A Bagful of Navratri Blessings

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

“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