Bhadyathalu Srikaram
Chapter 1: A Small, Happy Family
Srikanth, a humble bank clerk, comes from a modest middle-class background. Over the years, he became a living embodiment of honesty, sincerity, and dedication. Having spent decades processing loan files and observing countless lives fall into misery under debt, he framed a personal life rule — “Never take a loan, never give a loan. Be content with what we have.” And he stood by it, no matter what. Srivani, his wife, is not just his partner — she is his soulmate. For her, her husband is her God, and her son, her world. She wholeheartedly embraces Srikanth’s ideology without ever questioning it. She never demands silk sarees or gold ornaments. Instead, she finds joy in the little things her husband brings home — a new saree during festivals, a pair of bangles now and then — and always smiles with gratitude.
Their son, Srikar, is neither a topper nor a backbencher. He is disciplined, obedient, and academically good — a boy who earns praise not just in marks but also in manners. Teachers admire his grounded nature, and classmates respect him for his honesty.
This family may not have luxuries, but they are rich in love, respect, and contentment.
But as they say — days don’t always remain the same. Change had arrived at the doorstep of this humble home, wrapped in hope.
Srikar completed his engineering from a reputed college in the city. The boy who once quietly stood in the middle benches had now made his parents proud — securing a job through campus placement with a decent package. The day Srikar received the offer letter was a moment etched in their hearts. He was overjoyed, finally stepping into the world he had only dreamt of. His mother’s eyes sparkled with pride — her son had made it. And Srikanth, the father who had silently carried the weight of the family for years, finally felt a sense of relief. A new shoulder had joined him to steer the ship forward.
Their son, Srikar, is neither a topper nor a backbencher. He is disciplined, obedient, and academically good — a boy who earns praise not just in marks but also in manners. Teachers admire his grounded nature, and classmates respect him for his honesty.
This family may not have luxuries, but they are rich in love, respect, and contentment.
But as they say — days don’t always remain the same. Change had arrived at the doorstep of this humble home, wrapped in hope.
Srikar completed his engineering from a reputed college in the city. The boy who once quietly stood in the middle benches had now made his parents proud — securing a job through campus placement with a decent package. The day Srikar received the offer letter was a moment etched in their hearts. He was overjoyed, finally stepping into the world he had only dreamt of. His mother’s eyes sparkled with pride — her son had made it. And Srikanth, the father who had silently carried the weight of the family for years, finally felt a sense of relief. A new shoulder had joined him to steer the ship forward.
* * *
Chapter 2: The First Crack
They say God always has different plans, and life never moves in a straight line. It didn’t take long for that quiet, balanced household to feel the first ripple.
Barely a month into his new job, Srikar surprised his parents — not with words, but with a loud bike horn that echoed through their peaceful lane. Startled, Srikanth and Srivani rushed outside in worry.
What they saw left them frozen —Srikar, full of joy, revving his brand-new bike, shouting with excitement. Srivani, seeing her son so happy, immediately smiled and joined in his excitement. Her eyes filled with pride, she placed a loving hand on his shoulder, celebrating the moment. But Srikanth stood still.
No smile.
No words.
Just silence. His eyes didn’t look at the bike — they looked through it, into something deeper.
Seeing his father’s reaction, Srikar casually added, “Don’t worry Nanna, I bought it on loan — the bank gives special two-wheeler loans for new employees. It’s nothing.”
But to Srikanth, it was everything. A rule he lived by all his life… quietly broken.
Barely a month into his new job, Srikar surprised his parents — not with words, but with a loud bike horn that echoed through their peaceful lane. Startled, Srikanth and Srivani rushed outside in worry.
What they saw left them frozen —Srikar, full of joy, revving his brand-new bike, shouting with excitement. Srivani, seeing her son so happy, immediately smiled and joined in his excitement. Her eyes filled with pride, she placed a loving hand on his shoulder, celebrating the moment. But Srikanth stood still.
No smile.
No words.
Just silence. His eyes didn’t look at the bike — they looked through it, into something deeper.
Seeing his father’s reaction, Srikar casually added, “Don’t worry Nanna, I bought it on loan — the bank gives special two-wheeler loans for new employees. It’s nothing.”
But to Srikanth, it was everything. A rule he lived by all his life… quietly broken.
* * *
Chapter 3: Echoes of ‘My Money’
Two years into his job, Srikar celebrated his work anniversary in style — with surprises, gifts, and smiles. He returned home one evening, arms full of shopping bags, a bright grin on his face.
Srivani, a bit puzzled, asked softly, “Em festival aa nanna? Endhuku anthaa shopping?” ("Is there any festival, dear? Why so many clothes?")
Srikar chuckled, tossing bags onto the sofa. “Amma, do you think we should only buy clothes during festivals or occasions?
Anyway, I bought them with my own money.”
The words hung in the air.
That phrase — “my money” — had slowly become the loudest sound in their house over the last two years. Louder than Amma. Louder than Nanna.
Srivani hesitated, “But last month, didn’t you buy new clothes again?”
Srikar rolled his eyes slightly,
“Amma, those were formals. These are casual. Anyway, leave it. You won’t understand.”
And with that, the topic was closed.
In another moment, Srikanth noticed something odd.
He saw Srikar slipping out in a pair of old chappals and glanced at the shoe rack — 12 pairs. He counted again. Twelve.
He asked gently,
“We have only two feet, nanna. Why do you need so many shoes?”
Srikar laughed,
“Nanna, each occasion needs a different pair to match the outfit. It’s fashion!”
Srikanth looked down at his own sandals, worn but still solid.
“I’ve been using the same pair for three years. Your mother still uses the one set she has.”
Srikar shrugged,
“But Nanna… I don’t have time to think about all that.”
Srikanth didn’t reply. Not because he didn’t have words — but because he knew they wouldn’t be heard.
And then, one Sunday afternoon, Srikar said with a spark in his eyes,
“Nanna, Amma… pose for a selfie!”
Srikanth smiled faintly and leaned in. But his eyes caught the new phone Srikar was holding.
“What happened to the one you bought six months ago?” he asked.
Srikar proudly held up the new device.
“This is an iPhone, Nanna.” He said the word like it held magic.
Srikanth asked, not in sarcasm but in curiosity,
“Does this do something your old phone couldn’t?” Srikar sighed,
“Nanna, it’s not about doing. It’s about brand. These days, people only care about brands. But… you won’t understand all this. You’re from the old school.”
Again, the conversation ended with that now-familiar line — and always with a gentle but firm reminder: “I bought it with my money.”
Srivani, a bit puzzled, asked softly, “Em festival aa nanna? Endhuku anthaa shopping?” ("Is there any festival, dear? Why so many clothes?")
Srikar chuckled, tossing bags onto the sofa. “Amma, do you think we should only buy clothes during festivals or occasions?
Anyway, I bought them with my own money.”
The words hung in the air.
That phrase — “my money” — had slowly become the loudest sound in their house over the last two years. Louder than Amma. Louder than Nanna.
Srivani hesitated, “But last month, didn’t you buy new clothes again?”
Srikar rolled his eyes slightly,
“Amma, those were formals. These are casual. Anyway, leave it. You won’t understand.”
And with that, the topic was closed.
In another moment, Srikanth noticed something odd.
He saw Srikar slipping out in a pair of old chappals and glanced at the shoe rack — 12 pairs. He counted again. Twelve.
He asked gently,
“We have only two feet, nanna. Why do you need so many shoes?”
Srikar laughed,
“Nanna, each occasion needs a different pair to match the outfit. It’s fashion!”
Srikanth looked down at his own sandals, worn but still solid.
“I’ve been using the same pair for three years. Your mother still uses the one set she has.”
Srikar shrugged,
“But Nanna… I don’t have time to think about all that.”
Srikanth didn’t reply. Not because he didn’t have words — but because he knew they wouldn’t be heard.
And then, one Sunday afternoon, Srikar said with a spark in his eyes,
“Nanna, Amma… pose for a selfie!”
Srikanth smiled faintly and leaned in. But his eyes caught the new phone Srikar was holding.
“What happened to the one you bought six months ago?” he asked.
Srikar proudly held up the new device.
“This is an iPhone, Nanna.” He said the word like it held magic.
Srikanth asked, not in sarcasm but in curiosity,
“Does this do something your old phone couldn’t?” Srikar sighed,
“Nanna, it’s not about doing. It’s about brand. These days, people only care about brands. But… you won’t understand all this. You’re from the old school.”
Again, the conversation ended with that now-familiar line — and always with a gentle but firm reminder: “I bought it with my money.”
* * *
Chapter 4: Silent Calculations
It wasn’t rocket science for Srikanth.
After spending decades in banking, poring over balance sheets and loan ledgers, numbers spoke to him like second nature. One evening, while sipping his usual cup of tea, he quietly pulled out a notebook — not to tally accounts for the bank, but to sketch a balance sheet of his son’s life.
Srikar’s monthly income.
His EMIs.
Credit card spends.
Loan interest.
Lifestyle purchases.
Srikanth didn’t need bank statements — the signs were all around the house. A new gadget here, a delivery box there. Shopping bags every other weekend. Frequent restaurant bills. Subtle details. Slips of tongue. And as he finished scribbling the last number, his hand paused. His heart didn’t feel proud — it felt heavy.
The figures didn’t add up. Not in numbers — but in meaning.
Srikar was earning well, yes. But he was spending more. Living fast. Borrowing early. Running a race Srikanth never entered.
For a man who believed in spending only what you have, seeing his son floating on loans triggered a deep panic.
Not anger.
Not disappointment.
But a quiet, gnawing fear —
“Where is this headed? What will it cost him… and us?”
He closed the notebook gently, like closing a file he didn’t want to open again.
After spending decades in banking, poring over balance sheets and loan ledgers, numbers spoke to him like second nature. One evening, while sipping his usual cup of tea, he quietly pulled out a notebook — not to tally accounts for the bank, but to sketch a balance sheet of his son’s life.
Srikar’s monthly income.
His EMIs.
Credit card spends.
Loan interest.
Lifestyle purchases.
Srikanth didn’t need bank statements — the signs were all around the house. A new gadget here, a delivery box there. Shopping bags every other weekend. Frequent restaurant bills. Subtle details. Slips of tongue. And as he finished scribbling the last number, his hand paused. His heart didn’t feel proud — it felt heavy.
The figures didn’t add up. Not in numbers — but in meaning.
Srikar was earning well, yes. But he was spending more. Living fast. Borrowing early. Running a race Srikanth never entered.
For a man who believed in spending only what you have, seeing his son floating on loans triggered a deep panic.
Not anger.
Not disappointment.
But a quiet, gnawing fear —
“Where is this headed? What will it cost him… and us?”
He closed the notebook gently, like closing a file he didn’t want to open again.
* * *
Chapter 5: The Outburst
The tolerance level of Srikanth touched its limit the day Srikar walked into the house whistling, a keychain circling around his fingers He didn’t say a word, didn’t show excitement — just casually stepped in, acting like everything was normal.
But Srikanth’s experienced eyes noticed. He followed the direction of the keychain twirling and looked outside — a brand-new, gleaming car stood in the front yard.
Srikanth, trying to remain calm, asked,
“Whose car is that?”
Srikar smiled, “It’s mine... I mean ours.”
Srikanth couldn’t hold back.
“You already have office transport and your own bike. Why do we need a car now? Do you even use it for work?”
Srikar paused a bit, then shrugged,
“Everyone in my office has a car. Why shouldn’t we? When we go out, all three of us can travel in it comfortably.”
Srikanth replied,
“We rarely go out, and even then, we manage with an auto.”
Srikar winced and dragged his words with sarcasm,
“Auto, na... even daily labourers don’t take autos these days.”
Srikanth calmly responded,
“Okay, we can take a cab then.”
Srikar insisted,
“It feels cheap going in a rented car. Do you know the kind of respect we get when we drive our own car? The way relatives look at us... it’s a matter of pride.”
Srikanth, now visibly disturbed, said,
“Your so-called relatives won’t come forward when you need help. Do you even know your financial status? Do you ever look at your earnings, EMIs, and loan balance?”
That moment shattered the mood.
Unable to hold back anymore, Srikar exploded. His voice trembled with anger and ego,
“Now I understand. You’re jealous. That’s what this is. A father jealous of his own son’s success.
Wow. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You couldn’t achieve this in your entire life, and now you can’t accept that I’ve done it in a few years.”
The house fell silent. But before anyone could respond, Srikar continued — the words spilling out with years of suppressed frustration:
“And tell me one thing… what kind of life did you really give me?
You bought me local-brand clothes all my childhood, gave me just one dokku cycle which I rode for years.
Never once took me out for a proper meal, never to any decent place for a trip or even a movie like my friends had.
You call that a responsible life?
A responsible parenting?
Still… I accepted it. I never questioned you.
I never made you feel small.
And now… when I finally get to live a better life, wear good clothes, enjoy the things I earned — you can’t even accept that?”
That’s when the voice that never raised itself in the house — Srivani’s — finally burst through the silence. Her tone sharp, her hands trembling. Her instinct told her to slap him, but her dignity didn’t allow her.
“Do you have any idea what you’re saying? Is there even a hint of guilt on your face?”
Srikar shot back coldly,
“What did I say that’s wrong? I earned it. It’s my money. Nothing came from you.”
Srivani, wounded, replied,
“Your money? You stay in this house, eat here, use every resource here. You never gave a single rupee to this home. We never called it ‘our’ money. Why are you?”
Srikar, now completely detached, said something that shattered them both,
“Did I ask you to give birth to me? If you did, it’s your responsibility to raise me.”
The word “Responsibility” echoed in the home, but this time, not as a duty — as a weapon.
Srivani, barely able to stand, said,
“If raising you is our responsibility, don’t you have any responsibility as a son?”
Srikar, defensive and hurt, shouted back,
“What did I not do? I buy groceries — sure, you give the money, but I go. I pay the electricity bill — again, with your money. I fetch water, pack my lunchbox, fold my clothes. I even take you both out sometimes. I’m not eating or living here for free.”
Srikar looked down, lips tightened.
“It is always the parents’ responsibility to look after the child,” he mumbled.
Srivani’s voice dropped to a whisper:
“And the child has no responsibility? Not even to respect?”
Silence fell.
The sound of the new car’s keychain stopped spinning.
The echo of my money was no longer proud — it was hollow.
And in that silence, the meaning of family stood shattered in the very house it once filled.
But Srikanth’s experienced eyes noticed. He followed the direction of the keychain twirling and looked outside — a brand-new, gleaming car stood in the front yard.
Srikanth, trying to remain calm, asked,
“Whose car is that?”
Srikar smiled, “It’s mine... I mean ours.”
Srikanth couldn’t hold back.
“You already have office transport and your own bike. Why do we need a car now? Do you even use it for work?”
Srikar paused a bit, then shrugged,
“Everyone in my office has a car. Why shouldn’t we? When we go out, all three of us can travel in it comfortably.”
Srikanth replied,
“We rarely go out, and even then, we manage with an auto.”
Srikar winced and dragged his words with sarcasm,
“Auto, na... even daily labourers don’t take autos these days.”
Srikanth calmly responded,
“Okay, we can take a cab then.”
Srikar insisted,
“It feels cheap going in a rented car. Do you know the kind of respect we get when we drive our own car? The way relatives look at us... it’s a matter of pride.”
Srikanth, now visibly disturbed, said,
“Your so-called relatives won’t come forward when you need help. Do you even know your financial status? Do you ever look at your earnings, EMIs, and loan balance?”
That moment shattered the mood.
Unable to hold back anymore, Srikar exploded. His voice trembled with anger and ego,
“Now I understand. You’re jealous. That’s what this is. A father jealous of his own son’s success.
Wow. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You couldn’t achieve this in your entire life, and now you can’t accept that I’ve done it in a few years.”
The house fell silent. But before anyone could respond, Srikar continued — the words spilling out with years of suppressed frustration:
“And tell me one thing… what kind of life did you really give me?
You bought me local-brand clothes all my childhood, gave me just one dokku cycle which I rode for years.
Never once took me out for a proper meal, never to any decent place for a trip or even a movie like my friends had.
You call that a responsible life?
A responsible parenting?
Still… I accepted it. I never questioned you.
I never made you feel small.
And now… when I finally get to live a better life, wear good clothes, enjoy the things I earned — you can’t even accept that?”
That’s when the voice that never raised itself in the house — Srivani’s — finally burst through the silence. Her tone sharp, her hands trembling. Her instinct told her to slap him, but her dignity didn’t allow her.
“Do you have any idea what you’re saying? Is there even a hint of guilt on your face?”
Srikar shot back coldly,
“What did I say that’s wrong? I earned it. It’s my money. Nothing came from you.”
Srivani, wounded, replied,
“Your money? You stay in this house, eat here, use every resource here. You never gave a single rupee to this home. We never called it ‘our’ money. Why are you?”
Srikar, now completely detached, said something that shattered them both,
“Did I ask you to give birth to me? If you did, it’s your responsibility to raise me.”
The word “Responsibility” echoed in the home, but this time, not as a duty — as a weapon.
Srivani, barely able to stand, said,
“If raising you is our responsibility, don’t you have any responsibility as a son?”
Srikar, defensive and hurt, shouted back,
“What did I not do? I buy groceries — sure, you give the money, but I go. I pay the electricity bill — again, with your money. I fetch water, pack my lunchbox, fold my clothes. I even take you both out sometimes. I’m not eating or living here for free.”
Srikar looked down, lips tightened.
“It is always the parents’ responsibility to look after the child,” he mumbled.
Srivani’s voice dropped to a whisper:
“And the child has no responsibility? Not even to respect?”
Silence fell.
The sound of the new car’s keychain stopped spinning.
The echo of my money was no longer proud — it was hollow.
And in that silence, the meaning of family stood shattered in the very house it once filled.
* * *
Epilogue
Srikanth and Srivani finally came to know the definition of Responsibility — from their only son.
And it was completely one-sided.
And it was completely one-sided.
* * *
Nice write up
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