She Drew Her Future

“Will you teach my daughter?” my maid asked one morning, pausing briefly from her work. I was lost in my books, unaware that someone had been quietly watching me read.

I looked up and replied honestly, “No, I am not a teacher.” Then, a little curious, I added, “Which one wishes to study? Perhaps I can help in some other way.”

“The younger one,” she said, a mix of worry and pride in her voice. “She is different. She refuses to do household work. She says she will not live like me, working as a maid. She didn’t study much at all—she only keeps drawing, all the time.”

There was something powerful in that defiance.

“Ask her to WhatsApp me some of her drawings,” I suggested.

When I saw them, I paused. The lines were raw, imperfect—but alive. She had talent, unmistakably so, though it lacked guidance. Pablo Picasso once said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” I didn’t want her spark to fade simply because no one noticed it.

I searched for a good painting teacher in her locality and enrolled her in basic drawing classes, paying the fees in advance. She never missed a class. Hard work came naturally to her—only this time, it was fueled by passion.

During holidays and summer vacations, she would come to my house. Together, we watched YouTube tutorials on my iPad, pausing, rewinding, practicing again and again. With time, her drawings grew bolder, more confident—just like her.

“Talent is important, but perseverance is everything,” Vincent van Gogh once said. She proved that true every single day.

One afternoon, her teacher informed me about a national-level painting competition and encouraged her to participate. She poured her heart into the painting. When the results were announced, she had won a trophy.

Her eyes sparkled as she said proudly, “I am the youngest, but I am the first one in my family to win a trophy.”

In that moment, I understood what empowerment truly means. As Helen Keller wisely said, “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”
That young girl had vision—and all she needed was someone to believe in it.

Pics : Painting and drawing by the young girl

A Diya Called Compassion

“Where are your slippers?” I asked, startled.

The young boy stood before me, balancing two heavy bags of fruit with practiced ease. A woollen cap hugged his head, a jacket wrapped tightly around his thin frame—but his feet were bare, stiff against the winter ground.

“They broken,” he said softly, eyes lowered. “I didn’t have the money to buy new ones.”

His words stayed with me all the way home.

I offered him an old pair of shoes. They didn’t fit. Then slippers—too small again. One pair after another, hope rose and fell between us. Tomorrow was my birthday. I don’t celebrate birthdays, but in that moment, I knew how I wanted to mark the day.

Winter was approaching, and no one should greet it barefoot.

I took him to the local market and asked him to choose a new pair. His face lit up like morning sunlight. After trying a few, he settled on royal blue shoes—his choice, proud and certain. I added a pair of socks, watching him smile shyly as if holding something precious.

“Do you have a blanket or quilt for sleeping at night?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

We walked to another shop. A soft, warm blanket caught his eye. When I handed it to him, his hands trembled—not from the cold this time, but from disbelief.

I did not light a diya on my birthday.

Instead, I tried to light a life.

That night, somewhere in the city, a hardworking young boy slept with warm feet and a warmer heart. And quietly, without candles or cake, my birthday found its meaning.

Pic : Unsplash

The Kitten Who Followed Me

 

Before dawn had fully loosened its grip on the night, a sound pierced the stillness of the building—a thin, frantic cry that refused to be ignored. A kitten’s mewl echoed through the corridors, ricocheting off walls, growing more urgent with every passing second. Sleep surrendered its hold on me as instinct took over. For fifteen long minutes, I searched—peering behind stairwells, scanning ledges, listening closely—until at last I found her.

She was impossibly small, a fragile shadow clinging to a narrow ledge, eyes wide with fear, her cries trembling like unanswered prayers. I lifted her carefully, my hands forming a promise of safety, and carried her down to the ground floor. The moment her paws touched solid ground, she decided I was hers. No matter where I stepped, she followed, a tiny guardian trailing behind me.

By then, a small crowd had gathered—sleepy faces etched with concern. Theories floated through the air: perhaps her mother had abandoned her, perhaps hunger gnawed at her fragile body. Someone offered her a biscuit far too large for her tiny mouth, watching helplessly as she sniffed and turned away. That was when I stepped in. This kitten didn’t need guesses or grand gestures—she needed something simple and kind.

Milk and motherly love.

I turned to a familiar face among the onlookers—a friendly driver—and asked him to keep an eye on her while I fetched a bowl. As I hurried upstairs, a small commotion followed. In her anxiety, the kitten had scratched him, her claws more fear than malice. I suggested disinfecting the wound—Dettol, soap, anything—but he waved it off with a soft laugh. He’d known animals all his life, he said. This was nothing.

When I returned, milk in hand, I asked if he might consider taking her in. He hesitated, then gently declined. His life, he explained, was tethered by distance and circumstance—an employee living in his employer’s home. Yet what he offered instead was something far more unexpected: a story.

Once, he said, he had lived with four beings under one roof—a dog, a black kitten much like this one, himself, and a cobra. Not a threat. Not a terror. A presence. During his daily prayers, the snake would appear, calm and unprovoked, sharing the space as if bound by an unspoken understanding. No fear. No conflict. Just coexistence.

I listened, spellbound. “Are you a devotee of Lord Shiva?” I asked. The cobra, after all, is sacred to him—a living symbol of divine energy. I told him that seeing a cobra during prayer was considered deeply auspicious, a blessing rather than a coincidence.

Something shifted in him then. His eyes filled, emotion rising unguarded. He said that in our brief meeting, he felt he had glimpsed something divine—that he sensed a power, a presence, in me. His tears carried devotion, gratitude, and a faith so pure it needed no explanation.

That morning, I saved a kitten from a ledge—but I also found myself standing at the crossroads of compassion, belief, and quiet miracles. In the soft padding of tiny paws, in the tears of a humble man, and in stories of snakes and gods, I was reminded of a simple truth: the bonds between living beings are mysterious, tender, and endlessly surprising. And once in a while, they reveal themselves when we least expect it.

Video : A naughty kitten missing her mother and clinging to me for motherly love.

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

A Basket of Mangoes, A Heart Full of Grace

 

Some spiritual lessons do not arrive through scriptures or sermons. They come quietly—wrapped in ordinary moments, carrying extraordinary meaning.

One such moment unfolded when I decided to offer prasadam in the form of mangoes. Cradling a basket of ripe, golden fruit, I felt a quiet joy within—an inner fullness that comes from sharing what has first been received with grace. With no expectations, only devotion, I began distributing the mangoes, unaware that this simple act would leave a lasting imprint on my heart.

As I walked along, my eyes fell upon two small children playing beside a construction tractor. Their laughter was carefree, their world uncomplicated. I offered them mangoes, and instantly their faces bloomed with delight. Their smiles were radiant, unfiltered, and deeply sincere—like a blessing returned.

Watching this exchange, the tractor driver approached me gently. He asked if I planned to distribute more and mentioned that a few young girls were nearby. Without a second thought, I agreed. Moments later, the girls gathered around, curiosity dancing in their eyes. One by one, I placed a mango into each waiting hand.

What followed was something far greater than the act itself.

“Thank you, aunty,” they said—softly, earnestly, wholeheartedly.
Those simple words carried a depth that no elaborate expression could match. In that moment, gratitude revealed its purest form—untainted by entitlement, untouched by excess.

As Mother Teresa once said, “Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.”

Over the years, I have offered prasadam in many forms—fruits, sweets, small tokens of devotion. I have seen joy, indifference, surprise, and delight. Yet this encounter brought a profound realization: gratitude has nothing to do with wealth or status. It is a quality of the heart.

Albert Schweitzer captured this truth beautifully, “The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention.”

Those two words—thank you—held transformative power. They uplifted the giver and humbled the receiver. Gratitude became a bridge, dissolving all perceived differences and reminding me of our shared humanity.

That day, in the giving of mangoes, I received something far sweeter—a reminder that the Divine often speaks through the simplest exchanges. Gratitude, when offered sincerely, becomes a prayer. Kindness, when given selflessly, becomes worship.

May we all remain open to these quiet lessons. For on the path of spiritual growth, it is often the smallest moments of love and appreciation that light our way and gently lead us closer to the Divine.

Pic : Unsplash

Keep Going, Even When No One Is Watching.

Before online learning became a global necessity, my journey had already begun. With a handful of studious minds and a WhatsApp group, I built a modest digital library. Its purpose was simple yet meaningful—to share knowledge, spark curiosity, and gently support students on their learning path.

Day after day, I posted current affairs, general knowledge, book summaries, productivity tips, and useful links in the WhatsApp group. There were no expectations, no promises of appreciation. It was simply something I felt was worth doing. Yet, as time passed, the silence in the group often felt louder than words. Discussions were rare. Responses were minimal. And like anyone who gives consistently, I sometimes wondered—is this actually helping anyone?

Curiosity pushed me to ask. The response surprised me. The students were reading, saving, and using the content. Even the videos, though not everyone’s favorite, had their audience. The impact was real—it just wasn’t visible.

Then came an unexpected turning point. A new student joined the group, bringing with him curiosity, enthusiasm, and something even more powerful—engagement. He spoke openly about how the content helped him. One day, he simply said,
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m really grateful for the time and effort you put into this.”

Those words carried the weight of three years.

As Maya Angelou once said, “People may forget what you said or did, but they will never forget how you made them feel.”

That single expression of gratitude sparked something beautiful. Another student followed, then another. Appreciation, once unspoken, found its voice. It was the first time my efforts were openly acknowledged, and the joy that came with it was quietly overwhelming.

This experience reaffirmed a timeless truth: meaningful work doesn’t always receive immediate recognition. Sometimes, impact grows silently beneath the surface. As Albert Einstein wisely said, “Try not to become a person of success, but rather try to become a person of value.”

There was another lesson too—gratitude often needs a leader. Many people feel thankful but hesitate to say it aloud. When one person dares to express appreciation, it gives others permission to do the same.

In the end, this journey taught me that persistence matters, kindness counts, and gratitude multiplies. Keep doing good, even when no one is watching. Keep sharing knowledge, even when feedback is scarce. And never hold back a sincere “thank you”—because those two words can inspire, encourage, and quietly change everything. As Ralph Waldo Emerson beautifully put it, “To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived—this is to have succeeded.”

And that, perhaps, is the true reward. 

Pic : Pexels

Speaking Eyes

As the sun rose softly, brushing the sky with pale gold, I stepped out with a familiar purpose—to feed the stray dogs in my neighborhood. It had become a quiet ritual, one that steadied my mornings and warmed my heart. No two days were ever the same, just like them.

I carried a container of milk, and soon my furry friends gathered around me. Tails wagged, eyes sparkled, and patience blended with excitement. Some drank a full liter eagerly, while others stopped halfway, content. Over time, I had learned their little ways. “Everyone takes only what they need,” I often thought, smiling.

That day, however, carried a different weight.

The last drops of milk were gone when I noticed her.

A white dog—frail and struggling—dragged herself forward. Her two hind legs were broken. Every movement was painful, yet her eyes held hunger, courage, and a quiet will to live. The milk was finished, but my resolve was not. “Compassion doesn’t wait for convenience,” I reminded myself as I went to buy more.

I found her again on another street. Kneeling beside her, I gently placed the bowl down. She moved closer—slowly, bravely—and began to drink. In that moment, the milk felt like more than food. It was relief. It was hope. It was survival. I stood there in silence, my heart heavy and full all at once.

When she finished, she came closer and rested near me. She didn’t wag her tail. She didn’t move much. She didn’t need to. Her presence spoke louder than words. “Thank you,” her eyes seemed to say.

And in that quiet exchange, I understood something deeply simple.

Compassion doesn’t always fix what is broken. It doesn’t erase pain or heal shattered legs. But it does something just as powerful—it reminds a soul that they are not alone.

That day taught me this: even the smallest act of kindness can become someone else’s lifeline. And sometimes, a little love is enough to keep hope alive.

Pic : White dog with speaking eyes