The Five-Hundred-Rupee Note (891 words)

 

The Williamsons had been a happy couple until one day their adopted son, seven-year-old Ramon, asked the inevitable question.

They had always known that, sooner or later, he would want to know where he had come from. Ramon was Raman in the records at the adoption centre in India. Until then, they had tried to shield him from his past as much as possible, bringing him up like any other American child.

They had given him everything a well-to-do American family could provide: fancy video games, remote-controlled cars, countless board games, a bicycle and a manual scooter that occupied a good part of his room. He attended karate classes, swimming lessons and soccer practice. He was learning to play the clarinet. Except for the colour of his skin and his Indian features, he was, in every respect, a thoroughly American boy, mingling with his friends without the slightest inhibition.

Now, however, he wanted to know about his biological parents and why he had been given up for adoption.

It was simple curiosity. He was less than a year old when he was left at the adoption centre. Ramon had no desire to leave his adoptive parents or return to the real parents or the life he had never known. He loved the Williamsons deeply and made them proud with his excellent grasp, sporting abilities and exemplary behaviour. They, in turn, adored him and would do anything to keep him happy.

Ordinarily, adoptive parents were reluctant to encourage contact with birth families, out of w fear of uncovering unpleasant or even traumatic truths. But the Williamsons decided that their son deserved to know his roots.

The adoption centre, however, refused to disclose the identity of his biological parents. It was against their policy. After considerable persuasion, they obtained only two pieces of information: the year when Ramon was brought to the centre and the name of the small town he belonged.

Most people would have stopped there. But the Williamsons did not.

They hired a company that specialised in tracing the biological families of adopted children. The fees were substantial, but the company had an impressive record. Its investigators knew how to piece together fragments from adoption-centre employees, police records, orphanage registers and old local contacts. Sometimes they went from door to door, questioning people who might remember a child, a woman or an incident from years ago. It could take months, even years.

After almost a year, the Williamsons received the call they had been waiting for.

They travelled to India with Ramon, ostensibly on holiday to the country of his birth. They had not told him about their search. Nor did they tell him what they had discovered.

At the hotel, a representative of the tracing company met the couple privately in the dining hall. Ramon was not with them. He was swimming in the hotel pool.

The information was disturbing.

The investigators had traced his biological mother, though only after considerable difficulty.

Ramon was an illegitimate child. The woman could not or would not identify his father. She had lived by selling her body for food. She remembered leaving the child at the adoption centre, but apparently felt no remorse. To her, the child had been one more burden she could no longer carry.

The investigator had found her begging at the entrance to a local temple in that town.

The description was difficult to absorb. She was thin and haggard, possibly her once well-defined face ravaged by hunger and years of abuse. Her long hair was matted and unwashed. A torn, dirty red sari barely covered her body.

The Williamsons verified every detail. The tracing company had a reputation to protect, and they were convinced the information was genuine.

They decided they would see her once, though from a distance.

They had no intention of approaching her. And, above all, they agreed that Ramon should never be told. They felt that some truths, however important, could destroy more than they healed.

That evening, they took Ramon to the temple.

He was delighted by everything he saw: the towering gopurams, the temple chariot, the crowds and, most of all, the elephant. He stopped repeatedly to take photographs, fascinated as the huge animal accepted coins from visitors and ate pieces of coconut.

At the entrance sat a long line of beggars.

The Williamsons walked slowly along the row, dropping ten-rupee notes into the bowls before each beggar.

Then they reached her.

There was no doubt. She was unmistakably the woman they had been searching for from faint resemblance.

For a moment, the couple stood silently before her. They looked at the face of the woman who had given birth to their adopted son—a face marked by poverty, hunger, and a life neither of them could imagine.

Then, without saying a word, each one of the couple dropped a five-hundred-rupee note into her bowl.

They moved on.

Ramon was at the temple precincts. He was standing beside the temple elephant, watching in awe as it curled its trunk around a coconut.

He never saw the woman. He never knew that, a few steps behind him, his adoptive parents had just stood before the woman who had given him life. And the woman never knew that the cheerful little boy watching the elephant was the son she had once left behind.

 

 

The Lesson I Learnt on Charity (682 words)

I had known that elderly woman, Sarala mami (aunty), even before my marriage. She used to visit my mother’s home. Once, she had belonged to a middle-class family, but circumstances had slowly pushed them into hardship. She had a gentle, dignified face but one that carried the quiet traces of a life filled with struggles.

Sarala mami had three daughters. Somehow, she had managed to settle two of them in life. The family were struggling now, and whatever they earned was barely enough to meet their daily needs. Now the third daughter had to be married, but there was no money.

Mami had been going from one familiar door to another, seeking whatever help she could find. She had obtained my address from my mother and come to see me. My mother had called me beforehand.

“If you can, please help her with some money, or buy her some clothes. Poor woman… they were once in a good position, and now they are undergoing much hardship,” she had said.

I spoke to my husband on the phone and gave mami ₹5,000, along with a silk saree I had at home.

“Please stay and have a cup of coffee before you leave,” I told her.

She was overwhelmed with happiness. She hugged me, tears welling up in her eyes.

“I must have done some good deed in a previous life to receive the affection of someone as kind as you,” she said.

A little later, while I was inside readying coffee, I heard a voice at the doorway.

“Amma…”

I went out to see who it was.

It was my flower seller selling flowers at the entrance of the Ganesha temple.

“Amma, my husband suddenly had severe chest pain. I’ve admitted him to the government hospital. I need ₹2,000 for the expenses. I’m trying to collect a little from several people I know. I couldn’t muster much.  I’ll repay you later by giving you flowers. Please give me whatever you can.”

I hesitated.

“I’m very busy with work right now. My husband isn’t home either. Come later. We’ll see,” I said, politely but firmly. 

I didn’t know whether her story was true. And frankly, I had a petty grouse that she never let me bargain and was curt about her price. No doubt her flowers were always fresh and good.

Without giving her time to continue, I went back inside to prepare the coffee.

A little while later, I heard voices at the entrance. When I stepped outside, I saw Sarala mami giving the flower seller ₹200.

A sharp irritation rose within me.

I felt that mami, whom I had just helped, was taking the charity amount as her own and passing it on to the flower seller.

“Mami, I gave that money to you because you needed it very much. How can you give it away like this?” I asked, rather sharply.

The elderly woman looked at me quietly.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know whether that woman was telling the truth or not. But what if she really was in deep trouble? What if something happened to her husband for want of money because I refused to help her? I was afraid of that. I know personally what it feels like to struggle, and I simply couldn’t bear to turn her away.”

She folded her hands.

“Please forgive me. I beg you.”

My anger disappeared immediately.

“Oh, please don’t say that. I should have helped her myself. I was only worried that you were giving away the money you needed most. Here, take another ₹1,000. Everything will be all right.”

As an afterthought, I asked her, " Mami, if you meet the flower seller at the end of the road, please ask her to see me immediately.”

That day, I learnt a simple lesson: kindness is not diminished when it is shared.

I had thought I was helping the elderly mami, but in the end, she was the one who taught me compassion.

Sometimes, the people whom we help are the very ones who help us become better human beings.

 

 

Murari’s Last Wish (765 words)

 

Murari looked clean after his shave and ​​shower. It was five in the evening, but the light was already fading. By dawn, he would be dead.

He was to be hanged early the next morning.

The jailer stopped outside his cell and looked at him through the bars.

“Dinner tonight will be your last one. If there’s anything you’d specifically like to eat, tell me. I’ll see if I can have it made.”

“No,” Murari said quietly. “I have no such wish. I’d rather skip dinner.”

“Have something. Don’t go to the gallows on an empty stomach.” The jailer paused. “Do you have any last wish? If it’s reasonable, I may be able to arrange it.”

Murari looked at him for a moment.

“Yes. I have one wish. If you can grant it, I would be beholden to you.”

“Tell me. I’ll try.”

“I want to meet the judge who condemned me. Just for two minutes.”

The jailer stared at him. “Oh, that may be difficult. He may not agree to meet you. I’m almost certain he won’t. It has never happened. If you have a message for him, though, I can pass it on.”

“Please tell him this,” Murari said. “I will leave this world peacefully if I can meet him for even one minute. I’ll remain behind the iron bars. I can be shackled, if he wishes. Let him have no fear. I only want to tell him one small thing.”

The jailer studied his face. “I’ll try,” he said at last. “Though I’m not sanguine about the outcome.”

To Murari’s surprise, the judge arrived at eight that evening.

Murari was brought to the visitors’ enclosure. He stood behind the wire-mesh partition, his hands shackled before him.

“Can I have a minute or two alone with the judge?” he asked.

The jailer hesitated for a fraction of a second before moving away with the constables far enough to give them privacy.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” asked the judge.

Murari looked at him steadily. “Do you remember my case, Sir?”

“Yes. I reviewed it before coming here. You can speak.”

“Just this, Sir. I will be dead by dawn tomorrow, so I have no reason to lie to you. I am not guilty. I did not commit any criminal act. I swear to God that what I am telling you is the truth.”

The judge’s expression hardened.

“The case established that you killed a helpless woman after she rejected your advances. You were found at the scene with the murder weapon. The police had an ironclad case against you.”

“You knew who killed her,” Murari said.

The judge frowned. Who killed her?”

“You did. “You killed and no one else.”

  A silence fell before the judge’s face hardened, but Murari continued.

“You had abducted that woman in your car and taken her to a secluded place. You were trying to molest her. I happened to see you through the window. She saw me and screamed for help.”

Murari swallowed.

“I was fully drunk that night. Barely able to stand. I tried to help her by pulling you away, but I was no match for you. In the melee, she kicked you on your face hard. In extreme rage, you shot her. Then you struck me on the head and put the gun in my hand.”

The judge said nothing.

“You called the police yourself, from a booth nearby. You made sure they found me beside her body, with the weapon in my hand. By the time they arrived, you were long gone.”

Murari gave a bitter smile.

“My government-appointed lawyer didn’t believe me either. And then, by the cruellest twist of fate, my case came before you.”

The judge finally spoke. “Bad luck for you.”

He stepped closer to the partition. “But good luck for me. No one knew the truth.”

He paused, then smiled coldly. “Tell me, do you have a family?”

Murari said nothing.

“If you do,” the judge continued, “tell me who they are. I’ll see that they are taken care of.”

His smile widened. “Goodbye, Murari,” he said, waving his hand

Murari’s eyes remained fixed on him. “My last wish,” he said softly, “was not simply to meet you.”

The judge stopped.

“I wanted this conversation recorded.”

For the first time, the judge’s face went pale.

Murari leaned towards the partition.

“You will have your retribution.”

Then, before the judge could step back, Murari spat through the mesh and walked away quickly.

For the first time in years, he smiled. He no longer feared the dawn.

When Kindness Melted Prejudice (782 words)

Arun and Veena were returning home to Lexington, a little early, after attending a birthday party. It was a winter evening. Though there was still a hint of daylight, darkness was slowly descending, and the roads were blanketed with snow.

Arun was an experienced and cautious driver. He knew how treacherous icy roads could be and drove carefully, accelerating gently to avoid skidding. Traffic was sparse, with only a couple of vehicles moving slowly ahead of them.

“Drive slowly,” Veena reminded him. “The roads are slippery. Don’t press the accelerator too hard.”

As they drove, their conversation turned to a subject they had often debated.

Veena had long believed that many white Americans treated immigrants, especially people of colour, with quiet condescension. In her experience, whether at shopping malls, airports, banks, or other public places, she felt that white customers were greeted more warmly and served more promptly, while immigrants often received brief, impersonal responses.

Arun, however, did not share her view.

“I don’t think it’s prejudice,” he said. “People naturally connect more easily with those who share their background or culture. Just as two Indians meeting in an Indian grocery store often strike up a conversation, Americans may find it easier to relate to one another. But when someone genuinely needs help, I believe most people are kind, regardless of race.”

Veena disagreed and cited several incidents that had reinforced her opinion.

Arun laughed gently.

“Perhaps the real problem is your strong Tamilian accent,” he teased. “People may simply struggle to understand you.”

Veena shot him an annoyed glance, pulled a long face and fell silent.

They had almost reached their community road, which was slightly narrow at a particular stretch, when Arun noticed, in his rear-view mirror, a large SUV approaching rapidly from behind. The driver attempted to overtake. At that very moment, another vehicle appeared from the opposite direction. Realising the danger, the SUV swerved sharply back into its lane, forcing Arun to steer towards the edge of the road to avoid a collision.

His car slid off the icy surface and rammed into a snowbank.

Fortunately, neither Arun nor Veena was hurt. But the car was firmly stuck. Snow had piled around and beneath it, making it impossible to move.

They stepped out into the freezing air and assessed the situation. The snow packed under the chassis and around the bonnet looked formidable.

“We may have to call 911,” Arun said.

Just then, three vehicles stopped one after another behind them.

A young American, perhaps in his twenties, got out of the first car.

“Hi,” he said with a friendly smile. “Looks like you’ve run into trouble. Can we help?”

Soon, three more people, including a middle-aged lady, joined him.

Without wasting a moment, the young man took two towels from his vehicle.

“You two clear the snow from the top,” he said, handing Arun a tool. “I’ll work underneath.”

He spread the towels on the icy ground and lay flat beneath the car. Despite the biting cold, he patiently chipped away at the packed snow and ice underneath. The others worked tirelessly, clearing snow from around the wheels and pushing whenever needed.

For nearly thirty minutes, they laboured together in the freezing weather.

Finally, with one determined push, the car broke free from the snowbank.

As the engine luckily purred back to life, Arun turned to them with deep gratitude.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “You stopped your journey just to help total strangers.”

The young man smiled.

“You don’t have to thank us,” he replied. “Helping someone in distress is simply what human beings should do. We haven’t done anything extraordinary.”

The others nodded in agreement.

After exchanging handshakes and warm smiles, they returned to their vehicles and drove away into the winter evening.

For several minutes, silence filled the car.

Then Veena spoke softly.

“I owe you an apology.”

Arun glanced at her but said nothing.

“I realise now that I allowed a few unpleasant experiences to shape my opinion of an entire community. Those strangers didn’t see our colour, our nationality, or our accents. They saw only two people in need of help. Humanity is far greater than race or prejudice. From now on, I shall try to be more positive and more open-minded.”

Arun smiled.

“That’s wonderful,” he said. “But don’t forget to work on your Tamilian accent.”

Veena laughed and said with some pride, “Not merely Tamilian accent but my Palakkad Tamilian accent.”

“Yes, all the more tough to follow,” said Arun

For the rest of the drive home, the warmth in the car came not just from the heater, but from a renewed faith in human kindness.