The Tightwad

Getting him to part with ten rupees was like devising a terrorist scheme to destroy the Taj Mahal. He was obsessed with saving, so much that he sometimes preferred to skip a meal than spend on food. He had a scrimp's reputation but he vehemently denied being one. We thought he squeezed the tea out of every odd fly that landed in his teacup before gulping the tea, and probably even ate the fly, for it had soaked in his tea! We frequently had bets among ourselves on whether he licked the odd strand of hair that turned up in his dish.

People wondered what the old tightwad would get out of all this saving, for he was all alone here, tucked away in this remote colony in Bangalore. For all practical purposes, he had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. His wife had died of breast cancer five years ago and his only son had gone to the US around the same time, leaving the miserly old man to himself.

People called him a skinflint and a piker. He was often referred to as the 'greatest penny-pincher of the millenium' and we joked about honoring him with that title. It was rumored that his son was a millionaire in the USA and sent him thousands of dollars every month, which Sitaram Uncle hoarded big time. We kept an eye on him and found out that he did receive an envelope by post every month, but he never once tipped the poor postman.

He was always seen in a tattered pair of pyjamas, trimming the shrubs in his little garden. There was always only one bulb burning in his house at any given time of the night, and sometimes he turned even that off to save up on the electricity bill. He bought just one liter of milk for the entire week and preferred to borrow the newspaper from his neighbor than buy it. He never went out to shop, but every time a hawker came by, he would bargain fiercely for every 25 paise he paid. He would always go somewhere in the afternoons and come back by evening. Some people had even seen him going for a walk all by himself late in the evenings.

But in spite of his tightfistedness, Sitaram Uncle was lovable. He was a good listener, perhaps because listening cost him nothing. He was very generous with his time. He never hesitated to be there (as in physically present) whenever anyone needed a sympathetic ear or a shoulder to lean on. But when it came to money, he was the first person to back off.

One day, we were hiding behind the wall of the dilapidated corporation building, watching Sitaram Uncle's house as usual. The postman arrived with the envelope. He rang the bell of his bicycle and waited for Sitaram Uncle to open the door and come rushing zealously towards him, as was usual, to snatch the envelope from him anxiously. But the door remained closed. The postman got impatient, and so did we. What was taking the old man so long when he knew he would receive the envelope? We looked at each other and shrugged. The minutes ticked by. The postman rang the bicycle bell again. When there was no response, he walked up to the door and knocked. To his surprise (and ours), the door was unlocked and opened easily. The postman peered into the house as we craned our necks to see what was inside. And there, lying on the bed was poor old Sitaram Uncle, shivering intermittently.

At once we all climbed out of our hiding place and walked towards his house. The perplexed postman was relieved to see us. He gave the envelope to us saying, "Please hand this over to him," and left unceremoniously. We stepped into his house (for the first time in ages) and took a closer look at his pale, semi-conscious face. He continued to shiver at regular intervals and we looked at each other helplessly.

One girl in our group suddenly suggested, "Just leave that cover there and let's get out of here!"

Though the others were in partial agreement, all of us felt guilty about leaving the old man to suffer alone.

Finally I said, "I think we should call a doctor."

The others looked at each other and nodded. Someone in the crowd squeaked, "But this miser is not going to part with the money for the fees. And no doctor will see him for free!"

I knew this was coming. But I couldn't leave him like this. So I said, "Friends, we have made the mistake of coming in here, though unintentionally. And after seeing him in this condition, I think it is imperative to call in the doctor at this point of time. Besides, we have had a lot of fun at his expense, commenting about him and sneaking on his private routine. So I think we owe it to this man. I am going to call the doctor. Anybody joining me?"

For a full minute there was total silence. Then one boy spoke up, "I'm with you, Ritu," and slowly, the others joined in.

"Raj, Kishore and Seema, you three stay here and keep an eye on Sitaram Uncle, while Sudhir and I go and fetch Dr. Sriram." They agreed.

Twenty minutes later, the doctor was examining Sitaram Uncle. He shook his head. "It is a case of malaria. He must have economised on the mosquito repellant, and now he's down with this. I think he needs to be shifted to the nursing home immediately."

All of us exchanged glances. Dr. Sriram understood. He got up and said, "If you are thinking about the money, don't worry. He can pay the bills after he is discharged."

Thus, Sitaram Uncle ended up in the hospital. We visited him regularly and four days later, he was much better. When I visited him one afternoon, he held my hand and thanked me. Then he looked away, tears welling in his eyes.

"What's the matter, uncle?" I asked gently.

"Ritu, my child…" he began. "I don't know how I am going to repay your kindness towards this lonely old man. And I don't know how I am going to pay the bills either."

"Come on, Uncle! The bills aren't going to be all that high. You can afford it, what with all those dollars flowing in from the USA!!" I blurted.

Immediately, he let go of my hand and gasped. "What dollars?" he asked incredulously.

I felt stupid telling him we knew about the envelopes and the money his son sent him.

Suddenly, he let out a hollow laugh as a tear rolled down his cheek. He looked away and said, "So, all of you think my son sends me money every month?"

When I nodded, he went on, "All right. I think it's time I told the truth. My son went to the United States five years ago on a student's visa. He worked extremely hard there to support himself as he studied. In fact, I used to send him money whenever I could, from my pension." He paused and drifted away into nostalgia. A few seconds later, he visibly shook himself out of his contemplation and continued, "A few months later, he was so overworked that he fell sick. He was admitted in a local hospital there. Initially, he received free treatment, but eventually he was diagnosed as having a type of tumor in the cerebrum. The tumor kept growing, causing the brain to degenerate gradually. The treatment for that is very expensive. His friends managed to get him an aid from the US Government, but even that was insufficient. I knew my son was dying. He was not in a position to be flown back to India, and I couldn't afford a trip to the USA. So I started working at a local old age home here. I was given the afternoon shift, when I would have to go and take care of the inmates. I saved hard and sent the money to that hospital in the US at regular intervals. The hospital mailed the bills to me every month. Those were the envelopes I received every month, which you assumed to be 'dollars' from my son."

He sighed loudly and went on, "Last week, one of the inmates at the Home had malaria and I was taking care of him. I guess I got the infection then. I had high temperature for about three days, but I chose to ignore it since I could not afford to spend money on myself when my son needed it more." He had a dejected expression on his face as he whispered, "Now I feel defeated. I won't be able to send him money this month, and the hospital will probably shift him to an ordinary ward, and he will be denied the care he deserves. My poor son…" and he buried his face in his hands.

I felt so sorry for this frail old man struggling his way through life, giving up his own comforts at this age, for the sake of his son, suffering in loneliness, without uttering a word to anyone around.

"Uncle," I said softly, and he looked at me, with his tear stained face pleading for support. "Why did you keep this to yourself for so long? Wouldn't any of us have helped you?"

"I didn't want to burden anyone with my worries. I know that everyone has his or her own worries in this world, and I just didn't want to trouble anyone. With the kind of reputation I had, I felt no one would believe or want to help a wretched old man like me."

I left him alone with his worries and trudged back home immersed in thought. I had to help him. But I didn't know how. That night I discussed it with my parents. They were shocked to hear the whole story. My father at once said, "Ritu, get details about his son's whereabouts in the USA. I will contact Phillip Stevens. He's an old friend of mine, and he's in the Government Services there. I'm sure he can be of some help."

After that, things happened at record pace, with Sitaram Uncle recovering from his illness, and all of us busy trying to locate Phillip Stevens and coordinating things with him. On the day Sitaram Uncle was discharged from the nursing home, my father handed him his passport, visa and five hundred dollars, saying, "Sitaram, you are leaving for the US tonight. Mr. Phillip Stevens would be there at the airport to receive you." Sitaram Uncle was bewildered, but my father did not entertain any questions. He just patted Sitaram Uncle on his back, saying, "If you can keep secrets, so can I!"

Three months went by. We received letters regularly from Sitaram Uncle, and each letter carried news about the steady improvement in his son's condition. A surgery was scheduled for the coming week, and all of us prayed earnestly as the day approached. Mr. Stevens had arranged for Sitaram Uncle's son to be moved into a government hospital where he was given the best care free of cost.

Soon, D-day arrived and all of us were tense. My father was pacing nervously, glancing at the phone every few minutes. At last the phone rang. All of us nearly jumped out of our skins at its shrill ring. Father picked it up and barked, "Yes," into the receiver. He listened for a few seconds, and we watched his tense face relax as the conversation proceeded. When he hung up, his face was washed with relief, and he smiled at us, showing the thumbs-up signal. My brother and I rushed to him, laughing and crying at the same time. We took turns hugging each other murmuring, "God is great!"

A few weeks later, Sitaram Uncle arrived in Bangalore with his son, who had now almost completely recovered. We invited them home for dinner with us. Over dinner, Sitaram Uncle stated with feeling, "I'm proud of your daughter. But for her, both of us wouldn't be alive today!"

I was so embarrassed at this exaggerated praise that I had to excuse myself from the dinner table and take refuge in the adjoining living room. But all said and done, I was genuinely happy with the way things turned out.

After that day, everyone in the colony looked up to Sitaram Uncle with respect. No one dared to call him names, for everyone understood how painfully life had treated the old man, and how bravely he had battled the odds, without once uttering a word of complaint. His son soon got a good job in a software company and things improved for them substantially. We finally saw Sitaram Uncle smile contentedly.

A few days later, we were extremely surprised to see him wearing the same tattered pyjamas and trimming his garden. When I confronted him, he admitted sheepishly, "Old habits die hard!"