In the bustling Market Road of Lalgudi, where bicycles rang their bells and vendors sang the prices of mangoes, lived a clever young man named S. Krishnamurthy. Everyone called him Kittu. He worked as a salesman in a textile shop, earned a decent salary, and possessed the quickest tongue in the entire town. Kittu believed in living fully in the present. “Why save for tomorrow when today has such fine things?” he would declare, adjusting his bright polyester Clothes ream.
His evenings were spent in delightful short-term thinking. A packet of crisp samosas from the corner stall—pleasure now. Lying on his cot with the new transistor radio blaring film songs—pleasure now. When Amazon’s glowing screen showed a handsome discount on a 42-inch curved television, Kittu did not hesitate. He had no ready cash, but the credit card in his wallet winked at him like an old friend. “EMI is only two thousand a month,” he told himself. “I deserve this.” The TV arrived in three days, large and shining, and for a week Kittu sat before it like a king, watching everything from cricket to serials. Pleasure now.
But pleasure, like uninvited guests, sometimes overstays. The credit card bill arrived with a sharp sting. Interest piled up like monsoon mud. Kittu began skipping his evening walk to save on petrol for his scooter. His waist thickened. His old trousers protested. And the fine TV, which had promised endless joy, now kept him indoors, turning his legs lazy and his conversations dull.
One Sunday morning, Kittu’s elder cousin, Raman, who ran a small but steady provision store near the temple, invited him for coffee. Raman was a man of few words but long thoughts. While Kittu complained about the EMI and the sudden tightness in his shirts, Raman listened with the patience of an old banyan tree.
“You remind me of my own younger days, Kittu,” Raman said, pouring him another cup. “We think only of the first reaction. Eat the peda today, feel the stomach ache tomorrow. Buy the TV on credit, feel the chain around the neck for years. But life, like a good game of chess, has second and third moves.”
Kittu looked doubtful.
Raman continued gently. “Long-term thinking is pain today, pleasure tomorrow. I could have expanded my shop quickly by borrowing heavily and chasing quick profits every quarter. Instead, I bought good quality rice and dal, even when it cost me a little more. I spent on a proper weighing machine that never cheated anyone. Pain now—less money in hand. But over the years, people came back to my shop because they trusted it. The money followed, slowly but surely.”
He pointed to a small shelf in the corner stacked with books. “See those? I buy one good book every few months. It hurts the purse at the moment. But the ideas I pick up help me run the business better. That is delayed gratification. Effort and pain now, wisdom and comfort later.”
Kittu remembered how he had once thought of buying an online course on sales techniques but had instead spent the money on a new pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses were now scratched. The knowledge was still missing.
Days passed. The curved TV still occupied the corner of Kittu’s room, but he began switching it off earlier. He started waking up half an hour sooner to walk along the kollidam river. The first few mornings were painful—his legs complained, his mind tempted him back to the cot. Yet he persisted. Pain now. He began reading a little every night instead of endless scrolling. Small pains. Tiny delays of gratification.
Months later, when the credit card debt was finally cleared and his waist had come back to friendly terms with his belt, Kittu dropped in at Raman’s shop again. He looked lighter, both in body and in pocket.
“You know, anna,” he said, “I used to think successful people were lucky. Now I see they simply learned to wait. They give effort first and take the reward later.”
Raman smiled his quiet smile and offered him a piece of laddu. “Take one. But only one. Pleasure now is fine—as long as we remember the pleasure that comes after patience is sweeter and lasts longer.”
Outside, the evening traffic of Lalgudi moved on—cycles, autorickshaws, and people chasing their various desires. But in Kittu’s mind, a small but important shift had taken place. He had begun to understand that the finest things in life were not grabbed in haste, but earned through the gentle art of waiting. And in that quiet understanding, the town felt a little wiser, as it always did when one more of its sons learned to think beyond the immediate sweetness of the hour.