Influencer ( Short Story)

Baskaran just woke up to the call from the pilot, announcing that they would be landing in Colombo, Sri Lanka, in twenty minutes. He stretched slightly, adjusting in his luxurious first-class seat, upholstered in soft leather with ample legroom and a fully reclining feature that had made his nearly twenty-four-hour journey from Toronto effortless. Traveling was nothing new for Baskaran—his packed schedule as a renowned influencer had him constantly jet-setting. But this trip was different. This was his first time returning to Sri Lanka in thirty years.

He stood up, straightened his crisp designer jacket, and walked towards the curtain separating first class from the rest of the plane. Beyond the divide, in premium economy, Thiru, a new friend and recent travel companion, sat flipping through his passport, checking his visas. Thiru had been captivated by Baskaran’s success story and had eagerly joined him on his journey.

“Thiru, remind me of the agenda. Our time in Sri Lanka is limited,” Baskaran said, his voice calm but firm.

Thiru smiled, adjusting his seat. “We’ve lined up interviews with local radio stations. One will happen in the car right after we land. And as soon as we reach Jaffna, we’ve arranged for you to meet some homeless folks. You can help fulfill their dreams—perfect for your content.”

Baskaran nodded approvingly before glancing back toward first class, where his teenage son, Kathir, sat comfortably in his own seat. “You’re listening, right? Capture everything. You’re going to be my cameraman for this trip. I want perfect shots.”

Kathir, who had been engrossed in a book, looked up thoughtfully. “Dad, how does it feel going back after decades? You lost everything—your parents, your baby sister, and everything in the war.”

Baskaran’s expression hardened for a moment before he forced a composed look. “I know. It’s just a place now. I made my own home, my own family. But I still owe my homeland—that’s why I have to do this.”

A wave of goosebumps ran over Kathir’s arms. He gazed back down at his father’s memoir, the very book he had been reading all this time. The sleek cover featured his father’s sharply dressed figure, looking every bit the inspirational figure people saw him as. The title read Agathi 1031—a reference to Refugee No.1031, the file number he got when he landed in Canada as a refuge.

For Kathir, his father wasn’t just a role model—he was a real-life hero. Every word his father spoke was powerful, just like the stories in the book. This was probably the fifth time he was reading it, but he still found himself captivated. As a teenage boy, he couldn’t have asked for a better inspirational figure than his father.

The flight continued in silence, but Baskaran’s mind raced.

The humid air hit them as they stepped out of Colombo Airport. The scent of spice, sea breeze, and diesel filled the air. Baskaran removed his suit coat and walked briskly toward the private van waiting outside, where a driver held a sign with his name. As they approached, two men standing next to the van broke into excited smiles upon seeing Thiru and Baskaran.

Thiru introduced them. “Baskaran, this is Loshan, a friend of mine from Shakthi TV. He’ll be conducting the interview today.” He then gestured to the other man. “And this is his cameraman.”

Loshan extended his hand eagerly, and Baskaran shook it with practiced warmth. Thiru added, “Loshan will also summarize the interview for a local newspaper.”

Baskaran nodded and turned to Thiru. “Did you get that suitcase with my books? We’re dropping them off in Colombo for sales, right?”

Thiru gave a quick nod. “Yes, we got it. We’ll drop them at Colombo Thamizh Sangam on the way. The boys there will handle the rest.”

Without hesitation, Baskaran strode to the van, unzipped the suitcase, and pulled out four books. He quickly signed them before climbing into the van and handed two to Loshan and his cameraman. “Here you go. These are for you.”

Before Loshan could even react, Baskaran continued. “We sell these for $49 in Canada, but I hear people can’t afford that here. So it’s just Rs 9,500.”

Loshan and the cameraman exchanged uncertain glances, unsure if they were expected to pay. Baskaran smiled and added, “It’s just the minimum. Whatever extra you pay goes straight to my charity. So it’s up to you.”

Loshan caught the unspoken expectation. He nodded slowly, hesitated, then reached for his wallet. As he did, Baskaran handed him the two extra books in his hands. “You can buy these, too—give them to your friends.”

Loshan hesitated for a moment but forced a smile. “I’ll stop at a bank on the way and get the money.”

Satisfied, Baskaran leaned back, and the van started its long journey to the north. The drive to Jaffna stretched over nine grueling hours, cutting through old war-torn villages, abandoned buildings pockmarked with bullet holes, and bustling towns trying to rebuild. Inside the van, Loshan, now settled, switched on his microphone for the interview.

“Baskaran,” Loshan began as the van rumbled along, “your story is truly an inspiration. From arriving in Canada with just ten dollars to building an empire. Tell us, what kept you going?”

Baskaran leaned in, confidence radiating from him. “Hard work. Perseverance. I had nothing, but I made everything from that nothing.”

Kathir, recording the interview for his dad’s channel, swelled with pride. He had read the story in the book, but hearing it straight from his father made it all the more powerful. He couldn’t help but think about the millions of people his dad was inspiring.

As they entered Jaffna, the scars of war were still evident in some places—crumbling homes, posters of missing people faded with time, and traces of removed barbed-wire fences, though the new government had taken steps to encourage people in the north to move forward. The crew arrived early in the morning. After a quick freshen-up, they assembled into the van for the day’s agenda.

The van pulled up to Nallur Temple. Baskaran stepped out, cameras rolling. “Make sure when I walk out, you have the Kopuram and myself in the frame,” he instructed Kathir. As Baskaran walked out after the prayers, Kathir followed, keeping him centered in the frame. As the camera panned to the side, there sat an old couple in their 80s—thin, frail, their wrinkled hands trembling as they extended them for alms. The woman wore a tattered saree, her once-dark hair now a thin silver veil over her bony shoulders. The old man sat beside her, his ribs visible through his worn-out shirt, his eyes dull with time and sorrow. Their posture and ease suggested they were regular beggars at this spot, but today, their presence had been arranged for Baskaran’s social media campaign by Thiru.

Baskaran strode toward them, his smile wide and warm. He knelt, touched their feet, then glanced at his son, ensuring he was capturing the moment. His son smiled, proud of his father’s humility.

Baskaran pulled a thick wad of rupees from his wallet and handed them to the old couple. “Tell me, Amma, how did you end up here?”

The old woman’s eyes welled up. She could barely make out his face, evidence of her fading eyesight. “Where do we start, son? Once, we had everything.”

“What happened? Don’t you have any children?” Baskaran asked.

The old woman laughed, a smirk curling on her lips. “A full house,” she murmured, before her gaze drifted to Kathir. “He was about this boy’s age when our son left us.”

Baskaran stiffened. “Did you lose them in the war?”

The old woman shook her head. “No. At least then we would have had closure. But now, we don’t even know where he is.”

Loshan, intrigued, asked, “Is he missing?”

“No,” the old man answered with a steady yet pained voice. “We know where he is. He’s in Canada now.”

Baskaran’s breath caught for a second. His son, behind the camera, noticed the subtle change in his father’s demeanor.

“We had a son and a daughter,” the old man continued. “Beyond the struggles of war, we escaped this place just in time, reaching Colombo. From there, we sold everything—our land, our jewelry, and the savings we had set aside for our daughter’s marriage—to send our son abroad, hoping he would lift us all out of our struggles.”

Baskaran’s eyes widened, his breath shallow as an unknown sensation crawled up his spine.

“At first, he wrote,” the old man said, his voice heavy with emotion. “He sent money often. Then, little by little, he began to distance himself. When he found a woman, and we asked him to help his sister before he married, he stopped replying. Eventually, he just cut us off.”

A cold sweat formed on Baskaran’s brow. He remained speechless. His son, still filming, observed his father with newfound uncertainty.

To break the silence, Loshan pressed on. “Amma, what happened to your daughter?”

The old couple looked at each other and sighed. “She’s no more,” the old woman whispered. “A few years back, she fell sick. We had no help. We sent messages through people traveling to Canada, hoping he would respond. But that pavi did not even call.”

Loshan, attempting to console them, said, “Amma, tell the details to this gentleman. He’s also from Canada. Perhaps he can help you find him.”

For the first time, the mother’s face brightened with a flicker of hope. She leaned in slightly, studying Baskaran’s features as closely as her failing eyes allowed. “Rasa, he would be your age if he’s still there—tall like you. He always liked that hairstyle of yours, just like his favorite actor, Rajinikanth, from Nettrikan.”

Baskaran’s heart pounded. He could no longer deny what was unfolding before him.

On the other side, Kathir’s admiration wavered. Some doubt crept in. Something about his father’s success story was beginning to crack.

The old father, sensing something, interrupted. His face hardened. “Thambi, forget about him. We have lived without him all these years. He is dead to us. Thank you for this money. We will use it to open a small kadalai kadai at this corner.”

Baskaran swallowed hard, unable to find words. The old couple bowed their heads in gratitude and shuffled away, their frail figures disappearing into the temple’s bustling crowd.

Kathir lowered his camera, his hands slightly trembling. His father’s memoirs flashed through his mind—the stories of a war-torn past, the tragic loss of his family. And yet, the pieces did not add up.

His father had always spoken of his parents perishing in the war. He had mentioned a sister who had died alongside them. And yet, here stood the truth, breathing and broken before him.

Baskaran exhaled sharply, his mind swirling in turmoil. He had built his empire on a lie, buried his origins, rewritten his past. And now, standing at the gates of his childhood, the ghosts of his truth had finally caught up with him.

His son, silent but aware, kept the camera rolling, recording a story that had suddenly shifted from inspiration to revelation.

The cabin hummed with a low murmur of passengers settling in for the long flight back to Canada. The faint whirr of the engines, the occasional chime of an attendant call button—these sounds faded into the background as Baskaran, Kathir, back in first class and Thiru in premium economy, each lost in the depths of their own thoughts.

Baskaran sat by the window, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. His mind reeled from the encounter at Nallur Temple. The sight of his parents—aged, broken, and abandoned—had shaken him in ways he had never anticipated. He had spent the last three decades convincing himself that they were gone, erased by war, buried in a past he had long left behind. But now, they were real again. Breathing, suffering, discarded by none other than himself.

His thoughts spiraled deeper. Why hadn’t he prepared himself for this possibility? Had he been so blinded by his own fabricated success story that he truly believed they no longer existed? Every word from his mother, every stare from his father, weighed on him like an unbearable anchor. But what troubled him more was the growing silence from the seat beside him.

He turned slightly, just enough to steal a glance at Kathir.

Kathir sat stiffly, his body slightly angled away from his father. He hadn’t spoken a word since they left Jaffna. His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening into fists over his lap. His heart burned with betrayal. The man he had admired his whole life, the man whose words were etched into countless pages, spoken to millions as truth, had been living a lie.

His father had told him stories of heroism, of survival, of loss—painting a past of hardship and resilience. Kathir had believed every word. But now, the pieces had shattered. His father had a family. A living, breathing family that he had abandoned. A sister that had died waiting for help that never came.

He felt sick.

The weight of it pressed against his chest, but he refused to look at his father. He knew Baskaran was watching him, waiting for a sign, a gesture that Kathir understood. But Kathir couldn’t give him that. Not now. Maybe not ever. He turned to the small screen in front of him, pretending to be engrossed in the in-flight entertainment, but the images blurred as his thoughts ran wild.

Across the aisle, Thiru sat with his arms crossed, staring blankly at the dark screen of his phone. The turbulence in his mind was far worse than anything the aircraft could offer. A top executive at one of Canada’s major retail chains, Thiru had built his life on knowing people—judging character, making the right calls. He had been sure about Baskaran. He had admired him, even defended him in circles of influence, proud to call him a friend. But now?

Now, he wasn’t sure if Baskaran was the man he thought he was—or if he was nothing more than a con man wrapped in motivational slogans and grand gestures.

Thiru replayed the scene at Colombo Airport. The way Baskaran had insisted on pushing his books, the unease in Loshan’s eyes, the awkwardness among their mutual friends as they watched the ‘inspirational speaker’ treat his own work like a con man’s sales pitch. Thiru had felt small, humiliated even. He had believed Baskaran’s words, had vouched for him in the circles of the elite. And now, the doubt gnawed at him—had he been used? Had he placed his trust in someone who only saw value in transactions?

He inhaled deeply, pressing his fingers against his temples. He had built relationships with powerful men, trusted individuals who lived with honor. But now, sitting in the presence of Baskaran, he felt a gnawing sense of regret. He had chosen the wrong person to trust. And worse—he had allowed himself to be fooled.

The flight continued in silence.

The End.