He’d proved them all wrong. He reread the mail he held in his hand, a letter that was addressed to him – K Pazhanisamy – for the first time in the decade that he’d worked at the Selvam residence. The contents hadn’t changed from the first time he’d opened it with shaking hands –
"To, Mr. Pazhanisamy Subject : B.Sc Mathematics results.."
The subjects and marks per were listed neatly and he looked at them again to make sure he’d read them right. And finally came to the last line. He blinked.
It hadn’t been an easy journey. The Selvams may have called him the butler when in the presence of their friends and extended family. But he knew he was merely a glorified servant as far as they were really concerned. And to that end, while he’d never had to go to bed without a meal for as long as he’d be in their charge, it had stung to see Saravanan Selvam, the apple of everyone’s eye in the household, who was the same age as Pazhani, grow up with seemingly no obstacles and have access to the best of everything, even as the latter waited on him everyday, polishing his almost-always-new shoes, serving him hot meals and pressing his branded clothes, all the while wondering what he’d done wrong to not be able to enjoy the same luxuries.