When Worn Shoes Choose New Owners

I looked down at my royal blue Woodland high-ankle shoes and sighed.

The tread had thinned with time, the sole worn slick and uneven—years of roads remembered in silence. Yet the leather still held its pride, the color still spoke of style and stories. Too good to discard, I thought. Too weary to continue.

As I tugged at the eyelet, it slipped free in my hand, as if the shoes themselves were asking for rest.

I hurried to the cobbler’s shop, a small place where time seemed to move slower and wisdom sat quietly beside worn tools. He repaired the eyelet with careful hands and then, almost shyly, looked up and said,
“If you have any spare shoes… please give them to me.”

I hesitated.
“Will they fit you?” I asked.

He smiled softly. “They are beautiful. You still wear these. If you have any other pair of old shoes, those will do for me.”

I remembered what Coco Chanel once said: “The best things in life are free. The second best are very expensive.”
And suddenly, these shoes felt like they belonged to the first kind.

“Try them,” I said. “Do they fit?”

He slipped them on. Perfect. As if the shoes had been waiting for him all along.

“You keep them,” I said.

His face lit up—not with the happiness of owning something new, but with the deeper joy of being seen. In that moment, he was happier than I had ever been when I bought them fresh from the store.

As I walked away, lighter somehow, I recalled a line often attributed to Mahatma Gandhi:
“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”

Those shoes had walked many paths with me.
That day, they began a better journey.

Pic : Pexels

When My Mother Multiplies Kindness

 

“I can’t afford it,” the security guard said softly, glancing at the Hanuman Chalisa and then at me.
“I have a big family to support.”

For a moment, I stood still—surprised, almost shaken. The price was only two rupees, yet for him, even that was a choice between faith and food.

“It’s not for sale,” I smiled, placing it back in his hands.
“I’m giving it to you.”

His eyes lit up. “Oh! Thank you!” he said, folding his palms with a gratitude that felt heavier than any coin. As I walked ahead, distributing the remaining copies, a thought echoed within me: “True devotion is not measured by money, but by the heart that receives it.”

That evening, I shared the incident with my mother. She listened quietly, her face calm, her eyes thoughtful. Without a word, she walked into her room and returned with a large packet of religious books—treasures from her personal collection.

“Take these,” she said gently. “Give them to those who need them.”

In that moment, I understood what it means when elders say, “Charity begins at home.” Janitors, housekeeping staff, cobblers, shopkeepers, gardeners—each would receive not just a book, but a reminder that faith belongs to everyone.

I felt deeply grateful. My mother has always stood beside me, silently strengthening my steps. With her blessings, I realized, “When intention is pure, even small acts become divine.”

Pic : Pixabay

The Last Dose

“You have to inject this medicine directly into his wound—just press it from behind,” the vet said, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather.

I stared at the syringe.
“But I’m neither a vet nor a doctor,” I blurted out. “I’m only a doc’s sister.”

He looked at me, steady and unflinching.
“If you wish to save that dog from dying, you have to do it.”

That was all.

The maggots had eaten their way into the wound. That was why he smelled foul, why he hid in dark corners, quietly surrendering to pain. The injection would kill the maggots. So I took a deep breath, whispered a shaky prayer, and did what needed to be done.

After that came five days of oral medicine and antibiotics—five days of negotiation, deception, and love.

Day one, he took the medicine happily, tail wagging, trusting me blindly.
Day two, suspicion crept in—but a piece of sweet barfi, his favorite, sealed the deal.
Day three required sweet words and a sweet dish.
By day four, he refused outright. I rolled the medicine into a tiny sweet, placed it on my palm, and fed him slowly, lovingly—like one feeds hope to the wounded.

“Trust,” I learned, “is fragile—but kindness can hold it together.”

Day five was war.

He wouldn’t eat. No trick worked. No sweetness tempted him. Panicked, I finally forced the medicine into his mouth—and he vomited it out.

Defeated, I rushed back to the vet.
“What do I do? He won’t take the last dose.”

The vet thought for a moment and said,
“You can mix it in a ready-made meat packet.” Then paused. “But today is the last day of Navratri. Will you give him?”

His words echoed long after he stopped speaking.

“What matters more?” I asked myself.
“My Navratri ritual—or saving the life of a stray dog?”

The answer came quietly, without drama.

A few minutes later, he was happily relishing the meat, the medicine hidden within, his eyes soft again, his body healing.

“Faith,” I understood that day, “is not what we refuse to do—it is what we choose to do when life is at stake.”

And somewhere between belief and compassion, a life was saved.

Note: At that time, I was already vaccinated with anti-rabies injections.

Pic : Wounded stray dog

More Than Clay Pots

“Madam, we do not have even a tiny peck of flour in our house.”

His voice stopped me mid-step. It wasn’t loud, not desperate either—just tired. I looked at his shop: a humble spread of clay pots, stacked unevenly, some chipped, some stained by time and dust. Pots of every size, meant for cooking, storing, serving—meant, once, to be useful.

“My family is hungry,” he continued softly. “Please buy something from my shop.”

I hesitated. I didn’t need a single pot. Seeing my reluctance, he added, almost apologetically, “The weather has been harsh. No one has bought anything for days. I really need the money.”

He wasn’t begging. He was asking—with dignity intact.

I picked up a few pots. They were old, cracked, imperfect—much like the circumstances that brought him to speak those words. I paid far more than they were worth and didn’t bargain. Not because the pots were precious, but because his need was.

When I handed him the money, his face changed. Not with greed or relief alone, but with something gentler—hope. A simple smile, warm and genuine, as if the weight of hunger had been lifted, at least for a few days.

Kindness doesn’t always come in grand gestures. Sometimes, it sits quietly on a roadside shop, waiting for someone to notice. By choosing to buy from local hands, by sparing a little more than we must, we help preserve not just livelihoods—but dignity.

And sometimes, the most valuable thing we take home isn’t what we bought, but what we gave.

Pic : Unsplash

Helpless Hands, Hopeful Heart

“Careful!” a man shouted. “A black cow is following you.”

I turned around and saw her—a stray cow standing quietly behind me, her eyes fixed on the food in my hand. I was already close to another cow, whom I fed that piece. But the black cow was desperately hungry. The moment she sensed hope, she came running toward me.

In her hurry, she jumped onto the roadside pavement, slick from the constant winter drizzle. She lost her balance and fell hard. Startled, she tried to rise, but the pavement betrayed her again, and she slipped once more.

My heart clenched. Winter sharpens pain, and I could almost feel the ache in her injured body. Helpless and shaken, I cried out, “Oh Ramji, please help her.”

And then—something changed.

As if my prayer had been heard, she did not rush this time. Slowly, carefully, she gathered herself. With patience and quiet determination, she stood up, placing equal weight on all four legs. She stood—still, steady, alive. Every time you pray, if your prayer is sincere, there will be new feeling and new meaning in it, which will give you fresh courage. - Fyodor Dostoevsky 

Tears welled in my eyes. I folded my hands in gratitude. I thanked God for listening, for intervening where I could not. Sometimes prayer is all we have—and it is enough.

When our hands are powerless, our prayers can still reach where we cannot. If we can do nothing else for others, we can always send them love, light, and healing through prayer. 

Pic : Unsplash

Beyond the Bargain Lies a Life, a Struggle, and a Story

On the auspicious day of 22nd January 2024, the nation resonated with joy as Lord Rama was welcomed back to His birthplace through the Pran Pratishtha of the Ram Mandir in Ayodhya—a historic moment of profound national significance. Saffron flags danced along the streets, their colour glowing against the winter sky. In the days that followed, as Republic Day approached, the iconic tricolour joined the celebration, quietly reminding us of unity, sacrifice, and our shared sense of belonging.

It was in this sea of colour and celebration that I noticed a couple standing by the roadside, selling flags. Their hands were shivering from the cold, their smiles tired but hopeful. While the world hurried past, bargaining and buying, winter pressed harder on their thin sweaters. Something in me paused, prompting me to extend a simple yet heartfelt gesture – an invitation for warm tea. Gratefully, they accepted. 

They held the warm glass like a gift, as if comfort itself had been poured into their palms. As steam rose between us, their story slowly emerged—soft, hesitant, yet heavy. The woman asked if I could help them with some flour. It wasn’t charity she sought, only survival. I bought a 5 kg packet from a nearby shop, and in her eyes I saw relief mixed with quiet dignity. In the course of our conversation, I learned that they had daughters, one of whom recently got married, a celebration that came at the cost of taking out a huge loan. To repay this financial burden, they toiled tirelessly, engaging in labour at construction sites and exploring side businesses like selling flags just to earn an extra penny.

Life's difficulties became starkly evident in the narrative of this couple. Touched by their struggle, I felt compelled to make a modest contribution. The following day, I returned to them, offering my old warm clothes – a small gesture, but one that I hoped would provide some comfort and warmth in their challenging journey. Sometimes, kindness isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about noticing. “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted,” wrote Aesop, and in that moment, those words felt deeply true.

We often pride ourselves on negotiating well with roadside sellers, as though saving a few rupees is a victory. But how often do we pause to ask what it costs them to stand there all day? Behind every discounted price is a life negotiating survival. “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”

What if, just once, we choose empathy over expertise in bargaining? What if we replace suspicion with warmth, and transactions with human connection? Kindness has a quiet power—it doesn’t announce itself, yet it lingers. “Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward,” Princess Diana once said, “safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for you.”

A small change in us—a pause, a smile, a little generosity—can ripple into someone else’s life in ways we may never fully see.

Pic : Pixabay 

A Cup of Warmth in a Cold World

On a fog-draped winter morning, when the cold clung to the skin like an uninvited guest, I set out with a small intention—to offer warm milk to the street dogs of our colony. The air was sharp, the silence thick, broken only by the hiss of boiling water at the neighbourhood tea stall. I asked the chaiwala to heat some milk, imagining the comfort it would bring to those shivering souls curled up on concrete pavements.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I don’t have ten rupees.”
“No one has ever become poor by giving.”
“A stranger’s compassion can make a world of difference.” Indeed, a single act of kindness can soften even the coldest corners of existence, reminding the weary that the world has not entirely turned its back on them.
And sometimes, that bridge is nothing more than a humble cup of tea in the cold.

As I waited, a woman stepped into the stall. Her clothes were torn and weary, stitched together by survival rather than thread. In her hand was only a rupee five coin—just enough to buy a small packet of Kurkure, perhaps to quiet the hunger of a waiting child. Hunger has a way of humbling pride, and poverty has a way of making even the smallest choices painfully significant.

Moved by an instinct deeper than thought, I asked her gently,

She looked at me, not with refusal, but with resignation.

Her words landed heavier than the winter fog. In that moment, the true cost of a cup of tea revealed itself—not in currency, but in circumstance. The cold suddenly felt different. Less physical. More human.

I stood there, struck by gratitude. Gratitude for the quiet privileges we often overlook—the ability to warm our hands, fulfil our needs, and offer kindness without calculation. As Anne Frank once wrote,

I quickly asked the shopkeeper to serve her a cup of tea and a packet of biscuits. It was a small gesture, almost invisible against the vastness of her struggle, but for a moment, warmth replaced the cruelty of the wind. The steam rising from that cup felt like hope—brief, fragile, but real.

In North India’s unforgiving cold waves, the poor wear resilience like a second skin. Their clothes, riddled with holes, barely shield them from the biting air. Yet they rise each day, labouring relentlessly for two meagre meals. The cold seeps through fabric and bone alike, turning survival into an act of courage. As the Dalai Lama reminds us, “Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.”

Compassion, especially from a stranger, can ripple outward in unseen ways. Oprah Winfrey once said,

Later, with the intention of offering her a proper meal, I returned—but she was gone. Like mist dissolving into daylight, she vanished from the familiar backdrop of my routine. I kept returning to that spot while tending to the four-legged residents of the street, but she never appeared again. Her absence lingered, mysterious and quietly haunting.

Years have passed since that winter morning. Yet whenever the fog thickens and the cold sharpens, my thoughts drift back to her—her hardship, her dignity, her quiet endurance. I whisper a prayer for her, wherever she may be.

Because compassion, as Rumi so beautifully said, “is the bridge between you and everything.”

Pic : Pixabay