In the shaded veranda of his old house on Kabilan Street, Venkatesh sat with his morning coffee and the day’s newspaper. The headlines spoke of ministers and millionaires, of big contracts and bigger cars. As he turned the pages, a small sigh escaped him.
Just yesterday he had seen his old classmate, Swaminathan, glide past in a white Ambassador car, a driver at the wheel and an air of importance wrapped around him like a silk shawl. Swaminathan was now a big man in the district administration—powerful, respected, feared by some. Venkatesh, retired postal clerk, had only his pension, his books, and the evening terrace. A quiet envy, thin but persistent, had settled in his chest like summer dust.
That afternoon, his neighbour Raman dropped in, carrying a packet of fresh jalebis. They sat together under the slow-turning fan while the mynah bird in the neem tree scolded the world.
“I saw Swaminathan yesterday,” Venkatesh said at last. “Big car, big post. The man has everything.”
Raman chewed his jalebi thoughtfully and asked, “Does he? Or does he only possess the effect?”
Venkatesh looked puzzled.
“See, my friend,” Raman continued in his calm way, “riches and power are like the mango on the tree—effects. The real thing is the root underneath, the cause. Most people chase the mango and forget to water the roots. When you see another man with power, do not merely feel you lack it. Ask instead: do I have the use of power? The ability to remain steady when others flatter or fear me? When you see a rich man, do not only count what you do not have. Ask: do I have the right use of riches—contentment, generosity, freedom from worry?”
Venkatesh remained silent, stirring his coffee.
Raman went on. “Our wants are the causes. Strong wants create restlessness. We run after effects—bigger house, higher position, more respect—without strengthening the causes inside us. Patience, honesty, skill in our small work, kindness without show—these are causes. Water these quietly, and the effects come in their own time, or perhaps we discover we do not need them as badly as we thought.”
The following week brought a small test. The local cooperative society was electing a new secretary. Several people told Venkatesh he should stand. “You are honest and everyone likes you,” they said. For a moment the old desire for position flickered in him. He imagined himself sitting on a dais, people coming to him with requests, his name printed in the papers.
But that evening on the terrace, watching the deep blue sky stretch beyond the clouds, Venkatesh remembered Raman’s words. Instead of campaigning, he helped a young neighbour prepare accounts for a small loan. He spent time listening to an old widow who had trouble with her pension papers. Small acts. No position attached. No power displayed.
Months passed. Swaminathan’s car still passed through the town, but people now spoke of him with more fear than affection. His power had grown heavy. Venkatesh, meanwhile, found his own quiet influence growing. More people came to him for advice. The cooperative society, without any effort on his part, asked him to be treasurer because “he can be trusted.” He accepted, but without excitement or pride.
One evening Raman visited again. “Well?” he asked with a smile.
Venkatesh laughed softly. “I used to look at what others possessed. Now I try to possess the causes. The effects seem to look after themselves—or lose their charm. It is strange how light one feels when the wants become smaller.”
The neem tree rustled overhead. Somewhere in the distance a temple bell rang, clear and unhurried. In Lalgudi, life continued in its usual rhythm—some chasing effects with loud effort, others quietly tending to causes in small, everyday ways. And on his simple terrace, Venkatesh felt richer than many men with big cars and important posts, for he had begun to own something far more lasting: the right use of whatever life gave him.