Had he not felt lonely, Natarajan would not have troubled his brother Raman. He would have walked to the bus stop, waited for a not-so-crowded bus, so that he could sit. May be he would have taken a nap in the bus; after all he had to get down only at the last stop. Even if he hadn’t woken up, the conductor would have shaken him up. But after the festivities, the bonhomie and the sumptuous lunch at the wedding, he dreaded to be alone in his apartment. He had dragged along his unwilling brother Raman who protested that attending the marriage of some second cousin was not his idea of spending a leisurely weekend. Raman kept looking at the watch. Radha, his wife, would be mad. He had promised to take her out for shopping. A lot of wasteful expenditure, sure; but the cheapest and best aphrodisiac. She would coo and giggle, like a teenager. It was another matter that half of the items bought would never be used. Or she might buy it a second time when they shopped next time, without realizing she had already bought them before. “Would you drop me home?” Raman’s thoughts stopped on their tracks. His face turned red in suppressed anger. “S***, I can’t say ‘no’ and Radha is going to curse us both! Can’t this penny-pincher anna (elder brother) buy his own car and drive? “Ok. Make it quick,” he said dryly, deliberately ignoring Natarajan’s small talk. His teeth gritted as his brother took leave of all and sundry and waited patiently till his aunt fetched him the customary ‘muhurtha tambulam’ - a bag containing betel leaves, bananas, and a coconut – and another bag containing sweets and savories. Why waste time waiting for free goodies? Such a food-crazy man. Or is it just another way to save cash? Natarajan looked through the corner of his eyes at his brother driving in sullen indignation. Suddenly he motioned him to stop the car, fumbled in the deep yellow cotton carry-bag and fished out the coconut, bananas and the sweets. He handed them over to a poor woman walking along the pavement, carrying a spindly child. Raman’s face softened a little. He shook his head, but said nothing. Fool. Bloody fool. By the time they arrived at Natarajan’s residence, Raman had calmed down considerably. He put his brother’s hands around his shoulders and helped him climb the stairs. How many times had he told him to move into a house on the ground floor? But Natarajan brushed aside the advice, as he did every other advice. It would be an exercise for him, he said; less dirt, more quietness... He would list any number of benefits of living on the third floor. For whom is he hoarding cash that he can’t spend on himself? After all, as a lecturer in a college, he earns several times the money needed to run his spartan household. Aren’t the days of scrounging over by now?” “I know Radha would be expecting you, Ramu. I shouldn’t have troubled you,” Natarajan said contritely. He gave him a box of foreign chocolates and an attractive T-shirt his students had gifted him. “That’s for Murali.” Murali, Raman’s son, was awaiting the results of his final year graduation. Raman felt a fresh surge of irritation in him. He gave a disgusted look at his brother’s old, worn-out khadi kurta. Before he could say anything, a squeeze of his hand, and an entreating look from Natarajan sealed the words on his lips. Dress yourself well. Don’t act like a martyr. Fine, we didn’t have money once. We all do now. Your behavior is already making us look like villains to the rest of the world. Raman reached for the door, and then returned briefly. “Take care,” he said with a sudden tenderness, and left. When he reached home, he was relieved to find Radha in a deep discussion with Murali. If she appeared to be scowling, it was not over his coming home late, but over how to raise finances required for sending Murali to the USA, where he had applied to various universities for doing a Masters program in Business Administration. Murali took the parcel from his dad. “Nice,” he said, looking at the shirt, but Radha snootily cocked her nose. It pained Raman that Radha would find everything about Natarajan as crass. He could not explain to her his brother’s selfless love and the sacrifices he had made for the family. They had lost their father quite early in life when Natarajan was barely ten. Being the eldest, Natarajan had assumed responsibility for his younger brother, sister and mother. When the boys his age were playing gulli-danda, he would take care of his toddler sister, so that his mother could work as a cook in wealthy families in the neighborhood. He would deliver newspapers in the morning before going to school. Natarajan joined his father’s government office as a peon soon after high school. He had felt a sense of loss that he could not go to college like others. So he made sure Raman joined an engineering college. No shadow of financial hardship on his brother. His mother passed away suddenly. It was just an attack of jaundice, which nobody took seriously. She had thought the usual herbal concoction would be sufficient to cure her. But it wasn’t. From then on, life became an exercise in asceticism. He had learnt to make every pie count. He would buy the entire month’s grocery at the wholesale market and bring it home on a bus. After all, he had not only to stretch his meager salary to last the entire month, but also save for his sister’s marriage and his brother’s education. He had learnt to make every minute count too. While at the job, he enrolled himself in the evening college. He would sit outside on the stool outside the officer’s room, reading his lessons, ever ready to drop it down whenever he was ordered to serve coffee or bring the files from another department. That’s how he completed his pre-university education and then the under-graduation It had been his dream to become a lecturer in a college. His high score in BA had got him the job of an English lecturer in the pre-university college. Before long, he obtained his Masters in English. Over later years, he was to acquire Masters in Economics and Tamil as well. Academically Raman was not brilliant, but he was smart. It was not his Bachelors in Electrical Engineering degree alone that got him the coveted job in a multinational corporation; it was his cool confidence. And that counted. Years of scrounging had left their inevitable scars on Natarajan. Finally after countless years of money scraping when light appeared at the end of the tunnel, he felt it blinding and not very comfortable. Holding the purse-strings tight had become a way of life for him. When others flagged down an auto rickshaw, Natarajan would break into a quick sprint or wait patiently at the bus stop. When everyone clamored for a treat, he would reach for the sugar jar. Isn’t sugar sweet enough to mark a happy, celebratory event? For him spending and lavish consumption was a sin and suffering, a virtue. His thriftiness was a striking contrast to the throwaway culture of Radha. In the initial years of their marriage, Raman had explained to her why Natarajan chose not to marry and why he considered it his responsibility to look after him now. Radha chafed at the unremitting lean living that Natarajan advocated. Though he flagellated only himself with his miserly ways, it made Radha irritable. Not wanting to create a rift between the couple, Natarajan moved out. Raman would visit his brother once in a while. When he could not visit, he would ring him up. Since Natarajan did not have a telephone, it meant that he would have to buzz the neighbor. Every time he did this, he would curse his brother’s foolhardy niggardliness. A month passed uneventfully, except that Raman was losing sleep worrying over how to raise money for Murali’s education; for even if the bank granted him loan, that wouldn’t cover the entire cost. One fine day Raman’s family was returning from the shopping mall and their old neighbor met them in the car park. “How’s your brother now, has he returned from the hospital?” he asked solicitously. Raman looked puzzled. There were tears in Raman’s eyes when he stood over his emaciated brother’s bed at the hospital. “Why didn’t you tell me when you were so sick,” his voice quivered, “You didn’t think I’d come?” “Blame my miserly mind, Ramu. I never thought it worthwhile having a telephone. I was too sick to go out to ring you up. My neighbors came to know about it yesterday, and they brought me here. I wanted to contact you desperately. You see, Murali had said long back he wanted to study abroad and I had saved Rupees six lakhs for this. I wanted to tell you not to worry about it. But I fell sick and could not contact you.”                                     *** The End ***