Chandrika Shubham : A reserved chit-chatter

Two Wheels, A World of Possibilities

2026-10-24T20:45:42.329-07:00

“Does your daughter have a bicycle?” I asked a female security guard in our residential society. I had previously gifted her daughter a schoolbag, a water bottle, a tiffin box, pencil colours, acrylic colours, sketchbooks, and drawing sheets after Navratri. This time, I wanted to give her something a little more expensive—something that would last longer and bring her joy for years to come.

“No,” she replied.

“I will buy one for her, but you must accompany me to the showroom and help select the right one. Since it is an expensive gift, I want to make sure we choose the right brand and size according to your daughter’s needs. I don’t want to spend money on something that may not suit her.”

The next day, during lunchtime, the security guard obtained permission from her supervisor and accompanied me to the bicycle showroom. Together, we selected a suitable bicycle, keeping her daughter’s wishes, the brand, and the size in mind. As I paid the bill, she remarked that it was quite expensive. I smiled and said, “If your daughter enjoys riding it and puts it to good use, every rupee will be worth it.”

A few days later, when she saw me, her face lit up as she shared the good news. Her daughter was delighted with her new bicycle and had already started enjoying rides on it. She even took her cousin along for a ride! It warmed my heart to know that a simple gift had brought so much happiness to a young girl.

Months later, the security guard shared another little piece of news. Her daughter had become confident enough to ride to the market and bring home household essentials whenever needed. The bicycle had become more than a source of recreation; it was helping her contribute to the family and become more independent.

As Albert Einstein once said, “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” Though the quotation speaks metaphorically about life, a bicycle can teach a child valuable lessons in the most practical way: balance, perseverance, confidence, and the courage to move forward after a fall.

For a growing child, cycling is also an enjoyable form of physical exercise. It strengthens the body, develops coordination, and offers a sense of freedom. For a girl, particularly one who may have limited opportunities, a bicycle can open up a world of possibilities. It can help her travel short distances independently, run errands, visit friends, and explore her surroundings with greater confidence.

I had initially thought of the bicycle as a gift that would last longer than the stationery and art supplies I had given her daughter earlier. But its value turned out to be much greater than its price. It brought a smile to a child's face, encouraged her to stay active, and helped her become more independent.

A bicycle may have only two wheels, but for a child, it can carry dreams, confidence, and the joy of discovering the world independently.

Pic : AI Generated

The Cosmic Aarti of Baby Krishna

2026-10-23T20:46:20.638-07:00

I had a rather strange and unforgettable experience one morning while performing aarti.

As part of my daily routine, I closed my eyes and began to imagine Baby Krishna sitting in my lap. In my inner vision, He was holding a panch-aarti diya with five wicks in His right hand, moving it gently in a circular motion. The five wicks reminded me of the Panchabhutas—earth, water, fire, air, and space, the five elements that constitute the material universe.

Gradually, the vision transformed. Baby Krishna began holding the lamp with both hands, moving it gracefully in a clockwise direction. I remembered Lord Krishna's four-armed form, a divine manifestation associated with Vishnu, which devotees often find deeply reassuring. But what unfolded next was beyond anything I could have imagined.

Baby Krishna seemed to grow four arms, each holding an aarti lamp and moving in perfect rhythm with the devotional song. Then, before my inner eyes, more and more arms emerged—hundreds, thousands, countless arms, each holding a lamp and moving in unison with the music. It was as though the little child in my lap was revealing a cosmic form, an infinitude of divine hands participating in the same sacred offering.

And then came the most astonishing part. Krishna placed a lamp upon His head and began rotating it along with the movements of His hands. His head moved swiftly, yet the lamp remained perfectly balanced. Everywhere I looked within that inner vision, there were lamps—thousands upon thousands of them, shimmering and revolving in divine rhythm.

I felt a little frightened by the sheer magnitude of what I was experiencing and opened my eyes. Before me was the aarti playing on YouTube, its devotional music continuing as usual.

I sat there wondering what had just happened. I had never heard or read of Baby Krishna appearing in precisely this way. The experience felt so unusual, so vivid, and so different from anything I had previously imagined. I could only reflect on the infinite forms in which the Divine is contemplated by devotees.

As the Bhagavad Gita declares in Chapter 11, Arjuna beholds the extraordinary Vishvarupa of Lord Krishna, a form encompassing countless manifestations of the universe. My experience was not something I could equate with Arjuna's vision, but it brought the idea of the Lord's immeasurable nature vividly to my mind.

There was another reason this morning felt particularly meaningful.

During the month of Bhadrapada, corresponding roughly to August–September, I had performed sadhana dedicated to Lord Krishna. Usually, towards the final days of a sadhana, I experience something spiritually significant. This time, however, nothing unusual happened. When the sadhana ended, I consoled myself, wondering whether I had made a mistake in the procedure or had failed to concentrate sufficiently to receive a blessing.

Yet I continued with my devotion.

After completing the sadhana, I distributed burfi as prasadam. I shared it with everyone I could think of—the security guards, electricians, gardeners, plumbers, labourers, and local shopkeepers—not only in my own residential society but also in the neighbouring societies.

And then something happened that made me smile in amazement. Despite distributing the sweets to so many people, the prasadam simply did not seem to finish! Every time I thought there could hardly be any left, there was more to distribute. It reminded me of Draupadi's Akshaya Patra, the inexhaustible vessel from the Mahabharata.

Finally, tired from all the distributing, I prayed to the Lord, “Krishna, I am tired now. Please, let us finish this!”

With that prayer, I placed the last piece of burfi in a labourer's hand. The distribution was finally complete.

I am still unsure how to interpret the vision I experienced during aarti that morning. I can only describe what I saw in my mind and how deeply it moved me. It brought to life, for me, the idea that the Divine cannot be confined to a single form or limited by the boundaries of our imagination.

Perhaps the greatest blessing is not always the experience we wait for, but the grace to continue praying, serving, and loving even when nothing extraordinary seems to happen.

The Lord is kind and benevolent. Sometimes, He gives us what we ask for; at other times, He surprises us with something we could never have imagined.

Pic : AI Generated

When Kindness Became My Celebration on Karva Chauth

2026-10-22T19:58:33.966-07:00

“Have you kept the Karva Chauth fast?” I asked a female security guard at a reputed mall near my home. I had gone there to attend a business meeting and noticed that she was wearing a bindi and sindoor. Assuming that she was married, I gently asked her the question.

She nodded, but there was a hint of hesitation in her response. After all, I was a stranger asking her a personal question.

“Please keep this money and buy yourself a snack, some sweets or fruits,” I said, offering her a fifty-rupee note.

She hesitated to accept it. Perhaps she felt uncomfortable taking money from someone she had never met.

“Today is your fasting day, and yet you are performing your duty. I appreciate your hard work,” I told her.

She eventually accepted the money.

However, while returning home, I began to think about my gesture. Fifty rupees was hardly enough to buy much these days, given the rising prices of everyday necessities. I felt that I could have offered her more. My intention had been to bring a little happiness into her day, but perhaps I had not done enough.

Soon, I spotted the woman who regularly pressed my clothes. I asked her the same question.

“Have you kept the Karva Chauth fast?”

She nodded.

Here was my opportunity to correct my earlier mistake. I offered her two hundred rupees so that she could buy some sweets and fruits for herself. This time, I felt more satisfied that I had been able to offer a little more comfort to someone who was working on a day when many women were observing a fast.

I do not celebrate this festival myself, but I believe that we can still participate in its spirit by bringing happiness into someone else's life. Festivals are not only about our own celebrations, rituals or family gatherings. They can also remind us to notice the people who work quietly around us, often putting aside their own comfort to fulfil their responsibilities.

As Anne Frank wrote, “No one has ever become poor by giving.” A small act of kindness may not change someone's circumstances, but it can make an ordinary day feel a little more special.

If we do not celebrate a festival ourselves, we can still celebrate its spirit by bringing a little happiness into the lives of those who deserve it.

Pics : AI Generated

When Maa Kalaratri’s Image Came Alive

2026-10-21T21:56:32.836-07:00

On the evening of 16 February 2024, something extraordinary happened during my japa of Maa Kalaratri. It was the seventh day of Magh Gupt Navratri, and I was sitting before the image of Maa as depicted in the NavDurga book published by Gita Press, Gorakhpur. As I gazed at Her fierce eyes and continued repeating Her name, I felt as though Her image had come alive. Her eyes seemed to look directly at me, and Her face appeared to radiate a divine glow.

Usually, I perform my japa with the lights switched off, but that evening, I had forgotten to turn them off. In the middle of my japa, something changed. Maa’s large, fierce eyes seemed to draw me towards them with an irresistible magnetic force. My attention became completely absorbed in Her gaze. For those moments, nothing else seemed to exist. I could neither see nor feel anything beyond Maa’s magnificent eyes. It was as though the entire universe had disappeared, leaving only the Divine Mother and Her devotee in a silent communion.

Perhaps this is the mysterious beauty of devotion: when the heart is filled with love, even an image can become a doorway to the Divine. The picture before me seemed to transcend its printed form, and I experienced a profound sense of Maa’s presence. As the saying goes, “The eyes are the window to the soul.” That evening, I felt as though Maa’s eyes were opening a window into a world beyond ordinary perception.

Until then, I had completed only one forty-day sadhana of Maa Kalaratri. I had also worshipped Her with complete devotion during the four Navratris observed throughout the year. I did not worship Her every day, yet I had always felt that She was kind and benevolent towards me, blessing me with spiritual experiences that were unique and deeply moving. I could not explain why such experiences came my way, but my heart received them with gratitude. To me, they were precious reminders of the mysterious bond that can exist between a devotee and the Mother Divine.

Maa Kalaratri is like a flash of lightning in the darkest night.

Imagine a moonless night when thick, dark clouds cover the sky. The darkness is so complete that one cannot see even a few steps ahead. There seems to be no direction, no path and no indication of what lies beyond. Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminates the sky. For a brief moment, everything becomes visible. The road, the trees, the distant landscape—all emerge from the darkness, and one can see where to go.

To me, Maa Kalaratri’s energy is like that lightning: fierce, sudden and illuminating. There are times in our lives when sorrow, confusion and despair surround us like dark clouds. We may feel lost, unable to decide which path to take or how to overcome our difficulties. Our minds become clouded with fear, and hope seems to disappear. Yet, when we turn towards Maa with a sincere heart, we find the courage to face our circumstances and the strength to seek a way forward. In my faith, She is the Mother who hears the prayers of Her children and illuminates their path when everything seems dark.

As Helen Keller beautifully said, “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” Maa Kalaratri reminds me that darkness need not be the end of our journey. Sometimes, the light we need appears when we surrender our fears, pray with sincerity and gather the courage to take the next step.

There is another beautiful aspect of Maa Kalaratri’s appearance that has always touched my heart. She is depicted with uncombed, dishevelled hair. Her attire is simple, and She wears very little jewellery. Unlike the other forms of the Goddess, whose beauty may be enhanced by elaborate ornaments and magnificent garments, Maa Kalaratri appears unconcerned with outward appearance. Her attention seems to be fixed on something far more important: protecting Her children and removing their suffering.

I often wonder whether Her simple appearance conveys a profound message. A mother rushing to rescue her child does not stop to arrange her hair, choose beautiful clothes or adorn herself with jewellery. She simply runs towards the child who needs her. Nothing is more urgent than the child's safety, and nothing is more important than answering the child's call.

That is how I imagine Maa Kalaratri. She is so eager to relieve the pain of Her devotees that She gives no importance to Her own adornment. Her love is not dressed in splendour; it expresses itself through action. Her dishevelled hair and simple appearance seem to proclaim that when a child is suffering, the mother's only concern is to reach that child as quickly as possible.

Even Her weapons seem to reflect this urgency. She is not depicted holding a multitude of weapons. Instead, She carries a vajra and a khadga—a thunderbolt and a sword—with which She destroys obstacles and protects Her devotees from forces that threaten them. I imagine Her as a mother who has hastily picked up whatever is necessary to defend Her children. She does not need an elaborate display of power. Her strength lies in Her divine resolve to protect.

And then there is Her mount—a simple donkey, without the elegance and magnificence associated with many divine mounts. Yet, to me, this simplicity makes Her even more endearing. Maa does not need a majestic vehicle to demonstrate Her greatness. She comes in whatever form She chooses, without concern for appearances or worldly grandeur. Her purpose is not to impress the world but to reach those who call upon Her.

Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful lessons Maa Kalaratri offers us: true greatness does not lie in appearance, but in the willingness to serve, protect and relieve suffering. The Divine Mother does not need to display Her magnificence to prove Her love. She demonstrates it by standing beside Her children when they are frightened, lost or helpless.

Whenever I think of Maa Kalaratri, I remember those fierce, magnetic eyes that held my attention that February evening. I remember how Her face seemed to glow and how, for a few moments, everything else faded away. I cannot explain the experience in ordinary words, but it remains etched in my memory as a moment of deep devotion.

For me, Maa Kalaratri is not merely the Goddess who destroys darkness; She is also the Mother who enters the darkness of our lives with the speed and brilliance of lightning. She comes when we are afraid, when we cannot see the road ahead, and when we have lost the confidence to move forward. Her fierce appearance conceals a compassionate heart, and Her terrifying form reminds us that the power which destroys evil can also shelter a frightened child.

When we call upon Her with love and surrender, we open our hearts to Her strength, courage and Grace. After all, She is Maa Kalaratri—the Mother who rides through the darkness, carrying the light of divine protection.

Jai Maa Kalaratri! Jai Maa Durga!

Pic : Maa Kalaratri's image as depicted in the pictorial book NavDurga.

Maa Durga’s Blessings for a Genuine Seeker

2026-10-20T20:42:18.313-07:00

“Would you like this book on Maa NavDurga?” I asked a security guard at a nearby residential society. During Navratri, I had been distributing books on the Divine Mother to the janitors, housekeeping staff, gardeners, plumbers, electricians and anyone else in my own society who showed an interest in reading them. Having shared my collection with them, I decided to visit a neighbouring society and offer these spiritual treasures to more people.

“Of course! I would love to have it. Navratri is going on,” he replied with a smile.

I handed him the book, and he began flipping through its pages with interest. Encouraged by his enthusiasm, I asked whether he would like to read any other books from my collection. As I showed him a few titles, he mentioned something that immediately caught my attention.

“I used to read the Durga Saptashati when I lived in my village, but I don't have a copy here,” he said.

His words touched my heart. Here was someone who genuinely wished to read about the Divine Mother but did not have access to the sacred text he loved. I immediately offered to check my collection at home.

“Let me see if I have a copy. I will return in some time. Please wait for me,” I told him.

When I returned, I carried a paper bag filled with more than one book. I opened it and showed him the Durga Saptashati, the Markandeya Purana, and both parts of the Shrimad Devi Bhagwat Purana. I explained that all these scriptures glorified the Divine Mother. The Durga Saptashati, also known as the Devi Mahatmya, is a celebrated section of the Markandeya Purana, one of the eighteen Mahapuranas of Sanatan Dharma. The Shrimad Devi Bhagwat Purana, meanwhile, narrates the glory, divine power and greatness of the Divine Mother.

His face lit up when he noticed the publisher.

“All these books are published by Gita Press, Gorakhpur!” he exclaimed with delight.

His happiness was contagious. It was clear that these were not merely books to him; they were a means of staying connected with his faith. I felt that the books had found someone who would appreciate them, read them and cherish their teachings.

“If you wish, you can keep all of them,” I told him. “And after you have read them, if you would like to explore more, I will gladly share other books from the same publisher.”

He was delighted. Then, with genuine eagerness, he asked, “Please share your mobile number, Sirji!”

I explained that I did not usually answer phone calls, but he could take my manager's number. He could call him whenever he wished and tell him the name of the book he wanted to read. I would then arrange it for him.

As I returned home, my heart was filled with joy. I had set out to distribute books, but I felt as though Maa Durga had guided me to someone who truly desired them. What could be more satisfying than placing sacred scriptures in the hands of a person who was eager to read them?

“When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” This well-known saying is often used to describe the mysterious way in which learning finds its way to a sincere seeker. That day, I felt something similar had happened. A man who wished to read the sacred scriptures had received not one, but five books through an unexpected encounter.

Perhaps devotion does not always express itself through elaborate rituals or grand offerings. Sometimes, it takes the simple form of sharing a book, answering someone's spiritual longing or helping a seeker reconnect with the scriptures he loves.

As the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita teaches in Chapter 17, Verse 20, giving a gift to a deserving person, at the right time and without expecting anything in return, is sattvic daan.

I had gone out to share the glory of Maa Durga, but returned feeling blessed myself. Sometimes, the greatest joy lies in helping someone find what their heart truly seeks.

Jai Maa Durga!

This is the 1,100th post on my blog! :)

Pic : AI Generated

Shyama Diaries – 4: The Life I Tried to Save

2026-10-19T21:22:23.393-07:00

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After the accident, Shyama’s health continued to deteriorate. The lively little bird who had once filled my home with cheerful chirping was growing weaker by the day. Worried about its condition, I rushed to Gurgaon Bird Hospital once again. The doctor examined it and prescribed medicines and supplements. He advised me to feed Shyama frequently and ensure that it received nutritious food.

I returned home with renewed hope. Perhaps, with proper care and nourishment, my little friend would recover. I became even more attentive, feeding it frequently and offering it dead insects as advised. I watched it closely, hoping to notice some improvement, some little sign that it was getting better. But Shyama did not seem to recover.

The following morning, I fed it as usual, but something felt different. My little bird did not seem well at all. A strange uneasiness settled over me, and I found myself wanting to stay beside it rather than attend to my office work.

I gently caressed its tiny body, trying to soothe it with my touch. Usually, Shyama loved to play with me, cling to my hands, and explore my hair. But that day, it wanted none of those things. It did not want to play or cling to me. It seemed restless, almost as though it wanted to move away. I kept stroking it tenderly, hoping that my touch would bring it some comfort.

Then, suddenly, Shyama shuddered and turned upside down, its little legs pointing towards the sky. I froze. For a moment, I could not understand what had happened. I gently tried to turn it back, but there was no movement. I waited, hoping to see its tiny chest rise and fall, hoping to hear even one faint chirp.

But there was nothing.

Shyama had stopped breathing.

My little companion was gone.

I cannot describe the emptiness I felt in that moment. Only a few days earlier, Shyama had been a bundle of energy, flying around the room, hiding beneath the book cabinet, and singing when it thought nobody was watching. Now, the same little bird lay motionless in my hands. The silence in the room was unbearable.

I wrapped Shyama in brown paper and, with a heavy heart, placed it in the dustbin from which I had first rescued it. The thought that its journey had begun there and ended there was deeply painful. I had brought it home with the hope of saving its life, but despite my efforts and affection, I could not keep it alive.

Shyama had come into my life for only a few days. I had fed it, protected it, taken it to the doctor, and tried to make my home a safe place for it. Yet I knew that, however much I loved it, I could never replace its mother. I could offer care and tenderness, but I could not give it everything it needed to grow and thrive.

As I sat grieving for my little companion, I remembered a comment on Facebook that I had read when I first rescued Shyama. A stranger had written that no matter what I did, the little bird would eventually die because it could not survive without its mother.

At the time, I had felt deeply disappointed by those words. Why should anyone give up on a little life before even trying to save it? I had chosen to listen to the friend who encouraged me and guided me on how to feed the bird. His words had given me hope, and I had held on to that hope through every difficult feeding session and every anxious moment.

But now, Shyama was gone.

The stranger’s prediction had come true, and I could not help wondering whether I had been wrong to hope. Had my efforts been futile? Could I have done something differently? These questions troubled me, but I also knew that I had tried my best with the knowledge and resources available to me. I had not abandoned a helpless creature simply because someone had predicted its death.

“It is better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all.”

I cried bitterly, as though I had lost a member of my own family. Perhaps someone else might have seen Shyama as just a little bird, a tiny creature that had briefly crossed my path. But to me, Shyama had become my companion, my responsibility, and a little life I had desperately wanted to protect.

I had not expected to become so attached to a bird I had found beside a dustbin. Nor had I imagined that its brief presence would leave such a deep ache in my heart.

Pic : Shyama wants to be alone.

Shyama Diaries – 3: A Collision That Changed Everything

2026-10-18T20:09:21.970-07:00

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“Chirp! Chirp!”

I heard a sweet, tinkling sound while meditating. Someone must have a lovely ringtone on their phone, I thought. The sound came again. And again.

How long can someone’s phone keep ringing? I wondered, trying hard to bring my attention back to meditation. But the melodious chirping continued, gently interrupting my concentration.

When I finished meditating, I realised that the sound seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the house rather than from outside. I followed it, searching for its source, but every time I thought I had found it, the sound stopped. Could it be Shyama singing? Whenever I went close to the little bird, however, it appeared perfectly normal and remained silent.

Finally, I decided to hide behind a wall and observe it without being noticed.

And there it was! My little Shyama was singing its heart out.

I watched in amazement as the tiny bird chirped happily, again and again, expressing its joy in the sweetest language it knew. What a delightful discovery! Until then, I had thought of Shyama as a little creature that needed my care and protection. Now, I was discovering another side of its personality—a playful, joyful bird with a voice of its own. Its cheerful song filled the room, and I found myself smiling at the happiness of my tiny companion.

As Shyama grew, so did its mischievousness. It loved flying around the room, exploring every possible perch. Sometimes, it would settle on the curtain rod; at other times, it would land on the lampshade mounted high on the wall. The sofa, too, was one of its favourite landing spots. The entire room had become its little world of adventures, and I enjoyed watching every new discovery.

But one day, an accident changed everything.

While exploring the room, Shyama took off from the lampshade. Perhaps it misjudged the distance, or perhaps it simply failed to recognise the transparent barrier in front of it. Instead of landing safely on the sofa, it flew straight into the glass door of the wooden book cabinet.

The impact frightened me. I rushed to check on my little friend, hoping it had not seriously injured itself. But what troubled me most was the change that followed. Shyama stopped singing. It ate less and seemed strangely subdued, as though something inside it had gone quiet. The little bird that had once filled my home with cheerful chirping now sat silently, and its silence hurt my heart.

It was as if a part of its joy had been lost in that collision.

Watching Shyama, I was reminded of an accident of my own.

I, too, had once collided with an invisible wall. I had believed there was open space ahead of me, only to discover that what appeared to be freedom was, in fact, a hard barrier. The impact was not merely physical or momentary; something inside me seemed to break. After that, I could no longer laugh as freely as I once had. I cried and cried, and the desire to live seemed to slip away from me.

Shyama’s accident brought those feelings rushing back. I looked at the little bird and wondered how something so small could suffer such a profound change after a single collision. Perhaps it was frightened; perhaps it was hurt. I could not know exactly what was happening inside its tiny body, but I recognised the silence that had replaced its joy.

Sometimes, the deepest wounds are not visible from the outside.

Whether the barrier is made of real glass or an invisible wall we never expected to encounter, the impact can leave something inside us shaken. We may continue to exist in the same surroundings, yet the carefree laughter, the trust, and the desire to explore that once came naturally may no longer feel the same.

And as I watched Shyama sitting quietly after its accident, I could not help wondering whether its song would return.

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Pic 1: Shyama playing with me

Pic 2 : Shyama sitting on the lampshade

Shyama Diaries – 2: When Shyama Discovered Its Wings

2026-10-17T20:47:16.046-07:00

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Shyama wanted love and affection, and I soon discovered that my little feathered friend loved playing with me. Feeding time was no longer just about food; it had become an opportunity for the two of us to bond. One day, while I was feeding Shyama, the little bird slipped from my grip and climbed onto my hands. Before I could catch hold of it, it swiftly made its way towards my head and became entangled in my long hair.

Instead of being frightened, Shyama seemed to enjoy clinging to me. I carefully disentangled it from my hair, amused by its playful antics. As the days passed, my little companion grew naughtier and more adventurous. It was no longer content to sit quietly in its nest. It wanted to explore its surroundings, and my balcony had become its playground.

One morning, I went to the balcony to feed Shyama, but to my surprise, it was nowhere to be seen. I searched every nook and corner, looking behind the flowerpots and around its usual hiding places. My heart began to sink. Had it fallen off the balcony? The thought was frightening. Disappointed and worried, I finally turned towards the house, not knowing where else to look.

Just then, something caught my eye. There was Shyama, sitting comfortably on the gas meter!

My relief quickly turned into delight. My little bird had begun to fly! What a wonderful milestone it was to witness. The tiny creature I had once rescued from beside a dustbin was gradually discovering its wings and exploring the world around it.

Over the next few days, Shyama began taking short flights and climbing up the net covering our balcony, which had been installed to keep pigeons away. It would cling to the net and slowly make its way upwards, exploring its newfound freedom with the innocence of a child. Watching it fill its days with such curiosity brought me immense joy. It had no idea how cruel the world could be or how vulnerable it still was.

One day, as Shyama was slowly climbing the net, a shikra—a bird of prey—appeared out of nowhere. In a flash, it swooped towards my little bird, ready to attack. My heart nearly stopped. I was standing just behind Shyama, and perhaps my presence startled the predator. The shikra made a sudden U-turn and flew away without harming it.

I stood there, shaken by how narrowly Shyama had escaped. The predator had retreated, but what if it returned? What if, the next time, I was not there to protect my little friend? Shyama was still too innocent to recognise danger, too trusting to understand that the same open sky that gave it the freedom to fly could also expose it to predators.

The thought of losing Shyama was unbearable. I could not take another chance with its life. I gently brought my little adventurer inside the house, away from the balcony and the lurking danger outside. After exploring its new surroundings, Shyama found a hiding place beneath the wooden book cabinet, which soon became its favourite little corner.

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Video : Learning to fly without its mother's guidance

Pic : Spreading its wings

Shyama Diaries – 1: Finding a Little Life

2026-10-16T22:05:53.892-07:00

“What was that?”

I had caught a fleeting glimpse of a middle-aged woman throwing something towards a dustbin during my morning walk. For a moment, it seemed as though the object had fluttered in the air. I was not sure what I had seen, so I continued walking. But something about that brief moment kept tugging at my mind. Curiosity would not let me move on.

I turned back and walked towards the dustbin. Looking carefully around it, I noticed a tiny black bird clinging to the wall nearby. My heart went out to the little creature. I hurried home, brought an empty box, and asked someone I knew to gently place the bird inside. I was hesitant to touch such a delicate little being myself, and I feared that if I left it there, a cat or a bird of prey might make it its meal.

I brought the little bird home and placed the box on my balcony. But a new question immediately arose: what kind of bird was it, and how could I care for it? I turned to bird-related groups on Facebook, asking people to identify it, tell me what to feed it, and guide me on how to look after it. Did it eat vegetarian food or insects? What did such a tiny bird need to survive? I had rescued a life, but I knew very little about how to protect it.

Several people responded, suggesting that it was a willow warbler or a swallow and explaining that it ate insects. However, two comments particularly caught my attention. One was from a friend who advised me to feed the little bird gently with a syringe or dropper, using suitable liquid food. His words gave me something precious: hope and a practical way to help.

The second comment came from a stranger, who wrote that whatever I did, the bird would eventually die because it could not survive without its mother. Those words saddened me. How could anyone be so certain that a little life had no chance? I felt sorry for the stranger, too, for looking at the situation with such hopelessness. I preferred to hold on to the possibility that my small efforts might make a difference.

As the saying goes, “While there is life, there is hope.” I decided to do whatever I could for my tiny guest. I offered it food and water and tried to make its little nest feel as natural as possible, coating it with mud to resemble its original surroundings. I wanted it to feel safe, as though it had found a small home away from home.

Later that evening, I went to check on it. My heart skipped a beat when I could not find it in the nest. Where had it gone? I searched behind every flowerpot on the balcony, looking into every possible hiding place, but the little bird was nowhere to be seen. My anxiety grew with every passing moment. Then, finally, I spotted it beneath a wooden slab where we kept our brooms. It had tucked itself away in that cool, dark corner, seeking shelter from the scorching heat. I felt relieved to have found my little friend safe.

The next day, I rushed to Gurgaon Bird Hospital. I wanted the bird to be examined properly, and I needed to learn what to feed it and how to feed it. The doctor examined the tiny creature and advised me to give it Cerelac baby food, sometimes mixing in dead insects or small pieces of paneer. Then he demonstrated how to feed it. Gently holding the bird’s neck and carefully pressing the front of its neck, he made it open its mouth. The little one responded as though its mother were feeding it. I watched in amazement. It looked so simple!

But the real challenge began when I returned home.

No matter how carefully I tried, the little bird refused to open its beak. The very technique that had worked so effortlessly for the doctor seemed impossible in my hands. What had looked like a simple task at the hospital turned into an exhausting exercise at home. Sometimes, it took me hours just to feed the little creature.

Looking after it reminded me of trying to feed a young child who would rather play than eat. At times, the bird would retreat into its little nest, as if telling me it wanted to be left alone. At other times, it seemed more interested in exploring or playing than accepting the food I offered. Every feeding session demanded patience, persistence, and a great deal of effort. I had never imagined that caring for such a tiny creature could be so challenging.

As the day drew to a close, I sat talking to my mother and told her about my new feathered friend. My mother has a wonderful gift for naming things, and she did not disappoint me this time either. After hearing about the little bird’s black feathers, she gave it a name: Shyama—the one who is dark or black in colour.

And that was how my little companion came to be called Shyama.

Shyama Diaries -2

Pic 1 : Shyama clinging to a wall near dustbin

Pic 2 : Shyama sitting on my hand

Kindness Should Not Wait

2026-10-15T21:04:23.752-07:00

“Buy me a meal,” a ragpicker boy said, pointing towards a street food vendor. I looked at the signboard and asked him, “Would you like to eat chole bhature?” His little eyes lit up with hope as he nodded. Perhaps he had already imagined himself enjoying a plate of his favourite food. I asked the vendor, as it was still morning, whether the food was ready. In a matter-of-fact tone, he replied that it would take another half an hour to prepare. I turned towards the boy and told him that it would not be possible to wait that long. The hope in his eyes faded, and disappointment took its place. In a hurry to feed the stray animals, I continued towards a nearby herd of cows, leaving the little boy behind.

As I fed one of the cows, a thought suddenly struck me. How could I have been so careless? The boy had asked me for food because he was hungry, yet I had walked away simply because the food he wanted was not ready. I could have taken him to another shop, bought him some packed food or even given him some fruits. Why had I not thought of these simple alternatives? I looked back, hoping to find him, but he had disappeared. My heart felt heavy. I had been so busy carrying out my charitable activities that I had overlooked the immediate need of a hungry child standing right in front of me. Yet I wondered whether true service also meant being attentive enough to recognise the needs of those who crossed our path.

Some time later, I stopped at a vegetable vendor's shop to buy fresh vegetables. After filling my basket, I looked up to have the bill prepared, and there he was—the same little boy, walking past the shop. I did not want to miss another opportunity. Without wasting a moment, I picked up a big apple and handed it to him. I later asked the vegetable vendor to add its price to my bill. The boy immediately began munching the apple. I watched him relishing every bite as he walked away, and I felt relieved that this time I had not let the opportunity to help him pass by.

That little encounter taught me a lesson. Kindness is not always about doing something extraordinary; sometimes, it is about noticing someone's hunger and responding without delay. I had not been able to give the boy the meal he had asked for, but at least I could offer him something to eat. As the saying goes, “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” I hope that, wherever life takes that little boy, he finds enough food, care and opportunities to live a better life. And I hope I always remember that compassion is not merely about having a kind heart; it is also about acting at the right moment.

Pic : Pexels

Duty First, Devotion Next

2026-10-14T21:35:44.280-07:00

“Would you like this religious book on Maa Durga?” I asked a young man sitting on the pillion seat of a motorcycle. He had a tuft of hair like a pandit and was wearing a Blinkit jacket. He ignored me completely, almost as if I did not exist. I thought to myself that these delivery workers were always in a hurry to complete their orders and could hardly spare even a second for anything else. Every moment was precious to them, as they had to deliver orders on time.

Before Navratri begins, I distribute books on Maa NavDurga to genuine seekers. Some people cannot afford to buy religious books, some do not know how to order them online, and others are so occupied with their daily responsibilities that they never get around to buying them. I try to reach such people and place these books in their hands, hoping that someone who needs them will find them at the right time. After the young man ignored my offer, I walked a few steps forward and noticed that his motorcycle had stopped near the tower where I live. I hurried towards it, hoping to meet him, but both he and his companion had already disappeared inside the building.

After distributing the books, I took the lift to return home. It stopped at the sixth floor, and when the doors opened, I saw the same young man standing there, waiting for the lift. The moment he saw me, he said, “Madam, please give me now.” I was surprised and smiled to myself. He had not forgotten my offer; he had simply wanted to finish his duty first. Only after completing his work had he allowed himself to think about anything else. I took a few steps forward, handed him the book and asked if he would like any other book. Looking at the divine picture of Maa Durga on the cover, he replied, “That is enough.”

I stepped back into the lift, and as the doors were closing, I saw him standing there, completely absorbed in the book. He had opened it and begun reading while waiting for another lift to take him downstairs. The sight touched my heart. A few moments earlier, I had mistaken his silence for indifference, but now I understood that he had simply been sincere about his work. He had fulfilled his responsibility first, and then turned his attention to his spiritual interest. His actions reminded me of the famous saying often attributed to Swami Vivekananda: “They alone live who live for others.” Perhaps sincerity in one's work and sincerity in one's devotion are not so different after all. One teaches us to fulfil our duties honestly, while the other draws our hearts towards the Divine. As I returned home, I felt happy that a small book had found its way into the hands of someone who genuinely wished to read it. I had set out to distribute a religious book, but in that brief encounter, I received a gentle reminder not to judge people too quickly. Sometimes, a sincere worker and a sincere devotee are the very same person.

The Typing Lesson That Never Ended

2026-09-29T01:17:22.206-07:00

“I will not allow you to go alone to that market. It is the rainy season, the roads become drains, and antisocial elements of society become active. If you have company, I will allow you to go.”

My mother’s words were final.

I had asked her permission to join a typing class, but instead of the permission I had hoped for, I received a list of dangers waiting outside our home. I was disappointed and disheartened. None of my friends was interested in learning typing. They were far more fascinated by beauty products, fashionable clothes and taking beautiful photographs of themselves. I, however, had somehow developed an unusual interest in learning how to type.

Since I could not go to the typing class, I went to the computer room and decided to find my own way.

In those days, connecting to the internet was not as effortless as it is today. The internet was expensive, and every minute mattered. I dialled the connection, opened Google and typed, “How to learn typing online.” Then I pressed the search button.

Several links appeared. I clicked on the first one and discovered, to my delight, that the first lesson was free.

I eagerly began.

I learned where each finger was supposed to rest on the keyboard—the little finger of the left hand on A, the ring finger on S, the middle finger on D and the index finger on F. Then I learned the corresponding positions for my right hand. It seemed almost like learning a new language, except that instead of words, I was learning the language of the keyboard.

Suddenly I remembered that the internet meter was running.

I quickly disconnected.

The rest of my education had to be offline.

Every day, whenever I found some free time, I took one lesson and practised it wholeheartedly. There were no expensive classes, no teacher sitting beside me and no friends learning along with me. There was simply a keyboard, a few lessons I had saved in my mind and my determination to learn.

When I completed all the lessons, I discovered another way to improve. I started playing typing games. They made practice enjoyable, and slowly my fingers began moving across the keyboard with greater confidence.

One day, my brother called me. I excitedly told him, “I have learned typing, but my speed is very slow.”

He was already an adept typist and gave me a piece of advice that I still remember.

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,” he said. “This sentence contains all twenty-six letters of the English alphabet. Keep typing it again and again. Your speed will improve.”

I followed his advice.

At that time, I had no idea that this little typing lesson would eventually become the beginning of something much bigger.

While my friends were busy with the things that interested them, I was busy learning to type. And that decision stayed with me. It has now been seventeen years since I began writing my blogs.

My first blog was published on 1 October 2009.

When I look back at those early blogs, I smile. They were short because I did not yet have enough words to express everything I wanted to say. With time, however, the words multiplied. My thoughts became clearer, my stories became longer and I slowly discovered my own way of sharing experiences with my readers.

Earlier, my mother was my editor. She would read my writing and point out my mistakes. Today, technology has changed, and AI tools have become my editors. But one thing has remained unchanged—I still love sitting down and turning my thoughts into words.

Even my readers have travelled with me across the world.

Earlier, most of my readers were from India. Today, I see readers from the United States, Germany, the Netherlands, Brazil, Hong Kong, Singapore and many other countries whose exact locations I sometimes have to look up on the world map. Interestingly, only a very small number of my readers now come from India.

It amazes me.

A young girl who once could not get permission to walk alone to a typing class eventually found a way to learn typing at home. That small act of determination opened a door she could not have imagined. The keyboard that I first approached simply as a tool for typing eventually became a bridge to people I would never meet and places I might never visit.

As Helen Keller said, “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.”

Perhaps my adventure began rather quietly—with a rainy season, a worried mother, an expensive internet connection and four letters on a keyboard: A, S, D and F.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if my mother had allowed me to join that typing class. Perhaps I would have learned typing there and forgotten about it. Instead, her refusal pushed me towards a different path. I learned to find my own way.

And that may be the most valuable lesson of all.

Seventeen years have passed since that first blog. I have written through changing times, changing technologies and changing readers. My editor changed from my mother to AI, the internet became cheaper and faster, and my readers travelled from one country to another.

But my love for writing remains.

I hope I continue to learn, observe and write stories for as long as I can.

Perhaps I will keep pressing those keys until my fingers can no longer type—and until then, I hope there will always be another story waiting to be written.

Pic : Pixabay and AI Generated

A Career Drawn by Mehendi

2026-09-18T21:47:39.217-07:00

“My maid’s daughter is not very good at studies. She dreams of seeing her become a career woman. How can I help her?” I asked my mother, who always seemed to have an excellent idea ready whenever I needed one.

She thought for a moment and said, “One of her daughters is already a beautician. Why not guide this girl towards becoming a mehendi artist? They will not compete with each other; instead, their skills will complement one another. Together, they can build a bigger business.”

Then she added something that stayed with me: “Mehendi is an art that is created by human hands. Even in a world increasingly influenced by AI, some forms of creativity will always carry the warmth of the person who creates them.”

I loved the idea. Following my mother’s suggestion, I paid a substantial amount for a mehendi course and arranged for a teacher to come to her home. For a month, she learned the fundamentals, patiently copying one intricate design after another. But learning was only the beginning. Whenever she found a little free time after her studies and household chores, she practised.

Soon, she began coming to my house to learn new designs from YouTube on my iPad. Her enthusiasm was infectious. She would carefully study a pattern, observe every curve and tiny detail, and then try to recreate it with her own hands. Her mother, sister and neighbours became her willing canvases. She practised on their hands again and again until the designs became smoother, finer and more confident.

As the months passed, something beautiful happened. She was no longer merely learning mehendi; she was discovering a skill that could belong to her.

Then came Teej.

That festive day brought her first real order. She held the mehendi cone with excitement, perhaps remembering all those evenings of practice and all those imperfect designs that had slowly taught her to become better. This time, someone had trusted her enough to pay for her art.

She completed the design with immense enthusiasm. And when she received her first income from mehendi, her face lit up with a happiness that money alone could never explain. It was not merely her first earning—it was proof that she could create something with her own hands and turn that ability into a profession.

Her mother was even happier. For a mother, watching her daughter earn her first income through a skill she has mastered must be one of the sweetest forms of success.

As Henry David Thoreau beautifully said, “What you get by achieving your goals is not as important as what you become by achieving your goals.” Watching this young girl grow from a hesitant learner into a budding mehendi artist, I realised that sometimes the greatest gift we can give someone is not money, but the opportunity to discover what they can do with their own hands.

My mother had given me an idea. I had helped create an opportunity. But the girl herself had done the most important part—she had practised, persisted and transformed that opportunity into a beginning.

And perhaps her first mehendi order was not just the beginning of her income. It was the first delicate line in the design of her future.

Pics 1-3 : Mehendi designs by budding artist

Pic 4 : Mehendi design that brought her first income

Enough of Spiritual Experiences, Maa Kalratri!

2026-09-16T20:48:51.099-07:00

“Enough of spiritual experiences, Maa Kalratri!” I prayed to Mother Divine from the depths of my heart. “You remove darkness from the lives of your devotees. This time, please remove the darkness from the life of this innocent little bitch.” My prayer came from a painful encounter with a female dog whose hind legs had become paralysed after an unknown accident. Once an active animal, she was now forced to crawl on the streets to survive. As she dragged her body along the road, broken glass, sharp stones and other pointed objects often caused fresh cuts and injuries. Watching her struggle touched my heart deeply. I started helping her in whatever little way I could—guiding her towards safer places and giving her food. But her condition remained unchanged, and I felt helpless.

I tried contacting several NGOs, hoping someone would come forward to take care of her, but nothing seemed to work. I would keep her on soft grass so that she would not hurt herself, but she would somehow return to the garbage-filled lanes, perhaps looking for food or simply trying to find her own way of surviving. Then I contacted a nearby dog clinic, where I met a compassionate doctor. Although treatment usually involved expenses, he treated her without charging me anything. His kindness gave me hope, but unfortunately, despite the treatment, there was no significant improvement in her condition. Her back injury seemed permanent, and I could not stop wondering what would become of her.

It was during Sharad Navratri that I offered a different kind of prayer. The seventh day is dedicated to Maa Kalratri, and my spiritual experiences on this day had often been intense. But this time I folded my hands and said, “No more spiritual experiences, Maa. I don't want anything for myself. Please remove the darkness from this innocent animal's life.” I remembered one of the beautiful names of Mother Divine in the Lalita Sahasranama: “आब्रह्म-कीट-जननी” — Aabrahma-keeta-janani, meaning that She is the Mother of all beings—from Brahma to the tiniest creature. If every living being is Her child, I thought, then surely this helpless dog too belongs to Her.

Then something beautiful happened. Next day, a contact number of an NGO based in Vasant Kunj, Delhi, was shared with me by a stray dog lover. I immediately contacted them, and hope returned to my heart. They came to take the dog and transported her to a hospital in Gurgaon. Her back injury could not be reversed, but the story did not end there. The NGO continued to care for her and gave her something she had never had on the streets—a safe and loving home. They even provided her with wheels that supported her hind legs and allowed her to move around independently.

I had asked Maa Kalratri for one thing—to remove the darkness from this innocent animal's life. She did not make her back injury disappear, but She opened a door that I could never have opened myself. An NGO took responsibility for her, and a loving home welcomed her. Perhaps that was Maa Kalratri's answer: not a spiritual experience, but a little life rescued from darkness and given another chance to live.

Video : Paralysed innocent animal

Pic : Maa Kalratri

The Wheels of Kindness

2026-09-15T01:22:03.330-07:00

“My business is down. Even after two years of Corona have passed, my business has not picked up. My sales have fallen to barely ten percent. I am using my savings to pay the rent, my employees’ salaries and other expenses. It is a really difficult phase of my life. I do not know how long I will be able to survive.” The bicycle vendor spoke these words with a pain that was difficult to ignore. I had known him not merely as a vendor but as a kind and generous human being. He had a special affection for stray dogs. Every morning and evening, he fed them and, during the harsh winters, even built little shelters for them so they could sleep safely and warmly. Once, I told him about a paralysed female dog living across the road. I used to feed her in the morning, but because of my busy evening routine, I was unable to feed her then. Without hesitation, he said, “You don't worry. I will feed her.” His own business was struggling, yet he never allowed his difficulties to make him indifferent to the suffering of another living being. His kindness reminded me of Mahatma Gandhi's words, “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”

I kept wondering, How could I help him? Since I had no personal need for a bicycle, I decided to buy one from him for the school-going daughters of one of my employees. Some time later, I bought a small children's bicycle with supporting wheels for the kindergarten-going children of another employee. Then, after some more time had passed, I bought bicycles for my maid's daughters. They had been travelling to school by doubling on the same cycle, taking turns to balance themselves and their schoolbags. Now each girl could ride comfortably and safely to school. Every time I bought a bicycle, I felt that perhaps I was doing something small not only for a child's happiness but also for a man whose livelihood depended on those sales. The bicycles brought smiles to children's faces, but I knew that my little efforts could never compensate for the enormous loss he was facing.

Eventually, despite everything, his business had to shut down. The little bicycle shop that had once been a source of his livelihood disappeared, and so did the familiar presence of the man who had cared for so many stray dogs. Whenever I now have to gift someone a bicycle, I instinctively think of him and try calling his number—but his phone is switched off. I don't know where life has taken him or what he is doing today. I can only pray that the goodness he so freely gave to helpless animals has somehow returned to him in another form. Perhaps somewhere, another door opened for him—perhaps he found another business, a better opportunity, and a livelihood with far greater returns. “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted,” as Aesop is often credited with saying. I hope this is true for him. Wherever he may be, I hope life has finally rewarded the man who, even during his own difficult days, never stopped caring for those who had no voice to ask for help.

Pic : AI Generated

Making Someone’s Journey a Little Lighter

2026-09-14T02:35:21.230-07:00

“Who carries their baggage like this in modern times?” I wondered when I first noticed a shabby-looking man walking along the road, dressed in a wheatish-coloured dhoti and kurta, with a long stick resting across his left shoulder and little bundles and potlis hanging from either side. For a fleeting moment, his unusual appearance and way of carrying his belongings caught my attention, but instead of judging him, I felt compassion. Perhaps he could not afford the expensive bags that we take for granted, or perhaps he simply loved the freedom and simplicity of carrying only what was necessary. There was something timeless about him. He walked slowly, as though the long road had made his feet weary and he was quietly looking for a place to rest. I approached him and asked, “Do you want to drink tea?” He simply nodded.

I asked a nearby tea vendor to prepare a cup of tea for him and give him a packet of biscuits, and then went about my usual charity work of feeding stray animals. When I returned, I noticed that his breakfast was still not ready, so I bought some fresh fruits for him. He accepted them gratefully and carefully placed them inside one of his little bundles. After his brief refreshment, he adjusted the long stick on his shoulder, gathered his belongings and prepared to continue his journey. I watched him begin walking again, slowly disappearing down the road, carrying his little world upon his shoulders.

Watching him walk away, I suddenly felt that perhaps our meeting had a purpose. Life, too, is a journey—we carry our own invisible bundles of memories, hopes, responsibilities and dreams. Along the way, we meet people who remain in our lives for years and others who cross our paths for only a few minutes, yet leave behind a lasting impression. As Lao Tzu is widely credited with saying, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Perhaps that traveler had already taken thousands of such steps, carrying his simple possessions while carrying within him a story I would never know. And perhaps our paths crossed for only a few moments because sometimes kindness does not require us to know someone's entire story; it simply asks us to make their journey a little lighter.

Pic : AI Generated

A Little Bird’s Wish

2026-09-13T02:42:30.098-07:00

“Will you please see my birth chart and tell me why I am having such a severe stomach ache?” a young woman, my next-door neighbour, asked me one day. I already knew that her marriage was deeply disturbed and that she had left her husband’s house and was now living with her two young children at her brother’s home. As she spoke about her stomach ache, something within me whispered that perhaps the pain she was unable to put into words was not really in her stomach. Perhaps she was asking about something much deeper—her marriage, her future, her life. I calmly asked her to share her date of birth, time of birth and place of birth with me. “Let me study your chart, and then I will tell you,” I said.

When I looked at her chart, my doubts seemed to find their answer. I did not see anything particularly alarming in the sixth house, traditionally associated with health and disease. But the seventh house—the house connected with marriage and partnerships—made me pause. I felt that her real question was hiding there. I wanted to suggest something that would not put a financial burden on her. She had very little income, two school-going children to support, and already enough worries to carry. So instead of suggesting an expensive ritual or costly charity, I told her, “Every morning, feed the birds with just one teaspoon of bajra. Keep it in the north-east direction from your house.” It was such a tiny act that it almost seemed insignificant. But sometimes, perhaps, the smallest acts are the easiest for a troubled heart to perform.

Her two children fascinated me. Her son, about seven years old, was intelligent, obedient and remarkably calm, but there was something heartbreaking about him—he almost never laughed and rarely even smiled. His five-year-old sister was completely different. She was bubbly, playful and full of laughter, as though life itself were a game. One day I asked their mother, “Why is there such a difference between your two children?” Her answer made me understand the silence behind her son’s eyes. Their father had abused her, beaten her and behaved harshly with her. He had even tried to kill her. Her little daughter had been only about a year old when they left, too young to remember much of what had happened. But her son was old enough to remember. He had witnessed and absorbed the fear, anger and violence around him. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she had left her husband’s home. Her brother and sister-in-law had given her shelter in their house and work in their factory so that she could support herself and her children.

For a few months, she continued feeding the birds. Then one day I noticed that her house remained locked most of the time. My own schedule was so hectic that I could not find out what had happened. Gradually, I noticed her brother and sister-in-law visiting the house more and more frequently. And whenever they saw me, I sensed something in their eyes—anger, perhaps even blame. A terrible thought crossed my mind. Had they believed that my advice had somehow pushed her back into the very situation from which they had rescued her? Had I unknowingly encouraged her to return to the man who had hurt her? I carried that uneasy thought within me, unable to ask.

Six months passed.

Then, unexpectedly, I met her.

She smiled and told me that she was living happily with her husband again. She had moved with her children into a much simpler, low-cost society with fewer amenities. She had left behind her brother’s beautiful house in a posh colony, with all its modern comforts, and chosen a much simpler life with her husband.

But then she said something that stayed with me.

“My son is very happy now. He laughs often.”

I looked at her and remembered that little boy who had once seemed to have forgotten how to smile. Suddenly, I could picture him again—not as the silent child carrying memories too heavy for his small shoulders, but as a seven-year-old boy laughing freely, perhaps running through his new home, perhaps finally feeling the warmth of his father’s love.

It felt to me as though a dry plant had suddenly sent out green shoots after receiving water.

Perhaps the house with fewer amenities had given them something the bigger, more beautiful house could not: a chance to rebuild a family. Perhaps what looked like a step down in material comfort had become a step towards emotional healing. And perhaps that little teaspoon of bajra offered to the birds every morning had not been merely about feeding birds at all. It had been a tiny ritual of hope—a reminder that even when life feels broken, we can still offer something, however small, to the world around us.

I never asked her what exactly had happened during those six months. I did not need to. Her son’s laughter was answer enough.

Sometimes we look for miracles in grand rituals, expensive offerings and elaborate ceremonies. But perhaps grace can enter our lives through something as simple as a handful of grain, a frightened mother’s courage, a family willing to forgive, or a child finally feeling safe enough to laugh again.

And sometimes, the greatest sign that a prayer has been heard is not something we see in the sky.

It is the sound of a child laughing again.

Pics : Unsplash and AI Generated

I Cried While Watching Hanuman Ansh

2026-09-05T23:35:03.396-07:00

Hanuman Ansh! Hanuman Ansh! Hanuman Ansh! These words kept appearing on my social-media feed, and my curiosity was instantly aroused. What exactly was Hanuman Ansh? I searched and discovered that it was a newly released film based on the life of the revered saint Shri Neem Karoli Baba. Initially, the film struggled at the box office and did not make profits, but from the third week onward, something remarkable began to happen. The movie started gaining popularity through word-of-mouth publicity and some wonderfully unconventional marketing efforts. On eight Bade Mangalvars, the team distributed bandars to create awareness about the film. They are now encouraging the younger generation, especially Gen Z, to take their elders along to watch it, presenting it as a film that can be enjoyed by the whole family.

While scrolling through YouTube, I came across a scene from the movie that I had never expected would affect me so deeply. In the scene, Babaji and one of his devotees are thrown out of a train by a ticket checker on a British passenger request traveling in the first class compartment during the days of British rule in India. There was no anger on Babaji's face. No argument. No protest. He simply went and sat beneath a tree, quietly singing and chanting bhajans. Something extraordinary happens—the train refuses to move even though the engine is functioning perfectly. Eventually, the station master, the ticket checker, and the Britisher's family realize what has happened. Babaji then calmly shows that he had his ticket with him all along. The Britisher begins to understand his mistake and feels deep remorse. A sudden urge to seek forgiveness arises in the officer.

And something happened inside me too.

As I watched him asking Babaji for forgiveness, I found myself silently saying, “Babaji, please forgive me too.” Before I knew what was happening, I had fallen emotionally at his feet and tears began to flow from my eyes. They were not tears of sadness. They felt like tears of forgiveness—as though something deep within me had been waiting to surrender, to apologize, and to be forgiven. The acting appeared so real to me that I completely forgot I was watching a film. I was no longer sitting before a screen. I felt as though I had entered the scene itself, flowing with its emotions and slowly merging into an ocean of devotion for Babaji. For those few moments, cinema disappeared and bhakti took its place.

Neem Karoli Babaji's teachings are wonderfully simple: love everyone, serve everyone, remember God. There is nothing complicated in these words, yet perhaps the whole spiritual path is hidden within them. Love removes the walls between us, service turns devotion into action, and remembrance keeps the heart connected to the Divine. Babaji's life itself seems to tell us that spirituality need not always be loud or complicated. Sometimes it is simply remembering God while living an ordinary life, serving another being, and keeping love alive in the heart.

What touched me even more was the effort the film team seems to have made to create a sattvic atmosphere around the making of the movie. I was deeply moved to learn that they tried to maintain an environment where people did not speak harshly or abuse one another, vegetarian food was followed on the sets, and alcohol was not permitted. Before beginning the shoot, the team chanted the Hanuman Chalisa, and whenever they encountered an unexpected difficulty, they returned to chanting. Shri Neem Karoli Babaji said that every line of the Hanuman Chalisa is a Mahamantra. Whether one calls it faith, devotion, discipline, or simply positive intention, there is something beautiful about beginning creative work by remembering the Divine. It makes the entire endeavour feel like an offering.

The success of Hanuman Ansh, therefore, is not merely about one memorable scene. Behind the film appears to be a team that has put tremendous effort into creating something they believe in. And perhaps the most beautiful kind of success is when a work of art does more than entertain—it makes someone pause, remember God, shed a tear, or feel the urge to become a little kinder.

Perhaps that is why the film carries a different kind of energy. It does not seem to be merely an attempt to tell the story of a saint; it feels like an attempt to approach a saint with reverence. And when something is created with devotion, perhaps the devotion itself reaches the audience.

In an age when our screens are increasingly filled with biopics about dons, scammers, criminals and glamorous celebrities, a film about a saint feels like a soothing breeze. We certainly need entertainment, but perhaps we also need stories that leave something behind in the heart after the screen goes dark. Before this, I had watched only two films based on the lives of great saints that left a lasting impression on me—one on Adi Shankaracharya and another on Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa. India is the land of saints, sages and mystics. Why shouldn't the lives of these extraordinary souls be brought to the screen more often? Their stories contain drama, sacrifice, mystery, compassion, courage, transformation and, above all, the possibility of awakening something within us.

Neem Karoli Baba's path was never about complicated philosophy. It was about love, service and remembrance. His life reminds us that the Divine can be approached through the simplest acts when they are performed with a sincere heart. “The best form in which to worship God is every form.” is not merely a beautiful spiritual message; it is almost a complete way of living.

I have not watched a movie in the past six years. My days are already filled with prayers, chanting, sadhana and self-study, and my routine leaves very little room for anything else. So now I find myself smiling at my own question: Will I actually find time to go to a theatre and watch this movie?

After all, if a few minutes of a scene on a YouTube screen could bring tears to my eyes and make me feel as though I had fallen at the feet of a saint, who knows what might happen when I sit in a theatre and watch his entire story unfold?

Perhaps I will laugh. Perhaps I will cry again. Perhaps I will come home carrying nothing but the echo of Hanuman Chalisa in my heart. As Neem Karoli Babaji has emphasized on the impermanent nature of everything except the love of God.

Or perhaps, in the darkness of a theatre, while watching the life of Babaji on the screen, I may once again feel that mysterious presence whispering within: Cleanse the mirror of your heart, and you will see God. And perhaps that alone would make the journey to the theatre worthwhile.

If you ever watch this film, don't be surprised if you walk out of the theatre with something you didn't carry inside. Maybe it will be a tear. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a smile. Or perhaps, like me, you may suddenly feel goosebumps running through your entire body and wonder, with a trembling heart—

“Was that really just a movie… or did Babaji come to meet me?”

Pic : AI Generated

Baby Krishna in My Lap ❤️

2026-09-03T00:32:32.790-07:00

'Where there is love, there is God.'

The most beautiful experience of life is not merely finding God—it is discovering, one day, that He has quietly begun living with you. He becomes a part of your mornings and evenings, your laughter and your tears, your meals, your prayers, and your silences. You are no longer alone. Someone is always there—watching, listening, playing, and sometimes simply sitting beside you without saying a word. For me, that someone is Baby Krishna.

I don't remember exactly when He became a part of my life. There was no dramatic moment, no announcement, no particular day I can point to and say, “This is when it happened.” He simply came… and stayed. Most of the time, He sits in my lap. Before I eat or even drink water, I never forget to feed Him first. He loves joining me for the morning and evening aarti. But what He enjoys most is marjayami—the ritual in which water is sprinkled over oneself for purification. And like any little child, He absolutely loves playing with water! Sometimes I look at Him and wonder how the Lord of the entire universe can be so delightfully mischievous. Perhaps that is the mystery of Krishna. He doesn't always come to you as the majestic Lord of the cosmos. Sometimes, He comes as a child who simply wants to be loved.

When I feel sad, He takes my hand and dances as though sadness has no place in His world. When I cry, He wipes my tears with His tiny hands and seems to whisper, “I am with you. Always.” What greater comfort can there be? Perhaps devotion is not merely about knowing God; perhaps it is about developing such an intimate relationship with Him that His presence begins to become as natural as breathing.

Last December, while casually scrolling through videos, I came across a discourse by Indresh Upadhyay Ji, a kathavachak from Vrindavan associated with Bhaktipath. I watched one video, then another, and then another. His narration was soaked in devotion. His stories were not merely stories; they seemed to carry me somewhere deeper—somewhere beyond words. I listened, contemplated, and meditated upon the divine leelas of Baby Krishna. And somewhere in that quiet journey, something inexplicable happened. He came. Quietly. Almost unnoticed. And one day I realized—Baby Krishna was sitting in my lap. How He came, I still do not know. Perhaps He was always there. Perhaps I simply became quiet enough to notice Him.

Ramakrishna Paramahansa beautifully said, “The winds of grace are always blowing, but you have to raise the sail.” Perhaps devotion was the little sail I finally raised.

After that, even ordinary things began to feel different. I found myself enjoying lavish meals. I developed a strong liking for butter. I began craving curd. I wanted to play like a child. I started watching cartoons—not just any cartoons, but stories about God and His divine leelas. And something else happened. I developed a strong urge to help a cow, sometimes simply by praying for her. It is strange how devotion changes you. You don't always consciously decide to become different. Love changes you from within.

I have heard the stories of Lord Krishna since childhood. I have read the Bhagavata Purana, Brahma Vaivarta Purana, and commentaries on the Srimad Bhagavad Gita by more than a dozen authors. Yet something about Indresh Upadhyay Ji's narration touched a different chord within me. His style is unique. He doesn't merely tell a story; he seems to immerse you in it. Listening to him, I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean of bhakti—until Krishna's leela no longer feels like something I am merely hearing about. It feels as though I am witnessing it, as though I have been invited into that divine world for a few precious moments.

That, perhaps, is the beauty of katha. A story heard with the ears becomes knowledge; a story heard with the heart becomes devotion.

There are many stories narrated by him that I love, but Shiv Vivah holds a special place in my heart. I have watched it numerous times, and yet, every time, I want to watch it again. That is the strange sweetness of devotion. You don't get tired of what you love. You can hear the same name a thousand times, sing the same aarti every evening, listen to the same leela again and again, and still the heart says, “Once more.” That is bhakti.

I have not shared my spiritual experiences publicly for almost three years. Some experiences are too precious to explain; they feel almost sacred when kept quietly within the heart. But this time, I couldn't resist. Not because I want anyone to believe me. Not because I want to prove anything. But because I have experienced something so beautiful that I wish everyone could take at least one dip in this divine ocean of devotion.

Listen to His stories. Contemplate upon them. Meditate upon them. Let the stories settle into your heart. Take one step closer to Him. And perhaps, one quiet day, you too may suddenly discover that He was already there—sitting beside you, walking with you, eating with you, dancing with you, wiping your tears, and reminding you in the simplest possible way, “You are never alone. I am with you.”

Kabir's immortal words capture this mystery so beautifully: “Moko kahan dhoondhe re bande, main to tere paas mein.” Where are you searching for Me, O seeker? I am right beside you.

Perhaps God does not always have to be found. Perhaps sometimes… He simply has to be loved enough to be noticed. And when that happens, the greatest miracle of life may not be that you found God. It may be that you suddenly realize—God had quietly found you.

And now, my little Krishna sits in my lap.

And I pray that He never gets down.

Just as we lovingly give a name to a newborn child, I feel there is a beautiful tradition of giving a name to the little God who has entered our lives. Meera Bai called her beloved Krishna “Giridhar Gopal”, declaring, “Mere to Giridhar Gopal, doosaro na koye”—Giridhar Gopal is mine; I have no one else. My little Krishna, too, has quietly become such a beloved presence in my life. So, dear readers, I have a humble request: please suggest a beautiful name for my Baby Krishna. Perhaps the name will come from you, but who knows—maybe it will be Krishna Himself who chooses His name through you.

Happy Krishna Janmashtami to everyone!

Pic : AI Generated

When She Became a Mother

2026-05-02T03:01:28.201-07:00

“Stop! Stop! STOP!”

The urgency in the voice made me turn instantly. An autorickshaw stood abandoned in the middle of the road, its passengers looking confused, while the driver ran towards me, breathless yet determined.

For a moment, I wondered what could have gone so wrong.

“You feed dogs with milk every day,” he said, his voice filled with hope. “You are a pious person. There is a bitch who has given birth near a tea stall. Please feed her too. God will bless you.”

There was something earnest in his request—something that needed no questioning.

“Sure,” I replied, and began walking in the direction he pointed, my mind already curious about this new mother.

The tea stall was simple, run by a middle-aged woman whose eyes spoke of quiet resilience. When I asked her, she pointed toward a small hut just behind it.

From a distance, the hut looked fragile—almost as if it existed more on hope than on structure. A single bed occupied nearly all its space. I called out softly, but there was no response.

Two children playing nearby came to help. They tried to nudge the dog out with a stick, but she refused to move. Perhaps the cold held her back… or perhaps it was the warmth of motherhood that made her stay.

After much coaxing, she finally emerged.

There she was—a tricolour beauty, her black back gleaming, brown limbs steady, white feet almost glowing in contrast. The tip of her tail flickered like a small flag of joy. The moment she saw me, she leapt with excitement, her eyes sparkling with recognition.

“Oh my God… she became a mother!” I whispered.

Memories rushed back. I had seen her when she was just a tiny pup, injured badly after being run over by a vehicle. I had given her medicines, watched her heal—though a slight hunch and a limp remained as silent reminders of her past.

And now, here she was—strong, alive, and a mother.

As Mahatma Gandhi once said, “The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” Standing there, I felt that kindness had quietly come full circle.

I fed her gently, watching her eat with both hunger and relief. There was a softness in her now—a protective calm that only a mother carries.

The next day, I returned.

The hut looked the same, but something felt different. Someone lay on the bed, completely covered with a blanket. I called out, once… twice… but the dog didn’t come out this time.

Instead, the figure on the bed stirred. Slowly, the blanket was pulled aside.

And there he was—the same autorickshaw driver.

Another surprise unfolded quietly before me. This humble hut was his home. The tea vendor was his wife. The plea from yesterday was not just about a stray dog—it was about someone who cared deeply, even in the midst of his own struggles.

In that moment, I was reminded of Albert Schweitzer’s words, “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”

Sometimes, kindness doesn’t come from abundance—it comes from empathy.
And sometimes, the most unexpected people carry the deepest compassion.

As I stood there, watching the little world they had built—of survival, care, and quiet love—I realized — kindness needs no wealth, only a willing heart.”

Pic : AI Generated

In the Light of Satyarth Prakash

2026-05-01T01:33:38.439-07:00

The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky as I stopped by my regular vegetable vendor. There was something different about him—not just the way he arranged his fruits with care, but the quiet dignity he carried.

We had spoken a few times before. I knew he was well-educated, yet life had led him here, selling vegetables to make ends meet. That day, as I handed him a book on Ayurveda, hoping it might help with his health issues, his face lit up—not with surprise, but with curiosity.

“As I am an Arya Samaji, I have a keen desire to read Satyarth Prakash,” he said thoughtfully.

There was a pause. Then I asked, almost instinctively, “Should I give that to you?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Do you have that too?” he asked, raising his eyebrows—half disbelief, half hope.

Without another word, I walked back home and returned with the book. It was a hardbound copy, its pages smooth, its print refined—one of those books that feels valuable the moment you hold it.

He took it gently, almost reverently, flipping through its pages as though touching something sacred.

“It must be very costly,” he murmured.

“Yes, it is,” I replied simply.

For a moment, he said nothing. I could see the conflict in his eyes—the desire to read it, and the hesitation to accept something so valuable.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke with quiet honesty, “If I take this… I may not return it. I will keep it with me.”

There was no greed in his voice—only sincerity.

I smiled and said lightly, “Then every time you read it, you’ll remember me as the one who gave it to you.”

He looked up, and in that moment, there was something unspoken—gratitude, respect, and perhaps a silent understanding that some things are not borrowed, they are shared.

As I walked away, I realized that the value of a book is not in its price, but in the hands it reaches and the minds it touches.

And sometimes, the simplest exchanges carry the deepest meanings.

Pic : AI Generated

A Bagful of Navratri Blessings

2026-04-30T06:11:33.735-07:00

The festive air of Navratri had just begun to settle in—soft echoes of prayers, the faint fragrance of incense, and a quiet sense of devotion in the surroundings.

That morning, I noticed a new face at the gate—a female security guard. The bright streak of sindoor in her hair and a simple bindi on her forehead spoke of her rootedness, her quiet strength.

“Do you have kids?” I asked, more out of warmth than curiosity.

She looked at me, a little surprised, then replied softly, “Yes, a 12-year-old boy and a 10-year-old girl.”

There was something gentle in the way she spoke of them—like they were her entire world.

“After Navratri prayers, I usually buy gifts for a girl child,” I said. “Can I buy something for your daughter?”

She nodded, but there was hesitation in her eyes—as if she wasn’t used to accepting kindness so easily.

“What does she like? Art and craft? Or should I get her something useful, like a school bag?” I asked.

A faint smile appeared. “She loves to draw,” she said, “but a school bag would be better. She goes to a village school… coloured pens won’t last long. Other children might spoil them.”

Her answer carried practicality, shaped by experience. It wasn’t about denying her daughter’s interests—it was about choosing what would help her move forward.

Later that day, I returned with a school bag, a tiffin box, a water bottle, and a neat little pencil set. Nothing extravagant, just simple things—but chosen with care.

When I handed them to her, she held them gently, almost as if they were fragile.

Her eyes filled with tears—not loud, not dramatic—just a quiet overflow of gratitude.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

In that moment, the spirit of Navratri felt complete—not in rituals or offerings, but in a small act of sharing. As Mother Teresa once said, “It’s not how much we give, but how much love we put into giving.”

And perhaps, that is where true devotion lives—not in grand gestures, but in the simple, heartfelt connections that light up someone’s world.

Pic : AI Generated

The Fabric of Kindness

2026-04-25T11:44:54.087-07:00

“It’s too hot!”

“It’s really hot!”

“I am perspiring heavily!”

For days, my new maid repeated these lines like a tired refrain. She had come in place of my old maids, who had gone back to their villages to cast their votes in the ongoing elections. At first, I simply nodded in agreement—summer, after all, has its own way of making itself known. But gradually, something about her constant discomfort made me pause.

The weather wasn’t unbearable. Not yet. Then why was she struggling so much?

The answer revealed itself quietly—through the fabric she wore. Her clothes, made of polyester and other synthetic materials, clung to her uneasily, trapping heat and refusing to absorb sweat. Comfort, I realized, is often woven into the simplest things. As Yves Saint Laurent once said, “Fashions fade, style is eternal.” But what good is style without comfort?

Pure cotton, soft and breathable, would have been ideal. But the market had made it a luxury—scarce and expensive. For a mother of three school-going children, it was simply out of reach.

That evening, I made up my mind.

“Would you like some of my cotton suits?” I asked gently. “You won’t feel so uncomfortable then.”

She hesitated, then replied with surprising firmness, “Please don’t feel bad, but I do not wear old clothes worn by others.”

There was dignity in her words, quiet but unwavering. I respected it.

“I’ll give you a fresh one,” I said.

“If you buy it from the market, I will surely wear it,” she replied.

I smiled, walked to my almirah, and took out three cotton suits—unworn, untouched, their price tags still intact. Sometimes, abundance sits forgotten in our cupboards while someone else lives without it.

“See if you like any of these,” I said.

Her eyes lit up. She carefully picked a cream-colored suit, delicately embroidered at the front.

“Can I try this?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of excitement.

“Of course. And don’t forget to look at yourself in the mirror.”

Moments later, she emerged, her face glowing. “It’s perfect—the length, the color, the size. I want this.”

“You can try the others too,” I suggested.

She shook her head thoughtfully. “They are smaller. Cotton shrinks after washing, and there’s no margin to adjust them. This one is just right. I’ll wash it and buy matching lowers.”

There was practicality in her choice, and quiet joy too.

The next morning, as I opened the door, I saw her standing there—wearing that same cream-colored suit, paired with black trousers. She looked radiant. There was a lightness about her, as if comfort had given her confidence.

And something else had changed.

Not once did she complain about the heat.

In that moment, I was reminded of what Maya Angelou once said, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

It wasn’t just a piece of clothing—it was comfort, dignity, and a small act of understanding.

And sometimes, that is enough to make even the harshest summer feel a little kinder.

Pic : AI Generated

Ma Matangi's Guidance

2026-03-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

“Oh Mother! Your chants are so difficult to pronounce, your mantras for yagna so complex, and your sadhana… it all seems to go above my head,” I whispered in silent prayer. “Guide me instead to help someone who is forgotten by the world—someone isolated, unheard. As you, O Mother, embrace such souls, let me bring even a little happiness into one such life. Show me the way.” With folded hands, I prayed to Ma Matangi. And then, like a soft ripple in still water, an image appeared in my mind—an old man. Fragile. Silent. Alone. Sitting in a park. His words unclear, his presence unnoticed. A man living in his own world, as if the world had quietly forgotten him.

Days passed, and soon the sacred festival of Navratri approached. With devotion in my heart, I picked up a bundle of Nav Durga booklets from Gita Press Gorakhpur to distribute among security guards, housekeeping staff, and anyone willing to receive them.

As I walked, handing out the small tokens of faith, I reached the spot where I had last seen that old man. But he wasn’t there. A quiet disappointment settled within me. Had I misunderstood the Mother’s sanket (signal)? Still, I continued my path, trusting something unseen.

On my way back, I chose a different route. And there he was. Sitting quietly on a chair near the entrance of a building—just as I had remembered him. Time seemed to pause.

I walked up to him gently and offered the booklet. He looked at it, then at me, and a soft smile spread across his face. With trembling hands, he bowed slightly to the image of Ma Durga printed on the cover.

“Can you read?” I asked softly, unsure of his condition.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice faint yet steady, “I will read it when I go home… my spectacles are not with me right now.”

In that simple moment, something profound unfolded. No grand ritual, no complex mantra—just a small act of kindness. I realized then, perhaps this was the Mother’s true teaching. Not in difficult chants or rituals, but in quiet compassion. In seeing those whom the world overlooks.

With the blessings of the Divine Mother, I had not performed a mahan sadhana (great spiritual practice), but I had touched a human heart.

And maybe… that was enough.

Pic : AI Generated

From Carelessness to Compassion

2026-03-21T23:46:54.676-07:00

“How cruelly they are plucking the tiny blooming flowers from a tender plant of Jatropha integerrima?” I thought, as my eyes fell upon four young girls, their hands moving quickly, almost restlessly, as they gathered the bright red blossoms.

I was walking along the quiet pavement of the park, absorbed in the deep thoughts of Gita Rahasya by Bal Gangadhar Tilak, listening in noise-cancellation mode. The calmness of philosophy and the harshness of the scene before me clashed within my mind. I instinctively quickened my pace, hoping to reach them in time.

But I was late.

Before I could intervene, a tender branch snapped. The plant seemed to shudder in silence. The girls, startled perhaps by their own act, hurried away before anyone could question them.

I slowed down again, my heart slightly heavy. As Albert Schweitzer once said, “Until he extends his circle of compassion to all living things, man will not himself find peace.”

After completing another round, I approached the same spot. The little plant stood there—wounded, yet quietly enduring. But something had changed.

The same four girls stood near it again.

This time, their hands were folded, their eyes gently closed, lips whispering something inaudible—perhaps an apology, perhaps a prayer. It felt as though their innocent hearts had awakened to a deeper understanding. Whether guided by an elder or stirred by their own conscience, I could not tell. But the transformation was undeniable.

I paused, watching from a distance.

In my next round, I saw them again. But now, they were different—not in appearance, but in action. They were gently collecting fallen twigs, flowers, and leaves from the ground. No force, no harm—only care. Their laughter had returned, but now it carried a softness, a kindness.

They had found a way to play without hurting.

The tender plant still stood there, perhaps in pain, but also as a silent teacher. And those four young girls, once careless, had now become its quiet protectors. “Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.” — Albert Einstein

As I walked on, I realized that sometimes, the smallest moments teach the greatest lessons—not just to children, but to all of us.

Pic : Pixabay