Nana Pillai’s only son Raju was studying in the United States, at Franklin and Marshall. He wasn’t offered a scholarship when he had gone, but Raju had assured his dad that he was a cinch to get a full tuition grant by his sophomore year. With that hope (and a bit a pressure from his wife), Nana pumped all he could into his son’s education. Raju had left for the US as the devoted son, with eyes that said, “I’ll do you proud” as he touched his father’s feet at the airport.
Three years had passed and Raju had not even received a partial scholarship. Nana’s bank balance was depleted. Savitri, his wife, had succumbed to terminal cancer. She could have been saved, he knew it, but it would take away the very last penny they had. That would be the end of Raju’s education. Savitri wouldn’t want that, would she? Nana’s wife died happy. Her mission on earth was complete. Her little Raju was a man now!
Nana didn’t inform Raju about his mother’s death. He didn’t want to disturb his son’s happiness. He was happy, wasn’t he? After all, those initial loving, home sick letters, longing for his mother’s cooking had stopped a long time ago. They were now replaced by short and curt demands for more money, each time outlined by some excuse. Nana, however, was not one to ask questions. He duly obliged, sending words of caution and advice, but he never complained…
Times were hard. The Pillai family home had been sold. His factory was sick and he had absolutely no security. Yesterday, Nana had received another telegram from Raju. Raju always used the post. The telephone was too expensive, he said, and they had to be economical. Raju needed money and he needed it quickly.
Friday, the 26th, three days after Raju’s telegram, Nana and his dilapidated scooter were found eighty-three feet below Bandel Bridge. The police report said that Nana, blinded by an oncoming truck’s headlamps, had lost control and smashed through the guard railing. The scooter’s petrol tank had burst, charring what was left of Nana’s mutilated body. Nana’s life insurance company, after a lot of debate with Nana’s lawyers, reluctantly handed over one hundred and thirteen thousand rupees to Raju Pillai’s account.
It was a sacrifice worth the Pillai name. A sacrifice for that little Raju who used to say, “When I grow up, I’ll buy you a big car daddy.” And Nana would say, ruffling his hair, “I know son, I know.” All Nana knew as he drove his scooter off the bridge was that he could not fail Raju.
A few days later, seven thousand kilometers away, Raju Pillai died of a cocaine overdose.
Three years had passed and Raju had not even received a partial scholarship. Nana’s bank balance was depleted. Savitri, his wife, had succumbed to terminal cancer. She could have been saved, he knew it, but it would take away the very last penny they had. That would be the end of Raju’s education. Savitri wouldn’t want that, would she? Nana’s wife died happy. Her mission on earth was complete. Her little Raju was a man now!
Nana didn’t inform Raju about his mother’s death. He didn’t want to disturb his son’s happiness. He was happy, wasn’t he? After all, those initial loving, home sick letters, longing for his mother’s cooking had stopped a long time ago. They were now replaced by short and curt demands for more money, each time outlined by some excuse. Nana, however, was not one to ask questions. He duly obliged, sending words of caution and advice, but he never complained…
Times were hard. The Pillai family home had been sold. His factory was sick and he had absolutely no security. Yesterday, Nana had received another telegram from Raju. Raju always used the post. The telephone was too expensive, he said, and they had to be economical. Raju needed money and he needed it quickly.
Friday, the 26th, three days after Raju’s telegram, Nana and his dilapidated scooter were found eighty-three feet below Bandel Bridge. The police report said that Nana, blinded by an oncoming truck’s headlamps, had lost control and smashed through the guard railing. The scooter’s petrol tank had burst, charring what was left of Nana’s mutilated body. Nana’s life insurance company, after a lot of debate with Nana’s lawyers, reluctantly handed over one hundred and thirteen thousand rupees to Raju Pillai’s account.
It was a sacrifice worth the Pillai name. A sacrifice for that little Raju who used to say, “When I grow up, I’ll buy you a big car daddy.” And Nana would say, ruffling his hair, “I know son, I know.” All Nana knew as he drove his scooter off the bridge was that he could not fail Raju.
A few days later, seven thousand kilometers away, Raju Pillai died of a cocaine overdose.
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