Love First, Hunger Later

Some lessons arrive quietly, disguised as ordinary days.

I was returning from the market, arms heavy with bags, when I noticed her—selling flags ahead of Independence Day. Tricolor cloth fluttered in the heat, but her voice was soft when she asked, almost apologetically,
“Can you spare a meal?”

Her eyes held something deeper than hunger. They held hope.

I told her I’d return after dropping my things. Promises like that are easy to make—and easy to forget—but when I came back, she was still there, waiting. That alone said something.

I suggested we go to the nearby food stall together. A simple solution, I thought. She hesitated.
“No,” she said gently. “Could you please bring the food to me?”

Inside me, a familiar debate began. The one that weighs kindness against caution. What if the food is misused? What if it doesn’t reach the one who needs it most? I’ve always believed that sharing a meal face-to-face gives dignity to both giver and receiver. Packed food feels uncertain. Detached.

“I’m sorry,” I said after a pause. “I don’t usually do that.”

Then she said the words that shifted everything.
“I have children.”

I asked her to bring them along. She shook her head. One child was asleep. The other had a fever. Still, she insisted—not on more food, not on money—but on one thing only: the right to take the meal back to them.

And then came the sentence that stayed with me long after the plates were cleared.
“How can I eat before feeding my children?”

Even her husband suggested that she eat alone at the stall. She refused. Her principle was clear: her hunger could wait. Her children could not.

She suggested a compromise. I could buy the food. I could even check that it was being eaten. She just wanted to sit with her family. To eat together.

That’s when my rules softened.

“How many bhature do you want?” I asked.
“Six,” she replied, without hesitation. Not for herself. For them.

I ordered three plates of chole bhature—breaking my own habit of never giving packed food. Not because I was convinced, but because I was moved.

When I returned, she was there, sharing the meal with her family. Eating together. Whole. Complete. She didn’t offer a long speech of gratitude—just a small wave of her hand, a quiet acknowledgment.

That day, I didn’t just give food. I received something far richer—a glimpse into the fierce, unwavering love of a mother. A reminder that compassion doesn’t always follow rules. Sometimes it follows the heart.

And sometimes, a shared meal becomes more than nourishment.
It becomes a bridge.
A bond.

A lesson served warm. 

Pic : Unsplash