at a handle. But he had no guts to lock his eyes with his father. His father watched him for a while before resuming sipping his coffee. It annoyed his son even more.
He flared. “Even my mates know my stock is of a different plane. Only you don’t. Do I have to job hunt like the rest? It makes me part of a crowd. “
Chandran looked closely at him, smiled.
“Ah! You are born with a silver spoon. You know it. That’s the reason for this feeling of entitlement. I was not. Your grandfather was even worse. He didn’t know where he had to go for his next week’s meal.”
Bhairavan looked up, startled as if it were news to him. He lost his grandpa when he was 10, and years had passed since. There was an air of incommunicado sadness about his grandpa. A vague, early impression.
He stammered. “Why …why?
“Because he was an orphan at the age of five.”
***
“Eluru bears the signature of our Telugu descent. Its revered Timmaleru River flowed a couple of km away from our ancestral home where my grandpa, a school headmaster, lived, garnering respect and acclaim. Quite a few back in the 1930s were under his tutelage and turned into fine brains two decades later.
You obviously wouldn’t know my father was active with the Satyagraha movement led by Pattabi Sitaramaiah…
You obviously wouldn’t know my father was active with the Satyagraha movement led by Pattabi Sitaramaiah, who was close to Mahatma Gandhi and was chosen to lead it. Venkata Raju took over from him and galvanised Eluru too, where my father joined. There were a lot then too who didn’t know what freedom meant or what the Brits were guilty of. He knew because he was an astute lawyer, sought after and paid. He knew because he built himself up… brick by brick. It wasn’t a cakewalk for him to become a renowned lawyer and money-spinning builder.”
There was a seminal pause as Chandran knelt back and closed his eyes.
“He had to as grandpa and grandma fell to TB one after the other long before the country heard of a cure. Longevity then did not go beyond the 40s, and illnesses often turned fatal. There were exceptions to the poor mortality rate. Thank God for that.”
There was a meaningful pause again…
“If you reflect, life wasn’t a blessing, then because it ran in the family. But relationships mattered a lot—possibly it was the only time when ties of blood were iron-strong. My grandpa’s two brothers lived longer and lived with care and a sense of commitment. “
“My grandpa would stay in one uncle’s place but go to take his food to another’s home. Both had big families and relatives. And he would sleep on the so-called thinnai—a kind of veranda—because he was not of the family. Not that he was ill-treated—never. Rather he told me he thanked God that he had uncles to take care of him. Many didn’t have the luxury.”
Chandran got up and paced up and down.
Chandran got up and paced up and down. He wanted to get it off his chest for whatever it was worth. After all, it was all there in the subconscious, like an attic.
“My father studied and worked his bottom off because he wanted to make it. Not once did he bemoan his lot or his fate. Rather took it in his stride…truly made of sterner stuff! The day he got his law degree, he met his uncle for blessings. The uncle told him with tremulous inhibitions, even with a sense of guilt, that he needed a part of our family land as a gift for all the money spent on my father’s education. My father, your grandpa, bequeathed it on the spot. To start afresh again… he didn’t ask how much the silver weighed when Rome was handed over.”
For all his reputation, wealth, and standing, he was down to earth and sat with his clients to mull over property and other devilish conflicts or handle his new building projects in his office. Remember, he never strayed once from dharma, but a gnawing feeling was there inside.”
Chandran leaned forward. “Son! I was 20 when he called me and my brother and said from today onwards you are on your own. Don’t expect a penny from my wealth for your endeavours. I will take care of your studies, yes but earn you must on your own. He left it at that but made a passing comment that changed me forever. He said this wealth was made of the curses and tears of joy of so many clients who were winners and losers. That was the nature of his profession.”
Chandran pushed the chair back as Bhairavan sat flummoxed.
Chandran pushed the chair back as Bhairavan sat flummoxed. “Son! We are doing so well now running our businesses on our own for our well-being. Those skill centres for the orphaned and physically and visually challenged are run on your grandpa’s wealth, for which the city is applauding us now. I can see him smiling from his grave.”
“There is a saying in our village… all river water flowed into Kolleru Lake.”
He gripped Bhairavan’s shoulder.
“Know your past, Son, before you step into the future.”
He went downstairs.
Bhairavan stood still, a bit dumbfounded, inhaling a fresh breeze, aware of the avalanche-type effect of the scenario where the heartbeats of the protagonist—his own grandpa—were never known or heard.
Ego is always like the Berlin Wall and doesn’t give way so easily.
But he could feel the heartbeats in himself—a kind of indescribable twitch—the beginning of change.
He nodded and smiled.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
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