Some friendships fade with time. Some people disappear from our lives. But once in a while, someone walks into our childhood, leaves a little piece of their heart with us, and remains there forever.
I was in the 12th grade at St. Gabriel's School in Chennai when I met a boy named Ezhil. He came from a fishing community, and even after all these years, I can say with absolute certainty that I have rarely met another human being with a heart as beautiful as his. There are people who are kind when it is convenient. There are people who are generous when they have something to spare. And then there are people like Ezhil, for whom kindness is not something they do. It is simply who they are. Ezhil belonged to that rare third category.
One afternoon, during our lunch break, I decided to ask him a question that had been bothering me for quite some time. "Ezhil, tell me something. How is it that you manage to be so loving toward everyone?" He looked at me and replied with a perfectly straight face. "Selfishness, Vish." I nearly choked. "Selfishness? I'm asking you why you're so loving, and you're telling me you're selfish?" He nodded. "Yes, Vish. Believe me. It's selfishness."
Now, if you knew Ezhil, you would understand my frustration. Here was a boy who would happily give away his lunch, share whatever little he had, help anyone who needed him, and never expect anything in return. And this fellow was telling me he was selfish! "Come on, Ezhil! I'm serious. How did you become like this?" I asked. "My father taught me," he replied. That caught my attention. "What did he teach you?"
But before answering, Ezhil opened his lunchbox. And what a lunchbox it was! There was fish curry, fried fish, fish stir-fry, and something that looked suspiciously like yet another fish preparation. If there had been a fish swimming around inside that lunchbox, I wouldn't have been surprised. "Ezhil, your family eat fish every single day?" I asked. "Of course!" he replied. "Every day?" "Yes. We eat vegetables once or twice a week." "And meat?" "Maybe once a month."
I shook my head in disbelief. "Your poor mother! Does she spend her entire life cooking? How does she prepare so many different dishes every morning?" Ezhil laughed. "Vish, my mother doesn't cook all of this. These dishes come from different houses on our street. Whatever we cook, we share with our neighbors. And whatever they cook, they share with us."
I remember looking at that lunchbox differently after he said those words. To me, it was a box filled with delicious food. To Ezhil, it was something perfectly ordinary. But looking back now, I realize it was much more than a lunchbox. It was an entire neighborhood sharing its love. A little fish curry from one house. A few pieces of fried fish from another. A mother's cooking traveling across doorsteps, carrying affection along with it. Perhaps Ezhil had never needed to learn generosity. Perhaps he had simply grown up surrounded by it.
"Ezhil," I said, "I don't think I can ever become as loving as you. No matter how hard I try." He smiled. "Come on, Vish. The bell is about to ring. Let's go." But I wasn't ready to let him escape. "Not so fast, my friend! You still haven't answered my question. What did your father teach you?" "Selfishness," he repeated. "Oh, come on, Ezhil! You're testing my patience now!" He laughed again. "Speaking of patience, Vish, that's something I learned from my mother." "How?" I asked.
His answer was simple. "Whenever my father goes out to sea and doesn't return on time, my mother goes down to the shore. She stands there, staring at the endless ocean, searching for his boat among the waves. She waits patiently, her eyes fixed on the horizon, until she finally sees him coming home."
I fell silent for a moment. For me, the sea had always been something beautiful. Waves, beaches, fishing boats, and the endless blue stretching toward the horizon. But for Ezhil's mother, the sea was something entirely different. It was where her husband earned their living, but it was also a place that could take him away forever. Every time he was late, she stood on that shore, searching the horizon for one familiar boat. For her, the most beautiful sight in the world wasn't the sunset over the ocean. It was the sight of her husband returning safely from it.
I looked at Ezhil. "You know something? I envy you." He didn't quite understand what I meant. "Come on, Vish. We're going to be late." But I persisted. "No, Ezhil. Not until you tell me why your father taught you to be selfish." He looked at me for a moment and then began to speak. "Vish, whenever my father leaves home to go fishing, he tells me something." "What does he say?" I asked.
"He says, 'Ezhil, I'm going out to sea. I don't know whether I'll return alive. So, my son, always be loving toward everyone.'"
I stopped smiling. There was something about those words. Imagine being a little boy and hearing your father say that every time he leaves home. Imagine watching him walk away, knowing that the sea doesn't promise to return everyone it takes. And imagine a father, who knows the dangers awaiting him, choosing to leave his son not instructions about money, success, or ambition, but a simple request: Be loving toward everyone.
I looked at Ezhil. "My goodness, Ezhil. What is selfish about that?" He answered quietly. "Vish, suppose one day I am not loving toward someone. Suppose I get angry, hurt somebody, or refuse to help someone. And suppose that very day my father doesn't return from the sea." He paused before continuing. "Then his last words to me would have been to love everyone, and I would have failed him."
I didn't know what to say, but Ezhil wasn't finished. "And sometimes I am afraid of something else, Vish. What if I don't listen to him? What if I fail to be loving, and something happens to my father? I know it may sound foolish, but I don't want to take that chance." He looked at me with the innocence that only a child can possess. "So I try to love everyone, every single day. That way, whatever happens, I know I have listened to my father." And then he smiled. "That's why I told you, Vish. I'm selfish."
I looked at my friend. Here was a boy whose father went out every day to fight the unpredictable sea so his family could survive. Here was a mother who stood on the shore, searching the horizon, not knowing whether her husband would return. And here was their son, who had turned his fear of losing his father into a lifetime of kindness toward others. He wasn't loving because he expected something in return. He was loving because he couldn't bear the thought of disappointing his father.
I had asked him the secret of his kindness. He had given me a glimpse into his heart. And somewhere deep inside me, something broke. Because there was one thing Ezhil didn't know. He was talking to a boy who already knew what it meant to lose a father. He was afraid of a day that might come. I was living with a day that had already come and gone. He feared the possibility of his father not returning home. I knew the permanence of a father who never would.
Suddenly, I could no longer look at him. My eyes filled with tears. "Vish! Why are you crying?" he asked. Now, there are moments in life when a teenage boy will do absolutely anything to avoid admitting that he is crying in front of another teenage boy. This was one of those moments. "Crying? Who's crying, you idiot? That fish curry your neighbor sent is terribly spicy! My eyes are watering!" Ezhil looked at me. "Don't lie, Vish. Stop crying."
I tried to smile, but I couldn't. "Ezhil," I said, "promise me something." "What?" "Never change. Promise me that no matter how old you become, no matter where life takes you, you will always remain the person you are today." He smiled, perhaps wondering why I was making such a big deal out of an ordinary lunchtime conversation. But to me, it was anything but ordinary.
I was looking at a boy who was blessed with something I could never have again. A father to wait for. A father to worry about. A father whose footsteps he could hope to hear returning home. And perhaps, without even realizing it, I was asking him to hold on to that blessing for as long as he possibly could. I looked at him and finally said what was sitting so heavily in my heart. "Because, Ezhil… if there is one thing I know, it is how difficult life can be without a father."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then I noticed his eyes. They were filling with tears. He quickly wiped them away, and then, with a little smile, he looked at me and said, "You're right, Vish. That fish curry from our neighbor's house really is too spicy."
Two schoolboys. One lunchbox. A few pieces of fish. And two hearts trying desperately to hide their tears from each other. One boy was afraid of losing his father. The other had already lost his. And somewhere between those two fears, a friendship found a language that needed no words.
More than fifty years of life have taught me many things. I have met people from different walks of life, traveled far from the streets of my childhood, and learned lessons from people far more educated and accomplished than that little schoolboy from a fishing community. But few lessons have stayed with me as deeply as the one Ezhil taught me that afternoon. He taught me that love need not come from abundance. Sometimes it comes from fear. Sometimes from gratitude. Sometimes from the desperate desire to hold on to someone we cannot bear to lose. And sometimes, the most beautiful people in our lives are those who have no idea how beautiful they really are.
I don't know where life has taken Ezhil. I don't know whether his father continued returning safely from the sea, or how many more evenings his mother spent waiting on the shore. But I hope, with all my heart, that life has been kind to that beautiful family. Because somewhere in this world, there once lived a fisherman who went out to sea every day, uncertain whether he would return, and left his little boy with one simple instruction: Always be loving toward everyone.
That father may never have known it, but his words reached far beyond his own home. They reached a fatherless boy sitting beside his son in a classroom in Chennai. And more than anything else, they stayed.
P.S.
I don't know why Ezhil came into my thoughts today, after all these years. Perhaps some memories never really leave us. They simply wait quietly in a corner of our hearts until something brings them back. And when they return, they bring with them the same faces, the same voices, the same laughter, and sometimes, the very same tears.
Dear Ezhil, wherever you are, I hope you are happy. And I hope you are still that wonderfully selfish boy I knew. Because the world could certainly use a few more selfish people like you.
And Ezhil, if you ever happen to read this, I have a confession to make.
That fish curry wasn't spicy at all.
