In the shaded courtyard of his old house on Crawley Extension,of Old Cantonment area of Lalgudi, Raman Nair sat one humid afternoon, fanning himself with a folded newspaper and feeling the weight of many things. He was a man of fifty-two, owner of three small shops in the market, and he carried his success like a heavy sack of rice on his head. New accounts, fresh contracts, the latest model of scooter parked outside—each new possession should have brought joy. Instead, they pressed down on him. His back ached. His sleep was thin. Even the morning coffee tasted of worry.
“What is the use of all this?” he grumbled to his wife. “I run after orders, I chase payments, and still the mind is never at rest.”
His wife, who had heard such complaints before, merely said, “Why not visit your old friend Venkat? He seems to have found some peace these days.”
So Raman walked over to Kabilan Street that evening. Venkat was on his terrace again, watching the sky change colours. After the usual greetings and a cup of strong filter coffee, Raman poured out his troubles.
Venkat listened quietly, then smiled in that gentle, half-amused way of his. “I was reading Marcus Aurelius the other day—an old Roman fellow who ruled an empire yet lived like a simple man. He wrote that each man is worth just as much as the thing he cares about. Tell me, Raman, what are you caring about these days?”
Raman thought for a moment. “Bigger shop, more savings, respect in the market…”
“And does it make you feel light or heavy?”
“Heavy,” Raman admitted. “Like carrying sacks all day.”
Venkat nodded. “Like the centre of gravity we learned in school. When the weight is inside you—balanced—you stand firm. When it is outside, in your hands or on your head, every step becomes a strain. The Roman says chasing things outside ourselves is a fool’s errand. The real things are inside: doing good to others, showing tolerance, keeping restraint, and taking our place with good humour and without haughtiness.”
Raman laughed uncomfortably. “Easy to say. But in the market, if you are not sharp, people walk over you.”
The next morning, something small happened. A young man named Suresh, who worked in one of Raman’s shops, came looking worried. His mother was ill and he needed a small advance. In the old days Raman would have calculated interest and made the boy sign a paper. Today, remembering Venkat’s words, he simply gave the money.
“Go. Take care of her. And when you return, teach the new boy how to keep proper accounts. You have a good head for it.”
Suresh blinked, surprised. For the first time in weeks, Raman felt a lightness in his chest.
Over the following days, small changes appeared. He stopped arguing with every customer over ten paise. He listened more. When a rival merchant tried to provoke him, Raman replied with a smile and a mild joke instead of anger. He even began to speak to his workers not as tools for profit but as young men who could become better. “Care about what you do,” he told them. “Do it well, with honesty. That is your real worth. The rest will follow.”
One evening, as he stood on his own terrace watching the same deep blue sky that Venkat loved, Raman felt the old burden slip away. The shops were still there. The scooter still gleamed. But they no longer sat outside him like sacks to be carried. He cared now about doing his work honestly, about helping the boys grow, about meeting each day with tolerance and a little humour.
He remembered Marcus Aurelius again: You are what you care about.
Raman smiled to himself. “Not a bad price to pay for a light heart,” he murmured.
Down in the lane, Suresh was teaching the new boy how to wrap parcels neatly. Raman watched them and felt quietly pleased. The centre of gravity, it seemed, had moved inside at last. And Lalgudi, in its quiet way, carried on—neither richer nor poorer, but perhaps a little wiser.