Barrister Parvateesam

With a face streaked with tears—though I could not tell whether she was laughing or crying—the old lady came, opened the door, saw me, composed herself, and suddenly embraced me, exclaiming, “Oh! Mr. Sam, Sam!”

The two children, who had been laughing until then, stopped as abruptly as a gramophone record screeching to a halt. They pressed their lips together, stifled their laughter with great effort, and stood up straight.

“So much has happened, Mr. Sam. If only you had told us beforehand that you were going to a party with us, I could have given you some advice! Still, it’s all right, don’t worry about it,” she said, releasing me from her embrace and patting me on the back.

“I’m not thinking anything of it,” I said, and without another word, hurried into my room. I collapsed onto the sofa, realizing that those little imps must have recounted everything I had said, adding their own spices and garnishes. The three of them were laughing together, I thought.

Just then, all three of them came back and said, “Mr. Sam, please forgive our foolish behavior. It was a mistake to laugh like that. Please don’t take it to heart.” They apologized.

“I haven’t taken it to heart at all, so there’s no need for apologies,” I replied.

“Thank you,” they said, bowing their heads and leaving quietly. I thought to myself, “It was a mistake to tell them anything at all. As far as they know, they’ll broadcast it to all their friends. But so what? What’s lost is lost!” I chuckled to myself.

Though at first I had been a bit angry with them, seeing the mother and children pulling such silly faces, looking at me with fear—especially that little one—by the time they apologized, I felt sorry for them. After they left, as I replayed the whole episode in my mind, I realized—what fault is there in them? I was the one who made the mistake. Anyone who heard what happened would laugh. How could they not? Now, with time to spare...

When I think about it quietly, I can’t help but laugh at myself! A lack of intelligence is simply a lack of intelligence. But then, if someone calls you dull-witted, or even just thinks it, what’s the use in feeling hurt or bearing a grudge against them? Isn’t that just another kind of foolishness?

So, from the bottom of my heart, I forgave them. No matter what they say about my lack of brains, when I look at their silly faces, I can’t help but feel a mix of pity and amusement. Isn’t that a curious thing?

Trying to put all that behind me, I resolved to return to my studies. But just as I was about to begin, thoughts of home crept in again. How is my mother doing? How much must she be worrying about me? Even though my father is strict, surely he has a deep affection for me inside. But he never lets it show. Even now, instead of comforting my mother with kind words and easing her worries, is he making her even more anxious by scolding her?

What can I do about it from here? Did my letters reach them or not? But how could they not? This isn’t India, after all, where letters, telegrams, and money orders might go missing! Then why hasn’t Father written back? All this time I’ve been here, not a single reply from him—why is that? If I don’t hear from home, how am I supposed to survive? Will I end up abandoning my studies and heading home, empty-handed? Oh Lord, would that not be the most ridiculous fate for my life? Perhaps I should send a telegram? But that would cost a fortune! What am I to do now? Lost in these thoughts, I sat there, book in hand.

I don’t know how long I sat like that, but suddenly there was a knock at the door. I started, and called out, “Come in.” Slowly, Mrs. Thomson entered, opening the door gently. What could she want this time? I wondered.

With a gentle smile, she said, “You have a letter, Mr. Semgar! Perhaps it’s from your home,” and handed me the letter before leaving quietly.

The moment I took the letter in my hand, I knew it was from home. For some reason, a tremor ran through me. Tears welled up in my eyes. Was it from happiness, or...

I do not know whether it was sorrow or something else. For two or three minutes, I could not bring myself to open the letter. At last, somehow, I gathered my courage and opened it. The moment I saw my father’s familiar handwriting, it felt as if life itself had returned to me.

As I read the letter, the fears and doubts that had haunted me since I first set out began to melt away. His words, filled with compassion, felt so soothing to my eyes, and a flood of emotions—joy, surprise, and more—rose up all at once, overwhelming me.

Nowhere in the letter could I find even a trace of my father’s usual sternness, not in a single line or letter. Perhaps, the farther people are from you, the more their affection grows! Every line he wrote was filled with such warmth! Reading about the pain my mother was enduring, and how helpless he felt at not being able to comfort her, brought me such sorrow that I cannot express it. Instantly, I felt like throwing my books aside, bidding farewell to my studies, sprouting wings, and flying home.

Somehow, I managed to finish reading the letter. Tears welled up and overflowed like a Godavari flood. No matter how hard I tried, I could not stop them. There was no one to say, “My boy, why are you so upset? Why are you grieving like this?” Nor was there anyone to advise, “You shouldn’t be so troubled by this. Just write a