Corridor of Raja Ganesan memories

I was born and raised in my native village, where I lived for thirteen years as a young boy with very little understanding of the world.

According to our family tradition, all important matters were supposed to be overseen by my maternal uncle. But I never had one.

Even today, people in our village still talk about how a man named Sakthivel Asari, who lived next door, once picked me up, put a drop of local liquor (saarayam) into my mouth, and made me bathe in it as part of a folk belief.

If people in government positions make mistakes, they are transferred. My hometown was such a place—a dry, barren land with no water.

The primary school built by Kamaraj for classes one to five is now closed. I realized this only when I went there to take a photograph. It was then that I learned the school’s teacher, Arogyaswamy, was a Christian by name. His own village school was six kilometers away. Today, there is a tar road connecting the villages, laid by my father, but back then there was nothing of the sort.

In those days, the teacher used to come by bicycle. Often, he had to stop and push the cycle while pumping air into the tyres. Later, he began coming by bullock cart. Around that time, he was transferred. This was the 1980s, when many villages were still largely illiterate.

The village was called Keelkudi—a settlement of the downtrodden. The school was located there. Most of the men in the village were bonded laborers, and many of them could neither read nor write. One woman in particular was completely illiterate, and so was her husband. It was this elderly teacher, Arogyaswamy, who used to read letters for her and explain their contents.

I do not know exactly what he told her, but I do know that he spent more time inside those doorless huts than he did in the classroom. I later reported this indirectly to the office during an inspection.

When I joined sixth grade, I had no prior exposure to formal schooling. The Christian missionary school divided students into three sections. Section A was for good students who had already studied in the same school. Section B was for students who were just managing to cope. Section C was for those who had to relearn everything they had missed from first to fifth grade.

Section C was taught very strictly by a Christian nun named Sister Lily. She was both beautiful and stern. To this day, I remember everything she taught me.

In seventh grade, I was promoted to Section B. It was a co-educational class where boys and girls studied together, and I was chosen as the class leader. Our teacher, Mr. James, taught us everything—politics, microbiology, world affairs, and more. He was a retired man who could not bear to remain idle at home. In his earlier life, he had been a shepherd.

He also selected seven students from the eighth grade and conducted special moral instruction classes for them. I will never forget him.

This post is for those who walked holding onto my trousers while I was walking along the verandah...

I was born in Mikkavayal, at my grandfather's house, but at that time we lived in Ilanjiyamangalam.

I often traveled here and there on the shoulders of my uncles. My grandmother was an excellent cook; the aroma of her brinjal curry and fish curry would fill the air.

When I think about my birthplace, I remember the friendly trade that existed back then. Two Muslim women from Thirukalyanam would bring fish in baskets. There were no weighing machines then; they would call it 'korvai'. The fish would be strung together on palm leaves. One 'korvai' was enough for four people; a joint family would need two. In the Mikkavayal village of that time, which had only 20 houses, they would come straight to our house. After putting down the basket, that Muslim woman would go straight to the kitchen, eat whatever she wanted, and rest for a while because of the head load. She would then tell my grandmother, "Keep this for yourself." Do you know what the other woman would say? She would tell my grandmother, "First, go and sell in the street; I'll take care of whatever is left." What is now called White Pomfret and Prawns was called 'Vavvaal Meenu' (Silver Pomfret) and 'Kooni'  (Small Prawns/Shrimps)in our village back then. To prevent them from spoiling, she would clean them, soak them in lukewarm water, and apply turmeric before bringing them. That was mostly for our house only, a testament to their friendship and the taste of their food.

My pastime back then involved three people from the oppressed community; they were the ones who taught me how to fish with a rod and line, and how to catch fish by diverting the flow of water in the stream.

At that time, near the Pambar,and Sirumbayur dam, during the rainy season, we would go fishing with rods in the village ponds.  We wouldn't always catch enough fish for everyone.

Do you know what we would do? I would usually give them the fish I caught. Even if I had only five fish, and my mother was ready to cook them, I would give them to Sevathiyan's wife. Sometimes, they would invite me for lunch, and eating the rice and fish from that aluminum plate gave me a feeling like Shivaji Ganesan eating in the movie 'Muthal Mariyathai'. Their cooking was so clean and delicious; their culinary skills were even better than my mother's. The food was incredibly clean and tasty.

One of the most cherished memories from my sixth-grade days comes from the long three-kilometer walk to school each morning. Along the way, we practiced an age-old tradition—catching tiny fish fry known as Ayirai, called Pattakottai in Tamil.

Small dams would be gently built across flowing streams, leaving narrow openings for the water to pass through. As the current moved on, the fish swimming upstream would gather there, and we would carefully collect them. In those days, these fish were never sold. Anyone passing by would simply take them home in small bags woven from palm leaves.

What a village it was—where simplicity ruled, generosity came naturally, and people lived with an unspoken sense of dignity and sharing.

Some of my closest and most affectionate friends have drifted so far from my life that I can no longer contact them. My only regret is not having a permanent address—I built one myself, but it came too late.

Let's talk about the great men who threw stones into this memorial pool.

After failing my 10th standard, many people from Ramanathapuram used to travel far away for work—some to Coimbatore, Erode, or even Kanyakumari, and many to Mumbai. I went to Coimbatore first, but nothing worked out for three months. Then I spent two months in Ooty (that’s a separate story I’ll write later).

After that, I went to Chennai. Since I had learned a little about the hotel industry, I knew that in hotels you at least get food and a place to stay. So I joined a place called “Picnic Hotel,” located between Chennai Central Railway Station and the Corporation building, in a structure similar to V.T. Hall.

It was said that when Morarji Desai was Prime Minister, he leased that property to a school friend for 99 years at a very low rent—₹3,000. But the hotel owner was earning nearly ₹1 crore per month. I heard all this from Traffic Ramasamy.

Whenever Traffic Ramasamy visited, we were instructed to serve him food on a silver plate. But interestingly, he never once ate from that silver plate.

The hotel owner had three sons and had already set up separate businesses for each of them. To avoid labor union problems, they removed permanent employees and instead recruited new workers through newspaper advertisements. Around 100 people came for jobs—mostly for cleaning, housekeeping, and serving.

There was also an important role called “Operation Manager.” This position required handling technical work like electrical and plumbing issues when specialists were not available. They planned to select two people for this role.

However, there was a condition: candidates had to pay ₹10,000 as a deposit and submit their original 10th standard certificate. Many refused. But I agreed to give my original certificate, and that’s how I got selected.

I didn’t even know how to fill out the application form in English. I simply copied what the person next to me wrote and submitted it. Surprisingly, the job he applied for was given to me.

Within half an hour of joining, I realized how important the position was. They sent me into a room where a tailor took my measurements for a coat and suit. Within three days, I received two sets of suits.

I managed the job using my practical intelligence. What helped me was a 90-day training camp started by Rajiv Gandhi, where I had learned some useful skills. Even then, I was a little afraid in the beginning.

After many years, I met Traffic Ramasamy again near the High Court. I asked him, “Sir, do you recognize me?” He said no. When I told him the Picnic Hotel story, he immediately asked why I was there. I said my glasses were broken, and I had come to get a new frame.

He held my hand and took me to a shop. The shopkeeper knew him well. He told him, “Give this young man the right glasses.” The glasses I am wearing today while writing this are the ones I got that day.

He gave me his phone number and told me to meet him whenever I came to Chennai. We had many conversations, and we didn’t always agree on everything. But one thing is true—you can delete a person’s phone number after they pass away, but you cannot erase the memories.

Traffic Ramasamy: 9840316565

The experience you shared is truly fascinating. Let me write it down for you in a slightly clearer, more fluid narrative style:

Nellai Kannan was a figure who once contested elections against Kalaignar. I hold absolutely no differing opinion regarding the fact that he was a truly magnificent Tamil orator.

One day—having somehow managed to obtain his mobile number—I took the initiative to call him first. He answered, asking, "Greetings; who is speaking?"

I replied, "This is Ganesan speaking. I met you back in 1985 at *Ayya's* residence. You had visited the Nagarathar Higher Secondary School at the time. You conducted a *Kanda Sashti Pattimandram* (debate forum) there, and we were present as well."

The moment I mentioned this, he began conversing with me with a remarkable sense of warmth and familiarity. He continued to speak at length, keeping the conversation flowing.

Whenever I spoke with him, I would express my views quite directly. I would offer my critique—much like a gentle prick—by telling him, "It is not right for you to take a stance against Dravidian politics."

Yet, he never once took offense at this. Even during the two or three subsequent occasions when we spoke, he continued to grant me the opportunity to express myself with that same open-mindedness.

All of these are now merely memories of a bygone era...

Mayandi Bharathi was a Communist, yet he was related to the wealthy Krishnadevar. He visited twice—on one occasion, he even spoke about Ilaiyaraaja—while I simply stood aside and watched.

Brother Mylapore Perumal (9840842996) served as an editor at *Murasoli* for six years. After I posted a comment on one of his articles, he obtained my contact details and called me personally. He remarked, "Regarding the politics of prohibition—you hadn't even been born back then! That is the actual history." Subsequently, right up until two months before his passing, whenever I called him, he would answer the phone and speak with me. He would provide the information I needed; otherwise, he would say, "I don't know about that—ask this person," and provide me with a relevant contact number.

A house was built in Devakottai specifically for my studies. However, I never actually stayed there continuously for even a single week. Nevertheless, I regarded that very house as my permanent address. I obtained a landline telephone connection there and shared that number with everyone I knew.

Some of the letters my friends wrote to me never reached me. I myself was the reason for this—I was constantly changing my address.

On one occasion, the BSNL landline at my mother's house was inundated with unpleasant calls—particularly death notifications—from morning until midnight. Consequently, she told me to surrender the connection, reasoning, "Everyone has a mobile phone now; this landline is no longer necessary." Since the telephone account was registered in my name, she instructed me to have it disconnected.

However, it was only much later that I discovered there was another motive behind this request. They had decided to deed the house over to my younger sister. Since having the telephone connection registered in my name would complicate the legal transfer, they decided to have it removed.

My father made this decision secretly, without informing me. My mother, too, kept this secret.

I harbor no anger toward anyone regarding this matter. On the contrary, I deeply respect my father's sentiment that his daughter, too, should receive a share of the family property.

I do not frequently visit my hometown—the place where fourteen years of my life were spent. It is only when truly significant events arise that I get the opportunity to set foot on that soil once again. On one such occasion, circumstances led me to attend a temple festival.

To this day, that festival continues to be celebrated with the same fervor and deep religious faith. Even for me—now having reached the age of fifty—my affection for this festival remains undiminished. The tradition wherein women, their faces adorned with turmeric, celebrate joyfully by sprinkling turmeric water upon one another, still persists. Amidst the crowd, many smeared turmeric on me and playfully poured water over me. I accepted it all quite naturally and walked on in quiet composure.

However, Pandiyan—a friend who had shared the most significant days of my life with me—struggled for a moment, unable to recognize me immediately. No matter how much time may change, memories alone remain unaltered.

Fishing with a hook and line—together with another friend—was a simple pastime for the three of us. On some days, we would catch enough fish for everyone; at other times, the catch would be just enough to prepare a meal for a single household. On such occasions, the two of us would hand the fish over to the other friend and ask him to cook it.

They would not eat food prepared in our home. Yet, I have sat in their home—at their table, on their plates—and eaten the food cooked by those two friends who belonged to a marginalized community. The taste of that fish curry—how much sweeter it was than anything cooked in our own home!

To this day, I have been unable to forget that taste, or the love of those men.

Azhakuraja once sent me a wedding magazine marked “Issue No. 1” to my home address. When I read it, I realized he had already been married for three months.

Murugesan, who worked with me, is an unforgettable name—an irreplaceable friend. We both worked in a very uncertain job: a wine shop. But when Murugesan was on duty, I never had to worry about the accounts. Everything would be handled perfectly.

His father was a freedom fighter, and I had the chance to meet him once. He mentioned that his father had spoken about me. I was doubtful, so I asked if he knew Krishna Thevar of Valamavur. I had once written four recommendation letters on Krishna Thevar's behalf to help him receive a martyr’s pension. Though Kamaraj himself was one of the four who had signed, Krishna Thevar had refused to sign the one I wrote for him.

I have a master's degree in Gandhian thought. I have a great admiration for Gandhi. He never lied in his truth tests. Similarly, I have changed names if I wanted to because they are still alive.

The taxes on cigarettes and alcohol in India are extremely high. I’ve spoken about it often. They portray these as bad habits, but I don't see it that way. 

When I went to Africa three years ago, I had to wait at an airport for an hour and a half. There was a smoking room there. When I went in and took out a cigarette, I noticed it was bent. Before I could put it back and take another one, two women—one a Black woman, the other a white American—each offered me a cigarette. I’ve never forgotten that moment.

It was the time when I was studying in the tenth grade. That phase of school life—a beautiful blend of friendships, laughter, petty squabbles, and the memorable words of our teachers.

It was a midday afternoon. As usual, our classroom was filled with a mix of noise and laughter. At that moment, our English teacher suddenly posed a simple question:

“What have you brought for lunch today?”

Everyone began to describe what was inside their lunchboxes—rice, *sambar*, vegetables, curd... all the usual responses.

Then came my turn. Simultaneously, and with a chuckle, another friend of mine and I replied in unison:

“Sir, we’ve brought mutton intestine curry.”

Upon hearing those words, a slight look of distaste flickered across the teacher’s face.

“Doesn’t that have a terrible smell? How do you clean and cook it?” he asked.

His question amused us and made us laugh. Yet, there was a truth to it—to him, it must have seemed both unfamiliar and somewhat unappealing.

Smiling, I replied:

“Sir, we wash it thoroughly several times—four or five times, actually—using hot water. Then, to neutralize the odor, we clean it using the water extracted from leafy greens. It’s the very same greens that *you* eat!”

Hearing my response, the students in the class burst into laughter. The teacher, too, paused to think for a moment. The look of distaste on his face slowly faded, giving way to a gentle smile.

That incident taught me a simple truth:

Everyone has their own unique lifestyle, dietary habits, and experiences. What we are accustomed to feels natural to us; yet, to others, it may seem entirely new.

Today, as I look back on those memories, I realize it was not merely an ordinary incident—it was a sweet, amusing moment from my childhood. Our teacher's question and my short answer filled that day's class entirely with laughter.

My mother, who could neither read nor write, would draw a 32-point kolam once a year. During that time, she could only complete the kolam by extending it all the way to the door of the house opposite ours. I remember those days fondly, watching her draw the kolam so neatly and perfectly, without ever needing to make corrections. The same kolam, shared between both houses, would grow beyond the door. She would carefully count the 32 dots, making sure each one was in the right place. She was an incredible mother, able to create beautiful kolams without ever needing to look at paper.

A freshly laundered white shirt and a white dhoti bearing the DMK party symbol—this was the only attire I had ever seen my father wear. No matter the occasion, no matter the place, he never chose anything else. His clothes were not just garments; they were his identity, his belief, and his quiet declaration to the world.

Once, at a family wedding, we decided that everyone should wear identical white dhotis and shirts for the ceremony. It was meant to be a gesture of unity and tradition. Everyone agreed—except my father. Calmly, without anger or explanation, he refused. He wore his usual white dhoti with the DMK symbol, just as he always did.

My father did not reject our arrangement out of stubbornness. He did it because he never believed in pretending, even for a moment. He lived exactly as he believed. His self-confidence was so complete that he never felt the need to seek approval, match others, or explain himself. He stood firm, quietly, without making noise—yet his presence was unmistakable.

He taught me that dignity does not come from changing oneself to suit an occasion, but from carrying one’s principles with pride wherever one goes. His white shirt and dhoti were not symbols of simplicity alone; they were symbols of courage, consistency, and self-respect.

Today, whenever I hesitate to speak my truth or stand my ground, I remember my father at that wedding—standing alone, yet unshaken. And in that memory, I find the strength to live in a way that would make him proud.

I have learned many things in my life through experience.

The government and the private sector have decided to import foreign cows into India. The disease that allegedly spread among the country’s cows is, in my view, nothing less than a crime committed by both the government and the private sector. Our native cows graze freely in the forests. If the disease were real, it should also have affected the deer, foxes, and tigers living there. But it has not. This suggests that the disease was fabricated and spread as an excuse to destroy native cows so that importing foreign breeds would become necessary.

In the late 1980s, a similar situation happened with chickens. When a disease was said to be spreading among them, the same capitalists—along with certain collaborators—destroyed the country’s native chickens to force people to buy broiler chickens. No chicken ever left the village, so how could such a disease have spread to distant villages? The truth is, they sent certain people disguised as local traders to deliberately spread it. 

I thought about how the world’s powerful—big capitalists—always shape politics to their will. Just as in India, when Tata was started, it wasn’t merely for industry; there were whispers of deals and trades with China, involving cannabis, opium, and Afghanistan. While no one else agreed to such ventures, a Parsi businessman did—and now, history celebrates him without remembering those shadows.

My mother was alive and settled in the city in a house built for me to study. Landline phone BSNL At that time, ours was the first family to come to the city from the village.

Until then, one day my mother said that from morning to 12 midnight, all the news that comes is bad news, it is news of death.

At that time, the mobile phone did not come, so I took it. What should I do? The landline is in your name, you have to surrender it. They said that even a cheque of 500 rupees came to me, but I did not deposit it because my mother cheated me. That arrangement was to give that house to my sister.

That is why I do not do the duties that these people tell my mother.

In the 1980s, there were about 10 cows tied up behind a small house in the village of Mekkavayal. They were family property at that time, but none of the cows gave a single liter of milk. I had to feed three cows to a calf. Then my mother milked the milk, but it was not enough for our family. At one point, my father decided to sell the cows. A trader came and saw the cows. Money changed hands, but these cows could not leave the house and struggled. That incident, when they struggled, lingers in my heart. At that young age, I could not do anything. Love, money, life. I understand this now. I could not understand it then. I was sad.

When I was young and living in the fields, there was a man named Gopal who used to come to cut the horns of cows. He wasn’t a great man in society’s eyes, but he had a surprising reputation. In almost every village, he had two girlfriends, which shocked me at the time.

In the landowning society of Ramanathapuram district, men usually worked only three months a year. The rest of the time, their hobbies were playing cards and riding bullock carts, while the women took care of the household and ate well three times a day.

Gopal, apart from cutting cow horns, also performed family-planning operations on cows and goats. He was a strange man—sinful in the eyes of women, yet admired by men. To me, he seemed like a hero. He claimed to have nearly 2,000 women friends across villages, and I believe it—because in my own village, I saw him with four women.

There were no hotels in our village at that time. Gopal would eat in someone’s house, then quietly disappear into the bedroom. When he wasn’t inside, he would keep a special record of the “games” he played on the bed. 

When I was in eighth grade, I studied at Andavoorani Sirumalar Middle School for the last three months of the year. The school almost functioned like a hostel, and there was a reason for it: for five consecutive years, it had ranked first in the district-level exams for eighth graders. The teachers were determined to maintain that record.

During my time there, a girl named Jayarani, who had been my classmate since the seventh grade, grew close to me. She liked me, and I liked her. At first, it was just attraction, but slowly it turned into something deeper. However, one of the teachers staying in the hostel didn’t approve of our friendship and tried to separate us. I did something—I cannot say what—that led him to leave his job.

After eighth grade came the ninth grade. My father wanted me to study in Devakottai, a town with good schools and infrastructure. A Christian teacher had promised to get me admission into Deprado School, but in the end, he didn’t help us because of his business ties with my father. Instead, my younger brother studied there, while I was admitted to another city school, known at that time for having the lowest SSLC exam pass rate in the district.

Later, one of my relatives became the principal of that school, and it eventually improved. But in the beginning, my father—who was a busy government contractor—could not spend time to decide where I should stay. He was honest and never learned how to steal, something he regretted later because corruption was the way to survive in those times. 

For four months, I stayed in a hotel run by a family from Andhra Pradesh belonging to the Raja caste. Their food was simple and tasty—like the Nagarjuna Hotels of today. A full meal, with even mutton sukka, cost just three rupees.

**************

My Father’s Life — A Journey of Resilience 

My father lost his own father at a very tender age. Following that loss, my father—together with his elder and younger brothers—toiled tirelessly to uplift the family and bring it to a position of stability. 

My uncle once remarked:

“During the time I traded in groundnuts, my hair fell out prematurely because I had to carry all the sacks of produce as head-loads.”

The hardships they endured are vividly evident in those words.

My father is a man of great frugality. Much like Periyar, he cherishes simplicity. There was a specific reason for this: it was his firm belief that, having grown up in a family deprived of a father's presence, there was simply no room for extravagant spending. That mindset remained unchanged throughout the years; even after we began earning our own livelihoods, his stance on avoiding unnecessary expenses remained steadfast. 

It is precisely because of this frugality and discipline that, today, he lives a peaceful life in Devakottai—entirely independent of our financial assistance. That is his unique distinction. 

For as long as my mother was alive, she cared for my father with immense love and devotion. It has now been eight months since she passed away. The impact of that loss is palpable in both my father’s physical health and his emotional state. Nevertheless, one still senses that her love continues to surround him.

Now, from morning till night, wholesome meals for all three times of the day are delivered to him from outside.

It is our heartfelt prayer that everyone may be blessed with such security and support.

A Ganges in the Shadow of Memory

It was the time to begin the ninth grade—a pivotal turning point in life. At that age, I moved to Devakottai. When T. Britto School—then at the pinnacle of its fame—informed us that there were no vacancies, I was enrolled in the Nagarathar School instead. Although it appeared to be a mere change of schools, it marked a beginning that was quietly, yet profoundly, altering the trajectory of my life.

Since the house being built for my accommodation was not yet complete, a small world situated on the banks of the Vellaiyan Oorani became my temporary abode—a Telugu-speaking establishment known as "Raja Hotel." There, food, sleep, and study—everything seemed to blend into one seamless existence. It was not an easy place to live, yet it laid the very foundation upon which my dreams would eventually be built.

The family running the hotel was large—comprising five daughters and two sons. Amidst them, I was no stranger; I had become an integral part of their fold. During those days, Jayarani—a fellow student of mine—began to emerge in my mind like a gentle, dawning light. There was a youthful melancholy in her countenance, a silent beauty—and a smile as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's. She liked me, and I, too, was drawn to her. Unspoken words, unshared emotions—all these remained the pure, innocent secrets of that tender age.

One day, she, her married sister, and I went together to watch the movie *Ingaiyum Oru Gangai* (A Ganges Here, Too) at the Aruna Theatre. In the darkness of that auditorium, it was not merely the story unfolding on the screen that held our attention—something was slowly blossoming within our own hearts as well.

But life rarely allows a story to reach its intended conclusion.

Suddenly, a slide flashed across the screen—displaying the names of the three of us, accompanied by an urgent summons: "Come out immediately." In that single instant, our world stood still. When we stepped outside, the news awaited us—the sudden passing of a grandfather. That single call, that one event—it changed everything.

They left for their hometown in a hurry. When they returned a few days later, my life, too, had taken a different turn. I found myself in a situation where I had to vacate that hotel. That place, those people, those memories—everything slowly drifted away from me.

To this day, I have not been able to watch the film *Ingaiyum Oru Gangai* in its entirety. It is not merely a movie; it is an unfinished chapter of my life. Much like that moment I stood in that theater, my memories, too, remain suspended—halfway through.

Some stories never reach an end.

They live on, simply as memories.

An Unfinished Love

My first love entered my life when I was fourteen years old. I was a student at Little Flower Middle School in Andapurani. Her name was Jayarani. She was strikingly beautiful, graceful in her appearance, and elegant in the way she carried herself. More than that, she loved me back. Ours was a quiet, innocent love—pure, sincere, and untouched by fear.

Those were days without mobile phones, social media, or easy ways to stay in touch. When life took us in different directions, we simply lost contact. There were no addresses to write to, no numbers to call. Love, in those days, depended entirely on fate.

Thirty years passed.

One afternoon in Bangalore, I went to a women’s hostel to collect an advance payment for a borewell project. As I entered the office, I noticed the woman seated at the table. Something about her presence unsettled me. Then I saw the nameplate.

Jayarani.

In that moment, time collapsed. She was my Jayarani. The girl I had loved as a boy now stood before me as a woman—but dressed as a nun. The realization struck me silently and deeply. The place, the circumstances, and her new life made it impossible to speak freely. Words failed me.

I handed over the documents. She signed them and returned the papers. Then, softly, she asked,

“Ganesha, how are you? Are you married?”

It was the most unforgettable question of my life.

I could not bring myself to look into her eyes. I answered briefly, nodded, and prepared to leave. As I turned away, she mentioned calmly that she would be going to Goa in three months.

That was all.

One day, sometime later, I received a phone call from Goa. After that, there was silence. No more calls. No messages. No explanations. Fate had closed the door once again.

Today, when I look at my eldest daughter, I am often shaken. Jayarani’s face lives on in her. The same features. The same quiet beauty.

Some loves do not need a future. They do not ask for fulfillment. They remain unfinished—not because they were weak, but because they were too pure for this world.

And that love still lives quietly within me, untouched by time.

“On June 11, 2000, I married my wife, Vellaiyammal. Her decision to love and live with someone like me, and to remain by my side all these years, made me forget every other path in life.”

Second Love – Ananda

While I was studying in Devakottai, I stayed at my uncle’s home. Living there was my uncle’s daughter, Ananda. She, too, harbored a fondness for me. Our romance became an open secret—something known to everyone in the town.

However, her mother did not approve of it. She held the view that her daughter could be married into a more affluent family. Recognizing this situation, and with a mutual understanding, we parted ways.

Thirty years later, when I visited her home accompanied by my wife, the two of them interacted as friends. It stood as a silent testament to just how much life can change.

The Third Love – A Coimbatore Memory

Near the house where I was staying in Coimbatore, there lived a beautiful mother and daughter. The daughter harbored a fondness for me. I did not perceive it directly myself; rather, my landlord was the one who pointed it out to me.

At that time, marriage proposals were being considered for me. One day, even my mother remarked:

“That girl is a wonderful person; if you like her, we could certainly discuss the possibility.”

However, I did not take the suggestion seriously. The reason was that I had not had a pleasant experience with the girl's father. Lacking any trust in him, I chose to disregard that potential romance.

Looking back today, it strikes me as one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made in my life.

On June 12, 2001, the day after our wedding anniversary, a beautiful baby girl was born to us. I wished that the love and union that eluded me would not elude her. She, too, has fallen in love, and I have accepted it. I have decided to arrange an inter-caste marriage for her, either on our wedding anniversary or on her birthday.

On April 1st, 2007, the same day that April Fool's Day turned into a day of foolishness, my second daughter was born. I have never imposed my wishes on anyone; I allowed them to do what they wanted. That's how they said they wanted to learn Bharatanatyam, but after a short while, they themselves decided against it. Now she is studying Artificial Intelligence 

The days when keeping pets or growing beautiful flowering plants around the house were seen as signs of luxury are long gone. Today, they have become sources of emotional comfort and companionship.

My daughter lovingly brought home a Labrador puppy and named it Patti. From the very first day, Patti became like a child in our home. This pet dog is now our greatest source of joy and entertainment.

Patti once even bit my eldest daughter—the very one who brought it home—but we accepted it with patience and understanding. Its little tantrums and occasional anger are directed only at me and my wife, yet it chooses to sleep beside us every night, as if we are its parents.

Once, after I returned from abroad following a ten-day absence, Patti ran to me, hugged me, and covered me with kisses, showering me with pure, unconditional affection. In moments like these, we truly understand how deeply a pet can become a part of one’s family.

Footprints of Darkness

The early nineteen-eighties.
Villages that spoke loudly of discipline and restraint.
Yet beneath that surface, when night fell—after seven—the fields became places where suppressed desires were released.

Day belonged to labour.
Night belonged to silence.
And within that silence, many voices were erased—
women’s voices most of all.

There was no written law for this,
no visible authority.
Only “custom,”
a cruel arrangement accepted by all.

Barbers.
Washerfolk.
The women of those families.

They were not seen as people,
but as access—
a convenience sanctioned by tradition.

I lived inside that world.
Too young to understand it,
too unformed to resist it,
and yet not innocent of it.
I was not merely shaped by that darkness;
I carry the knowledge that I also failed within it.

She was six months older than me.
What I carried was desire.
What she carried was refusal—quiet, firm, dignified.

She said no.
That no was her strength.
At the time, I did not understand it.

Only now do I see it clearly:
her restraint was her identity;
my wanting was my ignorance.

A temple festival.
Noise, lights, intoxicated crowds.
A space unsafe for a woman,
and equally dangerous for a boy
whose moral compass had never been given a chance to form.

I understand now
how such environments manufacture violence—
how they blur responsibility and erase consent.

I did not understand then.
Many women paid the price of that ignorance with their lives, their peace, their futures.
The portion of guilt that belongs to me
walks beside me still.

Around the same time,
life taught me another lesson—
quieter, but just as brutal.

I was thirteen.
We had a young goat at home.
It played with me like a dog,
slept near my bed,
trusted me completely.

During the village goddess festival,
the goat was slaughtered—
without my knowledge.

I searched the house, confused.
When I reached the kitchen,
I saw what had become of that life—
boiling into food.

In that moment, one truth hardened inside me:

No matter how deeply we love,
this world offers no guarantee
that what we love will be spared.

People.
Animals.
Relationships.
All of them leave us,
one way or another.

At that age,
life spoke its harshest truth to me
without raising its voice.

I write this now
not to cleanse myself,
not to seek forgiveness.

I write because memories must not be buried
when they have the power to prevent repetition.

Because this darkness must never again be allowed
to raise children in its image.

This is not the filth of my life—
it is the truth I cannot erase.

When I was around ten years old, we had many cows, though milk production was limited. Still, we milked four or five cows, boiled the milk, and the next day turned it into buttermilk and lived on it.

Then a difficult situation arose. My younger aunt brought a high-yielding cow for her mother. The cow was already at the end of its life. It gave birth to a calf and then died. To keep the calf alive, we had to feed it cottonseed milk. It was at that moment that my grandmother, Azhagammal, made a firm decision: “From today onward, I will never drink milk coffee again.”
Until her death, she drank only black coffee.

About a kilometer away from our fields stood a thatched school built during Kamarajar’s time, at a cost of just three thousand rupees. It had mud walls, a single blackboard, and one teacher handling five classes. His name was Arokiyasamy.

Below the village was an area called Keelakudi, where more than thirty Dalit families lived—mostly women. Their husbands were usually bonded laborers in brick kilns, working for just three meals a day. Until the 1980s, there were no fixed working hours or regular wages. An annual amount would be agreed upon, and an advance would be paid upfront. Though such bonded labor is banned today, it was common practice then.

The men would issue promissory notes (karuthasi) to the women here. The cruelty was this: neither the men nor the women could read or write. They would bring those notes to teacher Arokiyasamy to read aloud. Over time, he developed attractions toward some of the women. He began leaving school midway through the day and frequently visiting their doorless huts.

Arokiyasamy had studied only up to the eighth grade. He had no teacher training. Due to the urgency of the time, he had become a teacher. He cycled about 6.3 kilometers every day from his village, Sirugambaiyur, to Keelakudi. Nearly a quarter of the days, his cycle would get punctured, and he would push it the rest of the way. There were no proper roads—only cart tracks. He even carried a hand pump tied to his cycle.

Eventually, he was transferred, and a Brahmin teacher from Sithamangalam replaced him. He developed an interest in me; I developed an interest in his daughter. Neither of those interests went anywhere.

One truth today’s students may not know about the Kamarajar-era midday meal scheme is this: surplus grains wasted in developed countries like the United States were shipped through the Red Cross and distributed free to underdeveloped countries like India.

I can never forget those oil tins—beautifully packed. The wheat rava was of excellent quality. It came well-packaged, but here in our villages it was poorly stored, and sometimes we even found worms in it.

Until 1977, surplus agricultural produce continued to arrive in India from the United States. After Kalaignar, when MGR became Chief Minister, things changed.

Indira Gandhi never truly knew hunger. MGR did. He had lived through poverty and starvation. Yet, along with Indira Gandhi, a grave injustice occurred: Red Cross wheat rava and oil were stopped, and instead, spoiled rice from Indian food warehouses was sent to government schools. That became the midday meal.

Only after Kalaignar returned as Chief Minister did this change.

When I was in the fifth grade, Venkatachalam and I cooked the midday meals ourselves. Teacher Arokiyasamy would join us, stirring the pot alongside us.

Once, during a school inspection, a BDO—who was close to my father—came and questioned us. I spoke rather irreverently. As a result, our teacher was temporarily suspended. Another suspended teacher was posted in his place. He didn’t know where to begin. Since he had worked in an English-medium Indian school, he taught us only English rhymes.

It was only when I reached sixth grade that I truly felt like I had entered first grade—at Andavoorani Sirumalar Middle School.
There, I met a teacher I will never forget: James.

&&&&&&

Let me share a few words with you about my foreign trip. We first landed in Thailand. It has been a structure for the enjoyment of Western countries for 200 years.

It is here that the sex industry is allowed by the government and is conducted with individual morality. Here, a show is held with 200 artists, with some 5D effects, and it is about how that country was exploited for an hour. No photography is allowed.

Theatre artists are meeting outside. I took a photo with them. The plants in Thailand are like the continuation of our Eastern Ghats. Some trees are similar.

Toyota vans are occupying the roads in large numbers. If you give two rupees, they give one rupee. 20 years ago, Thailand was worth less than Indian money. Have they grown up in the meantime? Has India become obsolete?

Many people ask how Thailand, such a naturally beautiful country, became closely associated with alcohol and prostitution.

During World War II, Japanese soldiers used Thailand as a place for rest and recreation. Later, during the Vietnam War, thousands of American soldiers were stationed nearby for almost 20 years. To escape loneliness, fear, and boredom, many of them crossed into Thailand on weekends.

Slowly, bars, alcohol, and prostitution began to grow around military demand. Not only Thai women, but women from neighboring countries were also drawn—or pushed—into this trade by poverty and circumstance. What began as a temporary arrangement for soldiers gradually turned into a large industry.

But this is only one side of Thailand’s story.

Thailand is, in truth, a country richly blessed by nature—green forests, golden temples, kind people, and deep cultural traditions. The women who were caught in that system were not symbols of sin, but victims of history, war, and inequality. Most of them were simply trying to survive.

The next town we visited was Karapi, a place whose symbol is the crab. The moment we arrived, an unexpected wave of joy filled our hearts. The long riverbank was alive with music, rhythmic dancing, and an inviting spread of local foods. Everywhere we looked, people were celebrating, living in a constant festive spirit.

The atmosphere was so infectious that we couldn’t remain mere observers. Inspired by the energy around us, our friends joined in—dancing, laughing, and playing along as if we had always belonged there. In Karapi, the journey itself turned into a celebration, leaving us with memories as vibrant as the town’s spirit.

Day Three: The Heart of Vietnam

The third day took us to Vietnam’s main city, home to the General Secretariat—the nerve center of the nation. From the moment we entered, the orderliness of the place was striking. The city felt disciplined yet calm. No one sat on the ground to take photographs; even casual behavior seemed guided by an unspoken civic code.

The roads and narrow alleys were immaculately maintained, lined with flowering plants, manicured greenery, and tastefully placed sculptures. Everything appeared intentional, aesthetic, and restrained. Our guide explained that this sense of structure and urban elegance was a legacy of French rule. Many of the buildings, some more than 150 years old, still stand firm—well preserved, dignified, and quietly proud of their history.

Religion here is almost invisible. Vietnam has only one Christian church, and even there, prayers are no longer held. There are no mosques, no temples filled with rituals, no public worship of God as we know it elsewhere. Yet, paradoxically, the absence of visible religion has not resulted in chaos or fear.

There are no police stationed on the roads, no armed presence watching over the people. And still, life moves peacefully, without tension or disorder.

On our way, I took photographs near the residences of high-ranking police officers and close to the military headquarters. There were no barricades, no drama, no display of power—just simple office buildings, quietly serving their purpose. Authority here does not shout; it exists without spectacle.

Vietnam, at least in this city, felt like a place where discipline replaced fear, order replaced noise, and silence itself told a powerful story.

I was surprised by Vietnam. Although it is a communist country, the restrictions there felt very unusual. In some places, smoking is strictly prohibited.

What surprised me most is that their leader, Ho Chi Minh, is always depicted with a cigar in his mouth. Historically, great revolutionaries like Che Guevara and Fidel Castro smoked, as it symbolized power, resistance, and reclaiming authority. However, I did not experience that spirit there.

I was fined 20 dollars for smoking on a ship. It is ignorance, not awareness, that should be protested against. What future governors do—such as starting organizations like the Lions Club—will eventually fade away.

Sun City is a very popular tourist destination. Five rope cars operate simultaneously, carrying visitors high above the landscape. Millions of people gather here every year, and the atmosphere is truly electrifying. We took photographs near the enormous Buddha statue, awed by its serene presence.

I asked our translator why four particular statues attracted me so strongly. His answer surprised me. He explained that they resemble the worship of local guardian deities. He also mentioned that caste symbols were once embedded in them, but these divisions were largely erased during the period of French occupation.

The streets of Thailand are as lively as the Madurai cattle market in the early morning. Cars are considered a luxury because of the high taxes imposed on them, so most people rely on two-wheelers. Some traders even conduct business using motorcycles fitted with sidecars. I was particularly surprised to see two women transporting and unloading beef with ease and confidence. Opposite a star hotel, women sat along the roadside selling a wide variety of foods, much like small snack stalls.

Although nearly thirty percent of the world’s rice is produced in this region, rice does not dominate their daily meals as much as one might expect. The tragic Yellow River of China flows through Southeast Asia and is used extensively in Vietnam after passing through neighboring regions.

From the airplane window, the view was breathtaking. The river below flowed slowly like delicate lace, winding endlessly across the land. This river is truly the lifeline of Vietnam—its veins and arteries, carrying life to the country it nourishes.

In both Vietnam and Thailand, women earn, men also earn, but in Thailand, women have property rights.

In our country, the Nadar community in Tamil Nadu, who traded blackcurrants, (karuppatti) became rich, in the same way, Vietnamese women who traded barter live comfortably. I cleaned for three days. In Vietnam, the shop opens in the morning. Women bring beef and slaughter it. That's how women should come to the fore.

My solo trip to Vietnam and Thailand cost 2 lakhs.  For the same amount of 2 lakhs, my two daughters and two of their classmates—a total of four people—travelled around Malaysia and Vietnam for 20 days. The total cost was 4 lakhs. You need to plan; otherwise, everything is a waste.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

I have always believed that the most suitable places for human life on Earth lie in Africa—nearly seventy-five percent of the continent—and in large parts of Asia. These are regions where nature seems balanced and welcoming. Day and night share equal time: twelve hours of sunlight and twelve hours of darkness. Life here does not demand heavy clothing or constant protection from extreme cold. One can walk freely, simply dressed, in harmony with the climate. Unlike America or Europe, there are no vast snow-covered lands that confine human movement and lifestyle.

Africa holds a special place in my understanding of the world. The equator passes directly through this land, making it a natural laboratory for observing the laws of nature. I had the rare opportunity to participate in one such experiment. Standing at the equator, I poured water into a funnel. At that exact point, the water flowed straight down, without any swirl or movement. When the same funnel was moved just five feet to the right, the water began to rotate clockwise. When moved five feet to the left, it rotated counter-clockwise. Witnessing this with my own eyes was astonishing. It revealed how subtly yet precisely nature operates—something every student of life and science should experience at least once.

Africa is also a living museum of life itself. In that vast land, all forms of life coexist—from the mighty elephant, the largest of land animals, to the graceful giraffe, the tallest. Alongside them live jackals, rabbits, snakes, and countless other creatures, each playing its role in the natural order. Observing this diversity taught me that life thrives not in excess or control, but in balance.

These experiences shaped my understanding of the world and of myself. Africa was not just a place I visited; it became a chapter in my life story—one that taught me how deeply humans are connected to nature, and how much we still have to learn from it.

https://www.google.com/search?q=In+the+equatorial+region+of+Africa%2C+the+processes+that+confirm+the+water+cycle+and+its+video+footage+are+needed.&oq=In+the+equatorial+region+of+Africa%2C+the+processes+that+confirm+the+water+cycle+and+its+video+footage+are+needed.&gs_lcrp=EgZjaHJvbWUyBggAEEUYOTIHCAEQIRiPAjIHCAIQIRiPAjIHCAMQIRiPAtIBCTIzMzJqMGoxNagCCLACAfEFUl6gyyBqoAHxBVJeoMsgaqAB&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:db477fa0,vid:pWc9SfwnSxM,st:0

A vast grazing land stretched endlessly before my eyes. It was there that I truly understood how nature maintains its delicate balance. In the Maasai Mara, every creature—lions, elephants, giraffes, deer, zebras, and countless others—lives as part of a herd, bound by the unwritten laws of the wild. Watching how they hunt, survive, and coexist made this balance strikingly clear.

We stayed deep inside the forest for three days, completely safe yet profoundly aware of the life surrounding us. My room felt like a watchtower, perched near the riverbank where animals regularly came to drink. From there, the wilderness unfolded like a living documentary.

Each day brought its own unforgettable moment. One morning, I was awakened by the deep grunts of a hippopotamus near the water. The next day, it was a graceful deer standing quietly nearby that stirred me from sleep. These moments, simple yet powerful, made the experience truly unforgettable.

The hotel where we stayed was a very old, historic five-star hotel from the British era. The International Line President, who was about to arrive there, welcomed us. Dr. Manoj Jha.

In Africa, many women work in hotels, especially in cooking. In other parts of the world, culinary experts, or chefs, are mostly men. Only in Africa do women hold positions as head chefs; this felt quite unique.

These people are inherently very kind, forming a close bond with you in a single day—unforgettable friends.

We visited an African tribal village and explored the amenities inside their homes, which was surprising. They had managed to fit all their basic necessities into small houses measuring just 15 by 15 square feet. They even demonstrated how they still use traditional methods to start a fire.

I asked the jeep driver who took us into the jungle whether any animals had ever attacked humans in the forest. He said no. At that moment, a pride of lions was about a hundred feet away, and a herd of elephants was just fifty feet away. Our safari jeep got stuck in the mud, and while we were waiting for another vehicle to come to our aid, I got out and lit a cigarette. That was when the driver told me this.

The incoming Lions International President is a doctor who has established a massive hospital spanning three acres, specializing in ophthalmology and blood donation. They have spent over 100 crore Indian rupees on this project, and many Indians have assisted him. The current Lions International President is of Indian origin. The opportunity to hold this position will come to the Asian continent only after four years, but this individual, Shah, has competed as an African and won. He is a deserving person and is doing tremendous service.

A few years ago, I read a book called The Paleo Diet. It was very insightful, explaining human eating habits, vegetarianism and non-vegetarianism, and how humans obtain the energy their bodies need from food. From it, I learned several interesting facts.

For example, some dogs, when they have an upset stomach, chew on Bermuda grass. I witnessed a similar scene in the African jungle: a lion had torn open the stomach of a wildebeest and, instead of eating the meat—which was already partially digested and ready for consumption—it was eating the long grass from the animal’s stomach.

When I researched this behavior, I learned that even a lion does not obtain everything its body needs from meat alone; certain vitamins are found only in plants. Since lions do not have the dental structure to graze and eat plants directly, they consume the grass from the stomachs of herbivores.

A lion eating food from the stomach of a wild buffalo

 Another cruel reality is that while older lions are safe in captivity, in the wild, lions remain part of a family only as long as they are capable of hunting. Once they become old or disabled due to injuries, their situation becomes very precarious. We were able to see many old lions; it was a truly heartbreaking sight.

தமிழர்களின் பாரம்பரிய வாழ்வில் பிறந்தநாளைக் கொண்டாடும் வழக்கம் பெரிதாக இல்லை. நாள், நட்சத்திரம், வயது—இவையெல்லாம் வாழ்க்கையின் ஓட்டத்தில் ஒரு குறிப்பாக மட்டுமே கருதப்பட்டன. நம் பண்பாட்டில் “வாழ்ந்த நாள் எப்படி?” என்பதே முக்கியம்; “பிறந்த நாள் எது?” என்பதல்ல.

ஆனால் என் வாழ்க்கைப் பயணத்தில், ஒரு கட்டத்தில் நான் ஹோட்டல் மேனேஜராக பணியாற்றிய காலம் வந்தது. அப்போது அங்கு நான் கண்ட ஒரு நடைமுறை எனக்கு புதுமையாகவும், சிந்திக்க வைப்பதாகவும் இருந்தது. மேனேஜர் முதல் கடை நிலை ஊழியர் வரை—யாருக்கு பிறந்தநாள் வந்தாலும்—அவர்களுக்கென கேக் செய்து, அனைவரும் சேர்ந்து கொண்டாடுவார்கள். அது ஒரு ஆங்கிலேய வழக்கம் என்பதை அப்போதுதான் நான் உணர்ந்தேன்.

பின்னர் அமெரிக்காவின் லயன்ஸ் கிளப் போன்ற அமைப்புகளைப் பார்த்தபோது அந்த வழக்கத்தின் அர்த்தம் எனக்கு இன்னும் தெளிவானது. அவர்கள் எல்லாவற்றையும் ஒரு நோக்கத்தோடு செய்கிறார்கள். மனிதன் மனிதனோடு இணைந்திருக்க வேண்டும் என்பதே அதன் மையம். அந்த இணைப்பு நட்பாக மாறுகிறது; அந்த நட்பு ஒரு வளையமாகி, அவர்களின் சமூகச் செயல்பாடுகளுக்கும் வியாபாரத்திற்கும் அடிப்படையாகிறது. அதனால்தான் அவர்கள் பிறந்தநாள்களை முக்கியமாகக் கொண்டாடுகிறார்கள்.

என் விஷயத்தில் ஒரு சிறிய வேறுபாடு இருந்தது. என் பிறந்தநாளில் வெட்டப்பட்ட கேக்குகளுக்கான பணத்தை நான் தான் செலுத்தினேன். யாரும் கட்டாயப்படுத்தவில்லை; அது என் விருப்பம். அந்தச் செயலில் ஒரு ஆழமான மகிழ்ச்சி இருந்தது.

ஏனென்றால்,
மனித மனம் பெரிய விழாக்களுக்காக அல்ல—
சிறிய சந்தோஷங்களுக்காகத்தான் அதிகம் ஆசைப்படுகிறது.
அந்த சந்தோஷத்தை நாம் நமக்கே உருவாக்கிக் கொண்டால்,
அது வாழ்க்கையில் ஒரு இனிய நினைவாக மாறுகிறது.

In the traditional life of the Tamils, the custom of celebrating birthdays was not prevalent. The date, the star, the age—all these were considered merely as markers in the flow of life. In our culture, what matters is "How was the life lived?", not "What is the date of birth?".

However, at one point in my life's journey, I worked as a hotel manager. A practice I observed there was both novel and thought-provoking for me. From the manager to the lowest-ranking employee—whenever someone had a birthday—a cake would be made for them, and everyone would celebrate together. It was then that I realized it was a Western custom.

Later, when I observed organizations like the Lions Club in America, the meaning of this custom became even clearer to me. They do everything with a purpose. The core principle is that people should be connected to one another. This connection transforms into friendship; this friendship becomes a network, forming the basis for their social activities and businesses. That is why they celebrate birthdays with importance.

In my case, there was a slight difference. I was the one who paid for the cakes cut on my birthdays. No one forced me; it was my choice. There was a profound joy in that act.

Because,

The human mind doesn't yearn for grand celebrations—

but rather for small joys.

If we create that joy for ourselves,

it becomes a sweet memory in life.

I do not frequently visit my hometown—the place where fourteen years of my life were spent. It is only when truly significant events arise that I get the opportunity to set foot on that soil once again. On one such occasion, circumstances led me to attend a temple festival.

To this day, that festival continues to be celebrated with the same fervor and deep religious faith. Even for me—now having reached the age of fifty—my affection for this festival remains undiminished. The tradition wherein women, their faces adorned with turmeric, celebrate joyfully by sprinkling turmeric water upon one another, still persists. Amidst the crowd, many smeared turmeric on me and playfully poured water over me. I accepted it all quite naturally and walked on in quiet composure.

However, Pandiyan—a friend who had shared the most significant days of my life with me—struggled for a moment, unable to recognize me immediately. No matter how much time may change, memories alone remain unaltered.

Fishing with a hook and line—together with another friend—was a simple pastime for the three of us. On some days, we would catch enough fish for everyone; at other times, the catch would be just enough to prepare a meal for a single household. On such occasions, the two of us would hand the fish over to the other friend and ask him to cook it.

They would not eat food prepared in our home. Yet, I have sat in their home—at their table, on their plates—and eaten the food cooked by those two friends who belonged to a marginalized community. The taste of that fish curry—how much sweeter it was than anything cooked in our own home!

To this day, I have been unable to forget that taste, or the love of those men.

When I was in Bengaluru, someone advised me to start a good business. Not just drilling borewells, but also installing motors and providing maintenance services as a complete package. The person who gave me this advice was not an ordinary man—he was related to Vajpayee and was a Gujarati Marwari.

At first, I didn’t listen to him because I felt his views were against my own beliefs. But at one point, he called me, made me sit down, and deliberately gave me an important piece of advice.

He said, “If you work honestly, your customers won’t call you again. Because if you do the job perfectly, the borewell and motor will work well for more than 15 years. After that, the house may belong to someone else, and they won’t look for you. So you shouldn’t do everything perfectly. Only if there are small issues will they call you in between. That way, you’ll maintain a connection with that family.”

I did not accept his advice. I chose to work honestly and do my job properly. Because of that, I earned a reputation as one of the best in Bengaluru, and my name was even listed in a directory.

At one stage, my influence grew so much that I could approach judges directly and express my views instead of going through court procedures. But eventually, that turned against me.

Some members of the association started accusing me, saying, “Ganeshan is the reason behind unfavorable judgments.” Because of these problems, I was forced to leave that business and move on to another line of work.