In the quiet town of Lalgudi, there lived a man named Krishna Iyer who worked as the chief clerk in the local cooperative bank. He had a neat little house near the river, a steady salary, a respectful title on his nameplate, a wife who managed the household with quiet efficiency, two sons who went to Albert Mission College, and a circle of relatives who visited on every festival with equal measures of affection and expectation.
Krishna Iyer was proud of these things, though he never said so loudly. He held them the way a man holds a carefully folded silk dhoti—firmly, as if any looseness might cause it to slip away. When the bank manager praised him at the annual meeting, he smiled modestly but repeated the words to himself that night. When his elder son scored well in examinations, he walked a little straighter on the road to the market. Position, money, title, roles, relations—he counted them often, almost without knowing he was doing so.
One evening, after a particularly satisfactory day, Krishna Iyer sat on the narrow veranda of his house. The river flowed past in its usual unhurried way. An old schoolmaster named Srinivas, who lived two streets away and spent his retired days reading whatever books the town library still possessed, stopped by for a cup of coffee.
They spoke of ordinary matters first—the price of rice, the new bus route, the latest quarrel at the temple committee. Then, as the light softened, Srinivas said gently, “You look content this evening.”
Krishna Iyer allowed himself a small smile. “One tries to be grateful. God has been kind. Parents, in-laws, the manager, the staff, the family—everyone has played a part.”
Srinivas nodded. He stirred his coffee slowly. “Yes. It is good to thank them. And after thanking them, it is wiser still to hold everything lightly.”
Krishna Iyer looked puzzled. “Lightly?”
“Like cotton wool in the open palm,” said the old man. “Not clenched. Fortune has a habit of giving with one hand and taking with the other. The house, the designation, the respect, even the affection of people—these are pleasant things, but they remain outside us. They can be withdrawn as easily as they were offered.”
Krishna Iyer was silent for a while. The river continued its soft movement. Somewhere a temple bell sounded once and then fell quiet.
In the months that followed, small changes came, as they always do. The bank reorganised its departments and Krishna Iyer found himself shifted to a less prominent desk. One son decided to try his luck in Madras and wrote home less often than expected. A distant relative who had always spoken warmly grew distant over a forgotten loan. None of these events were catastrophic. Life continued. The river still flowed. Coffee was still served on the veranda.
Yet Krishna Iyer noticed that the old tightness in his chest had loosened a little. When good news arrived, he received it with thanks. When something slipped away, he did not grip the empty air. He had begun, almost without effort, to hold the cotton wool gently.
Years later, when younger clerks asked him the secret of his calm manner, he would only smile and say, “Count your blessings, yes. Thank everyone who helped place them in your hands. And then hold them lightly—not tightly. Fortune gives. Fortune takes. That is its nature.”
And in Lalgudi, where the river never hurried and the evenings remained long, that seemed answer enough.