As I stepped into the lift, I noticed an elderly woman already inside. In one hand she held a walking stick; in the other, a small basket filled with flowers and tiny containers of pooja ingredients. The faint fragrance of incense travelled with her.
To pass the few silent seconds, I smiled and asked,
“You go to the temple every day?”
It was a simple question — but it opened the door to her entire morning.
She spoke gently, almost rhythmically, as if narrating a prayer she had memorised through years. Temple… offering flowers… lighting the lamp… and then, after returning home, she would sit down to read the Srimad Bhagavad Gita.
Her voice paused.
“My eyes have become weak now,” she said. “After a few lines, they water… tears start flowing. I want to read more, but I cannot.”
She gave a faint smile — not of complaint, but of acceptance.
“These days there are no bookstores nearby to buy books in bold letters. Everything is online… but I don’t know how to buy.”
The lift reached the ground floor. She walked away slowly, but her unfinished desire remained with me.
That evening I visited her home carrying a copy of the Gita from my collection — a large edition printed in bold letters. The book was heavy, yet it felt light in purpose.
When she opened the door and saw it, her eyes widened — this time not with strain, but with joy.
She placed her hand on my head in blessing, the way only elders can — silently, completely, without rehearsed gratitude.
Months later, I met her son in the lift.
He smiled warmly. “My mother keeps talking about you,” he said. “She reads every day now.”
And I felt — sometimes devotion does not lie only in reading a sacred book, but in helping someone else read it again. The greatest kindness is not always adding knowledge — it is removing the obstacle that was stopping someone from reaching it.
“We live by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.” — Winston Churchill
Pic : AI Generated
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