The Scorned Gift
(A Short Story Inspired by an Anecdote from Shekharan Channar’s Life)
One late afternoon, as the monsoon clouds gathered low, Shekharan Channar stood at the threshold of Alummoottil, holding a large palm-leaf bundle. He had returned from another successful stint in the liquor-lease trade—a venture that was earning him steady fortune, if not unqualified approval from everyone in the family. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, partly from the oppressive humidity and partly from the weight of the silver and gold inside the bundle.
Ahead in the open courtyard, Valiyakunju Shankaran Channar—an older, formidable family member—was seated on a wooden armchair. He exuded an unmistakable authority, eyes keen on observing every move within the homestead. Various attendants came and went, but fell silent as Shekharan approached with his precious load.
Shekharan respectfully set the bundle on the ground. With measured gestures, he untied the palm leaves to reveal a trove of silver coins and gleaming lumps of gold. A hush fell over the gathering. Even the courtyard crows seemed to pause, as though sensing a dramatic moment.
“These earnings are yours, Uncle,” Shekharan said, bowing. “I wish to offer them for the benefit of our Taravad. May they help strengthen Alummoottil.”
The older man regarded the glittering stash with cold intensity. He rose slowly, his posture tight. For a moment, it appeared he might accept the gift—silver lumps and gold lumps enough to purchase farmland or sponsor temple renovations. Some attendants watched in anticipation, believing this moment might forge a deeper bond between the two strong-willed men.
But Valiyakunju Shankaran gave a sudden, sharp nudge with his foot, shoving the bundle aside. A few coins spilled from the edges, clinking against the courtyard tiles.
“Money from that liquor trade is unclean,” he declared, his voice echoing across the silent courtyard. “Our family doesn’t need wealth so tainted. Take it away.”
An uneasy ripple passed through the onlookers. No one dared speak. Shekharan stood rooted to the spot. Stunned disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he drew a calm breath, steeling himself. He bent over and refastened the palm-leaf wrapping, carefully scooping every coin back into the bundle.
“As you wish,” he replied quietly. He neither argued nor showed resentment. Inwardly, he had hoped that his success—whatever its source—would be recognized as a contribution to the family’s prosperity. Instead, he found only rejection.
With the same dignity in which he had entered, Shekharan turned and walked away, the bundle of silver and gold pressed against his side. A faint thunderclap rumbled in the distance, as if nature itself mirrored the tension in the courtyard.
Later that night, once the skies unleashed a heavy downpour, Shekharan sat alone, gazing at the coins by the warm light of a single oil lamp. Lightning flashed beyond the windows. Undeterred by his elder’s scorn, he resolved to invest that wealth elsewhere—acquiring fertile paddy fields or building up more trade connections—always under the family name, ensuring Alummoottil would thrive even if certain members spurned his methods.
In time, this incident became one of many stories whispered by relatives and neighbors. Some felt pity for Shekharan’s rejected goodwill; others admired his resolve. For his part, he never wavered in using his resources to benefit the Taravad he cherished—even if his gifts were occasionally scorned by those who failed to see beyond the source of his fortune.
