Ramiah, a wealthy
brass merchant in Kumbakonam, lived in a spacious bungalow set on a vast plot
of land in the outskirts. He lived a peaceful life with his wife and two sons.
Once, during a pilgrimage
to Benares, he visited an antique shop and noticed a beautifully crafted
circular brass compass with a needle at its centre.
“Ah, that’s a fine piece,”
Ramiah said, lifting it carefully. “How much does it cost?”
The shopkeeper shook his
head. “Sir, it’s defective. The needle does not point north or south. It’s of
no use.”
Ramiah examined it
closely. “Defective or not, it’s beautiful. I’ll take it.”
The shopkeeper smiled.
“Very well, sir. Since you’ve purchased so much already, you may have it free.”
Back home, Ramiah placed
the compass on his table in his room at the shop as a decorative piece. The
needle constantly oscillated and never settled in the proper direction. One
day, a woman who had earlier purchased a vessel and had visited his room
returned, distressed.
“Sir,” she said anxiously,
“I think I lost the tiny screw from my diamond earring here. It must have
fallen on the floor.”
“Don’t worry,” Ramiah
replied kindly. “We’ll search for it.”
They searched the floor
and the surrounding area thoroughly, but the screw could not be found.
Just then, Ramiah noticed
something unusual. “Strange… the needle has stopped,” he murmured. “Look, it’s
pointing toward the almirah.”
They moved the wooden
almirah aside, and to everyone’s astonishment, the missing screw lay beneath
it. As soon as the screw was picked up, the needle resumed its restless
oscillation.
Another incident soon
followed. One morning, the supervisor approached Ramiah with concern. “Sir, the
ornate bell from the shop is missing.”
“Bring the employee in
charge of that area here,” Ramiah said calmly.
When the employee was questioned, he replied firmly, “I know nothing about it, sir. I have not taken anything.”
When Ramiah placed the
compass on the table facing the supervisor and the employee, the needle
oscillated rapidly, then turned and pointed straight at the man and stopped.
Ramiah said softly, “Do
you see this? The compass is pointing at you.”
“That means nothing! The
supervisor is also standing with me,” the employee protested nervously.
Ramiah asked the employee
to move to a corner, but did not change the position of the compass. The
employee moved, and instantly the needle turned again and pointed at him.
Ramiah’s voice hardened.
“Shall I call the police?”
The man’s face turned
pale. “No, sir! I confess. I took the bell. I’m sorry.”
From these incidents,
Ramiah concluded that the compass had a miraculous power to identify lost
objects and expose falsehood.
He confided this secret to
his close friend and former schoolmate, the postmaster.
“This is extraordinary,”
the postmaster said in amazement. “But what good is it if the compass remains
in your room, where only a few people come? “Let it stay on my table at the
post office,” the postmaster said. “Hundreds of people visit daily. It could
help many for free.”
Ramiah smiled. “You are
right. Take it.”
Soon, its power became
widely known. One day, a young girl cried, “Uncle, I’ve lost my anklet!”
Another day, a boy said tearfully, “Sir, I’ve misplaced my exam hall ticket!” A
worried farmer once pleaded, “My land deed is missing and without it, I am ruined.”
Each time, the compass led
them to their lost belongings.
In the centre of Ramiah’s
land stood a large mango tree that bore fruit abundantly each season. He gave
most of the harvest to his servants, the nearby temple, and the municipal
school, keeping only a small portion for his family.
In his old age, he called
his sons and said, “My time is passing. I am handing over the business to you.
Take good care.”
He built two identical
bungalows on either side of the mango tree, one for each son, with the tree
serving as a natural boundary.
One evening, Ramiah spoke
to the postmaster. “I want my sons to continue giving the mangoes as I have
done.”
“That is wise,” the
postmaster said. “Why not leave written instructions for them? Send it to the
post office. I will deliver at the appropriate time”
Ramiah agreed and wrote
identical letters to both sons, instructing that after his death, 20% of the
harvest be retained for personal use (including friends, relatives, and
servants), and 40% each be donated to the temple and the municipal school.
He informed his sons about
the arrangement and also spoke privately to the temple trustee and the school
headmaster.
After Ramiah’s death, the
sons approached the postmaster and made a deal with him for a consideration
that the letters would not be delivered.
Soon afterwards, the
postmaster suffered a stroke that left him paralysed and unable to speak. A
young woman took charge of the post office.
When the mango season
began, and the tree was awash with mangoes, the sons stopped the charitable
distribution and began selling the mangoes for profit. When the temple trustee
and the school authorities approached the sons, they denied any knowledge of
any letter from their father.
When the temple trustee
and school authorities approached and apprised the young postmaster, she said
kindly, “I will do my best to help you.”
As she looked around the
office, her eyes fell on the ancient brass compass. This must be the compass
everyone talks about, she thought
She picked it up and said
aloud, “If there are letters from Ramiah remaining undelivered here, please
show me.”
The needle promptly moved
and pointed toward an old steel trunk in the corner hidden behind a gunny sack
Inside the trunk, she
found the undelivered letters. The police and the school’s lawyer were present
when the trunk was opened in front of the two sons.
“These are your father’s
letters,” the lawyer said firmly.
The sons looked stunned.
“We… we did not know about these,” one said weakly. “We promise,” the other
added quickly, “that we will follow our father’s instructions in full.”
Thus, truth prevailed, and
Ramiah’s generosity lived on, guided even after his death by the mysterious
brass compass.
