I was born and brought up in Chennai, but I wasn’t much of a tech kid there. Around fourth or fifth standard, almost everything new I learned, I learned in my hometown, Nagercoil.

Whenever we went home, we stayed at my cousin brother’s house. And my cousin brother had an Amma laptop.

In those days, that laptop felt like the most powerful machine in the world. Spider-Man 1, 2 and 3, all cracked copies. GTA San Andreas. Cricket 07. Those were our everyday games.

We typed cheat codes and went crazy. I must have typed HESOYAM a thousand times. When I was there, that was all the joy I needed. That was life.

There were four of us, including me. Cousins, on paper. Brothers, in every way that mattered.

Nobody could break the bond we had. Nobody could even touch it. We played everything and did everything together. I lived for those visits.

This time, it was only a short visit. Until then, the only video game I had ever held was the brick game from the பொருட்காட்சி, the exhibition fair.

Fifty rupees, a hundred at most. Tetris, Snake. You played it for a few days, and then it stopped working. They never lasted, and they were never really that cool.

Then my brother told me about something I had never heard of: a game console. The same idea, but digital. Games like the ones on his laptop, right in your hands.

My mouth just fell open. He was only three or four years older than me, but to me, he knew everything about the world.

A shop about a kilometre and a half away had one, he said. Around ₹1,000. Maybe ₹1,500. I wanted to see it. I wanted to hold it. I wanted it so badly.

But I had never had a toy that cost more than two or three hundred rupees, and back then even that was a lot. Something in me quietly let go. Amma would never buy me something that expensive.

We were going back to Chennai that night. Around nine, dinner was over and our bags were packed. The train was at about 11:30, and the station wasn’t far.

That was when Chithappa came over.

He did what the elders in our family always do when a child is leaving: he held out money for me. ₹2,000. More money than I had ever held in my life.

“No, no, Chithappa,” I said, doing the little refusal every child does. Amma and my sister joined in. “Don’t take it, don’t take it.”

But some small, innocent part of me wanted that money, and I think it showed on my face. He kept holding it out, and I took it.

Everything was fine after that. Nobody knew what I was already thinking.

The ₹2,000 sat in my pocket, and I kept my hand on it. I hadn’t said a word to anyone, but my mind kept going back to one thought: I have the money now. The money I wished for.

Still, I didn’t go and ask. I was a shy kid. I thought about everything for a long time before I said it out loud.

Around half past nine, I finally went to Amma. “Anna told me about a game console. It costs ₹1,000, maybe ₹1,500. I have ₹2,000. If it’s okay with you, can I buy it?”

She said yes, if it cost ₹1,000. “Go fast. Buy it and come back.” I hadn’t expected that at all, and I still can’t put that joy into words. My brother couldn’t believe it either. He was every bit as excited as me.

We had to leave for the station after ten, and the shop was a kilometre and a half away.

My brother took his bicycle and sat me on the metal luggage carrier at the back. He pedalled so fast. I was going to see this thing for myself, and maybe bring it home. Everything had suddenly worked out.

When we reached the shop, the shutter was already halfway down. “Anna, Anna, Anna!” My brother called out, asking him to open up because we wanted to see something.

The shopkeeper let us in. There were toys and fancy things everywhere, and I kept looking around and around. My brother searched for the console. He found something, then asked Anna whether the particular one he meant was there.

It wasn’t. The one he meant was sold out.

It broke my heart. I had come there so sure, because everything had gone my way that night: the money, Amma’s yes, the ride. Not today, I thought. I didn’t cry, but I was so sad.

There was another console, the kind you plug into a TV, with a thousand games inside. It was beautiful. But it cost ₹2,000. Amma had said ₹1,000, and I couldn’t spend everything here.

My brother said this one wouldn’t last; it wasn’t the one he meant, and it wasn’t worth it. “You’ll come again, right? We’ll see next time.” He kept trying to console me. I wasn’t consoled.

Right next to the shop was a little place that sold ice tubes. That’s what we called them: juice frozen inside long, thin plastic pouches. Nothing branded or fancy. I loved them.

My brother bought me four or five, all different flavours, and I held them all in my hands. I liked having them. But they didn’t make the sad feeling go away.

He sat me back on the carrier and brought me home. This time he pedalled slowly. We went back along the same road, quietly, with all those ice tubes in my hands.

At that age, I was still thinking about the console and how close I had come to getting it. I didn’t think much about my brother’s part in that evening. I just knew I was disappointed.

It’s all memories now, and so much of life is how you look back at them. These days, I think about that night from his side. He was a kid himself, only three or four years older than me.

He pedalled as fast as he could to get me there. He kept calling until a closing shop let us in. He told me the truth about the expensive one. And when nothing worked out, he bought me the thing he knew I loved, and brought me home gently, without a word.

You don’t need money for this. You don’t need a console, or anything else. If you have people around you who love you for who you are, that is enough.

I had that all along. It just took me years to have the knowledge to acknowledge it. He’s my cousin, technically. But who else has a brother like that?