For most of my life, I believed success was a destination.
Perhaps that belief came naturally. We grow up hearing about successful people, successful careers, successful businesses. Nobody ever tells us to stop one day and ask what success actually means. We simply inherit someone else’s definition and spend the next thirty years running towards it.
It took me almost fifty years to realize that I had never questioned my finishing line.
There were three of us. Parag, Vinay and I.
If school had been a race, Parag would have won it comfortably. He possessed the kind of mind that frightened examination papers. Teachers adored him because they never had to worry about him. The rest of us survived by borrowing his notebooks before every test, convinced that neat handwriting somehow improved memory.
I wasn’t the brightest student, but I was ambitious. Even as a teenager, I wanted to build something of my own. While my classmates aspired to land good jobs, I dreamt of owning the company that offered them. It sounded ridiculously optimistic at the time. Fortunately, nobody took me seriously enough to laugh.
And then there was Vinay. He wasn’t the class topper. He wasn’t captain of the cricket team. He wasn’t the best speaker or the funniest boy in class. Yet somehow, everybody knew him.
Not because he demanded attention.
Because he was always around whenever someone needed it.
If a classmate couldn’t understand algebra, Vinay would patiently sit beside him after school until the equations began making sense. If someone’s English composition was weak, he would quietly correct it without ever mentioning it again.
During cricket matches in our colony, whenever the tennis ball landed inside the neighbour’s compound – or worse, disappeared into the open drain – it was always Vinay who climbed down to retrieve it.
“तूच का जातोस?” I had asked him once.
He looked at me as though the answer were obvious.
“बाकी सगळे खेळत रहावेत म्हणून.” So that everyone else could keep playing.
That was Vinay. He never cared who scored the runs. He only wanted the game to continue.
Life, as it usually does, dealt the three of us different hands.
Parag joined one of India’s largest IT companies after engineering. Promotions found him with remarkable consistency, and over the years he rose to become a Senior Vice President responsible for more than ten thousand people.
I left for America with two suitcases and a head full of unreasonable dreams. My software company survived when it shouldn’t have, grew when I least expected it to, and eventually became successful enough for me to begin thinking about opening a development centre in India.
Vinay stayed back in Pune.
Engineering had never interested him. He completed his B. Com, joined a Chartered Accountant’s office as an accountant and remained there for years.
On paper, he was the least successful among us. At least, that is what Parag and I quietly believed.
The strange thing about Vinay was that life never seemed to change him. Every evening after office, another working day began. Someone needed help filing an income tax return. A neighbour wanted advice about college admissions for her daughter. An elderly gentleman couldn’t understand his pension papers. A youngster required help preparing a résumé.
If there was a problem to be solved, somehow it always found its way to Vinay.
Nobody paid him. Nobody had to. Helping people wasn’t something Vinay did. It was simply how he moved through the world.
For a few years, the three of us remained exactly as we had always been.
We met whenever I visited India. Long dinners. Endless cups of tea. Arguments about cricket. The certainty that life would always leave enough time for old friends.
Then life became… busy. Parag’s responsibilities increased. My company demanded more of me every year.
One cancelled meeting became another. Birthdays became phone calls. Phone calls became WhatsApp messages. Even those eventually became forwarded festival greetings carrying someone else’s words.
Every January, while planning my trip to India, I would tell myself, – This time I’ll spend a day with Vinay.
Every visit ended the same way.
“Next time.”
I don’t know exactly when friendship surrendered to convenience. Perhaps it doesn’t happen in a single moment.
Perhaps it happens one postponed phone call at a time.
Nearly twenty years after moving to America, I finally decided to set up our India development centre. Pune seemed the obvious choice. My HR team wanted to conduct the interviews themselves and simply send me the shortlist. I refused.
“The first few people,” I told them, “will define the culture of the company long after I’m gone.”
The interviews began at nine o’clock. Technical questions. Programming exercises. Architecture discussions. By late afternoon, résumés had begun to resemble one another.
Then one name made me stop.
Chaitanya Vinay Hardas.
The surname stirred something faintly familiar.
A few moments later, a young man in his early twenties walked in.
He greeted me politely, waited until I asked him to sit, and placed a neatly arranged folder on the table. There was nothing remarkable about him. Except, maybe his radiant smile.
After discussing his projects and technical knowledge, I asked the question I asked every candidate.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
He smiled apologetically.
“I honestly don’t know, sir.”
“Most candidates have a ready answer.”
“I did too,” he admitted with a grin. “But it didn’t sound true.”
I laughed.
“So, what’s the true answer?”
“I hope I’m doing work I’m proud of.”
“And?”
“I hope people enjoy working with me.”
No mention of designations. No mention of salary. No mention of onsite opportunities.
Just that.
I made a note on his résumé. Not because of the answer itself. Because he had chosen honesty over impression.
As the interview ended, my eyes wandered once again to his personal details. His name clearly meant something to me. And this young boy sitting in front of me, reminded me of someone very dear to me.
“Would you tell your father that Arjun Kulkarni met you today?”
His expression changed immediately. The puzzlement was obvious.
“We grew up together.”
A smile spread across his face.
“He will be very happy.”
He gathered his papers, thanked me, and was about to leave when he turned back.
“He still talks about you and Parag Uncle.”
The door closed behind him, hitting me with remorse and shame.
For several seconds, I remained seated without moving.
The last time I had spoken to Vinay…
I couldn’t remember.
I picked up my phone and called Parag, who I knew was coincidentally in Pune that week.
“You won’t believe whose son I interviewed today.”
After I told him, there was silence. Finally, he sighed.
“I haven’t spoken to Vinay in years.”
“Neither have I.”
Another silence.
Then I asked, “Are you free this evening?”
“I am.”
“Let’s go and meet him.”
He didn’t ask why. Some friendships don’t need explanations. They only need directions.
The address from Chaitanya’s résumé led us to an old housing society in Kothrud.
“It feels like we’re walking into our childhood,” Parag said.
“It does.”
We climbed two flights of stairs and stopped outside Flat No. 202.
For a moment neither of us pressed the bell. Fifteen years is a strange thing. Long enough to lose touch. Too short to lose affection. I finally rang.
The door opened almost immediately.
A man with greying hair but with a smiling face looked at us. For barely two seconds. Then his face broke into the same grin I had known since school.
“अरे, अमेरिकन!”
Before I could say a word, he hugged me tightly. He stepped back, looked me up and down.
“इतका बारीक कधी झालास?”
“I’ve put on five kilos.”
“अमेरिकेत ना? म्हणजे भारतात अजूनही बारीकच आहेस.”
He laughed, and turned towards Parag.
“अरे! आमचा व्हाइस प्रेसिडेंट!”
Parag hugged him.
“I’ve retired from being your vice-president years ago.”
“माझ्याकडे कायमचा आहेस.”
That was Vinay. Not a complaint. Not a question.
Not even, “इतक्या वर्षांनी आठवण झाली?”
For him, nothing needed explaining.
He shouted towards the kitchen.
“अगं! जरा बाहेर ये.”
His wife came out smiling.
“हा अर्जुन.” He pointed at me with unmistakable pride.
“अमेरिकेत स्वतःची कंपनी आहे याची.”
Then he pointed towards Parag.
“आणि हा पराग. दहा हजार लोक काम करतात याच्याकडे.”
Then, with the innocence of a child announcing something wonderful, he smiled.
“आणि या दोघांचा मी भाग्यवान मित्र. विनय हरदास.”
His wife welcomed us warmly.
“I’ve heard so much about both of you,” she said. “I sometimes feel I already know you.”
The house was exactly what I had imagined. Small. Neat. Comfortable. The furniture was old but lovingly maintained. Nothing expensive. Nothing neglected. It looked less like a house trying to impress visitors, and more like a home that had quietly accepted life exactly as it came.
Tea arrived. So did the memories. Within minutes we were arguing about our mathematics teacher, laughing over forgotten nicknames, and reminding one another of embarrassments we had hoped time would erase.
“Remember the day the cricket ball fell into the drain?” Parag asked.
I burst out laughing, turning to Vinay.
“You jumped in before anyone could stop you.”
Vinay shrugged.
“You two still remember that?”
“How can we forget?”
I looked at him.
“I asked you why you were risking it for a fifteen-rupee tennis ball.”
He laughed before answering.
“हो…आणि मी काय म्हणालो होतो?”
Without waiting for us to answer, he smiled. A tiny pause.
“गेम थांबायला नको.”
The three of us laughed.
At the time, it had sounded exactly like something a twelve-year-old would say.
The doorbell rang. A young man stood outside holding a box of pedhas.
“Vinay Uncle. My passport came.”
“अरे वा!”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“You spent half a Sunday helping me with the documents.”
Vinay waved him off.
“झालं ना काम?”
The young man nodded.
“बस.”
“नको, आई वाट बघतेय.”
He left after touching Vinay’s feet.
Vinay looked embarrassed.
“आजकालची मुलं पण ना…”
We resumed talking as though nothing unusual had happened.
A little later, his phone rang. He listened quietly. Then opened an old diary lying beside the telephone.
“हो… थांब.”
He found a number.
Dialled.
“परब सर? विनय बोलतोय…”
There was a brief conversation. He thanked the person and disconnected.
“झालं.”
I smiled.
“You still manage to get things done.”
He shook his head.
“कधी होतात. कधी होत नाहीत.”
“तुला खात्री असते का रे? की काम होईल?”
“नाही.”
“मग एवढे फोन कशाला?”
He smiled.
“गेम थांबायला नको.”
I laughed.
“तुझं हे ‘गेम’ अजून गेलं नाही?”
He leaned back.
“अरे, माणूस अडचणीत आला की पुढे चालायचंच थांबतो.”
He paused.
“All they expect is for someone to say, ‘चल, बघू या. काहीतरी मार्ग निघेल’.”
Silence settled between us.
Then he added quietly,
“मी कुठलाच प्रश्न सोडवत नाही रे.”
I looked at him.
“मी फक्त माणसांना तो प्रश्न एकट्यानं सोडवू देत नाही.”
Nobody spoke for several seconds. Not because the sentence sounded profound.
Because it sounded completely natural, coming from him.
Just then the front door opened. Chaitanya had returned. He greeted us cheerfully.
“So, you’ve finally met them.”
I just forced a smile.
When it was finally time to leave, Vinay insisted on walking us downstairs.
At the gate he hugged us once again.
“यावेळी एवढी वर्षं लावू नका.”
“We won’t.”
This time I wasn’t being polite. He stood there smiling as we drove away. I looked once into the rear-view mirror. Vinay was still standing outside. One hand raised. Still waving.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Parag was the first to speak.
“You know…”
He kept his eyes on the road.
“…he introduced us with so much pride.”
I smiled faintly.
“He really believes he’s lucky to have us as friends.”
Another silence followed.
Then I said quietly,
“खरं तर, आपण त्याचे मित्र आहोत, याचा अभिमान आपल्यालाच जास्त असायला हवा.”
Parag nodded.
Neither of us had anything to add. A few minutes passed.
Then, almost as though he were speaking to himself, he asked,
“आपण चुकीच्या शर्यतीत पळालो का रे?”
I looked out of the window. People hurried home after another ordinary working day.
I smiled.
“नाही.”
He glanced at me.
“शर्यत चुकीची नव्हती.”
The car rolled on.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Then I said,
“फक्त आपण चुकीच्या लाईनला फिनिशिंग लाईन समजलो.”
Silence settled over us once again.
I looked absentmindedly out of the window. Without warning, a forgotten memory surfaced.
A muddy drain. A worn-out tennis ball. A skinny twelve-year-old climbing down before anyone could stop him.
I remembered shouting,
“अरे, राहू दे! नवीन बॉल घेऊ!”
He had looked up, grinned, and tossed the ball back to us. Then, wiping the mud off his hands onto his shorts, he had said,
“गेम थांबायला नको.”