A Tightrope Performance Without an Audience

“Stop the car.”

My driver pressed the brakes. The speeding vehicle slowed and rested on the edge of the state highway, dust rising around us.

“Just a few yards back,” I said, looking through the rear glass, “near the village chaupal… there’s a funambulist family.”

We reversed slowly.

There she was — a thin young girl walking on a tightrope tied between two bamboo poles. Her tiny feet balanced on uncertainty, her arms stretched like fragile wings. Below, her mother watched with sharp, protective eyes. The father sat nearby, cradling a baby, his gaze shifting between the rope and the empty road.

No crowd.
No applause.
Only passing vehicles and fleeting glances.

Once, such performances would gather villages. Today, entertainment lives inside screens. Fingers scroll; eyes rarely stop.

“Less viewers… less income,” I murmured. “Please give them these.”

I handed my driver some fruits, a packet of peanuts, and a few rupees.

He walked over and returned after a few minutes, thoughtful.

“When I gave it to the father,” he said, “he pointed toward the mother and asked me to hand everything to her.”

I smiled.

Balance is not only on the rope.

It is also in dignity.

That quiet gesture spoke of trust, of shared responsibility, of silent respect within poverty. In that small roadside performance, I witnessed not just survival — but strength.

The girl continued walking the rope, steady despite the wind.

Perhaps life itself is a tightrope. Some are born on firm ground; others learn to balance above emptiness.

As we drove away, the rope remained stretched between two poles — thin, trembling, determined.

And I thought —
sometimes kindness is simply choosing to pause
while the world keeps speeding ahead.

Pic : AI Generated

 

Not Every Story Needs Evidence

The winter morning carried that familiar sting — the kind that makes your hands instinctively seek warmth in pockets and your breath visible in the air. The sun had risen, yet the cold had not agreed to leave.

From the main gate I heard the metallic rhythm of labour —
thak… thak… chhan…

A young woman was crouched near the pavement, aligning bricks with fingers hardened by survival. Dust clung to her shawl, and the chill did not seem to concern her as much as the unfinished work.

“Will you have a cup of tea?” I asked.

She looked up — surprised — then nodded.

“How many of you are working here?”

“Two more,” she said, pointing.

A man was driving a spade into stubborn earth, and a middle-aged woman walked slowly under the weight of a shallow iron pan of cement balanced on her head — a crown no one ever dreams of wearing.

I returned with three cups of tea and a packet of biscuits.

Steam rose from the cups like relief itself.
For a moment, work paused.
Winter loosened its grip.

Then the middle-aged woman spoke hesitantly,

“Please buy some flour for us. Yesterday a stray cow with big horns opened the can and ate it all.”

The other two joined quickly, almost nervously —
“Yes… please… please…”

I looked at them.

“All of you belong to different families?”

“Yes.”

My mind calculated faster than my heart wanted to.
Three houses.
Three containers.
One cow.

Either the cow was unusually determined…
or the story was unusually convenient.

For a brief second, reason stood tall with folded arms.
But compassion quietly stepped forward.

Maybe the story was true.
Maybe it was not.
But hunger rarely bothers with perfect explanations.

I bought three packets of wheat flour — one for each of them.

Their faces changed instantly. Not dramatic gratitude, not exaggerated blessings — just relief. Real relief. The kind that settles into tired eyes.

And in that moment I understood:
Kindness does not require verification documents.

Sometimes people do not ask because their story is strong;
they ask because their need is. “If you judge people, you have no time to love them.” — Mother Teresa

That morning I did not solve a mystery about a cow. I solved something within myself — that sometimes helping is more important than proving.

Because kindness does not stand in court asking for evidence.
It simply feeds. 

Pic : AI Generated

The Injured Bull and the Passing World

“Get back immediately! It will attack you!”

The shopkeeper’s voice cut through the afternoon heat as I bent towards the bull. Its hind leg trembled, a deep wound dripping red onto the dusty road. Each drop darkened the earth — a silent testimony to pain no one wanted to go near.

I held the spray bottle tighter.
“I have to put medicine. At least it will get some relief.”

“It has turned violent,” he insisted. “Yesterday it charged at a dog… and even a passerby. Don’t go close.”

I looked at him — half anger, half helplessness. People feared it. I saw only suffering.

He softened his tone.
“I am not stopping you from helping… I am stopping you from getting hurt. Compassion should not cost your life. Let’s call the gaushala. They have equipment.”

Reluctantly, I stepped back.

Soon, a team arrived. With ropes, shields and practiced patience, they treated the wound while the bull snorted in frightened protest. I felt relieved — but only for a day.

The next morning, the blood flowed again.

I called my employee and asked him to speak to the authorities. The reply returned like a tired echo:
It needs 12–15 people to shift it. We don’t have manpower yet.

Days passed.

Every visit felt like meeting an injured soldier abandoned on a battlefield — alive, but waiting. I kept requesting, persuading, reminding… and so did the shopkeeper who once warned me away.

One day, they finally came. A group gathered, cautiously guiding the bull into transport. The road watched in silence as it left — not defeated, just carried toward healing.

Fifteen days later, I saw it again.

It stood calmly near the same street corner. The wound had sealed, the leg steady, the eyes no longer burning with fear. It simply chewed grass, as if pain had been a forgotten chapter.

I folded my hands instinctively.

Not victory. Not pride. Just relief.

Because sometimes saving a life is not about heroic moments —
it is about refusing to give up after the first attempt fails. 

That day I realized —
kindness does not roar like bravery,
it persists quietly… until suffering disappears.

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.” — Anatole France

Pic : Wounded Bull

Devotion in Motion

 

I saw him from a distance — a jhula kanwadi.

Across his shoulders rested a beautifully crafted jhula kanwad, shaped like a delicate swing. It was adorned with fresh flowers, tiny mirrors flashing in the sunlight, sacred images of Lord Shiva, and within it, carefully secured, the holy water of Mother Ganga. He was carrying it to the Shiva temple in his locality as part of his Shravan vow.

Each step he took was steady. Measured. Purposeful.

“Would you like to have breakfast?” I asked gently, walking beside him.

“No.”

The reply was short and firm, but not impolite — only disciplined.

I had never gone to Haridwar to fetch the sacred water. Responsibilities had tied me down. Yet a longing stirred within me — if I could not undertake the pilgrimage, I could at least serve someone who had.

“Milk?” I offered.

“No.”

He continued walking barefoot on the warm road, the weight of the kanwad balanced with devotion.

“Some fruits… apples?” I suggested, quickening my pace to keep up with his determined stride.

He paused slightly.

“Okay. But I will eat them later.”

That small consent felt like a blessing.

I hurried to a nearby shop and bought a packet of milk and two apples. When I returned, he instructed me carefully, “Open my backpack slowly. The jhula must remain balanced.” His words carried both caution and calm. I opened the bag and placed the milk and apples inside with care, mindful of the sacred burden he carried.

He nodded and resumed his journey.

As I stood watching him walk away, merging into the saffron tide of Shravan devotees, I felt an unexpected joy. It was a simple act — just milk and apples — yet my heart felt light.

As Swami Vivekananda said, “It is a privilege to serve mankind, for this is the worship of God.”

I had not walked miles chanting the Lord’s name. I had not carried Ganga jal across states. But for a few moments, I had walked beside devotion.

In serving a devotee, I had served the Divine. And that was enough.

Pic : AI Generated

Bel Patra for Mahadev

On a sacred Shravan Monday, when the air itself seems to hum with the name of Lord Shiva, I called out gently,

“Pluck the fresh bel leaves and flowers. Place them carefully in a basket and offer them at the nearby Shiva temple. Today is Shravan Maas — an especially auspicious time to worship Mahadev. He is fond of the simple bel patra offered with devotion.”

The morning sky was soft and grey, as if the monsoon clouds themselves were performing abhishek over the earth. The fragrance of damp soil mingled with the scent of rose and marigold. In earlier days, trees were plentiful; their branches bent generously toward anyone who reached out in reverence. But now, concrete has risen where orchards once stood. Construction and overcrowding have slowly replaced groves and gardens. Only a few fruiting trees remain, standing like silent witnesses to a quieter past.

Today, many devotees must purchase bel leaves and flowers at high prices from market stalls. What was once freely given by nature has become a commodity.

Standing beneath our bel tree, I felt a quiet stirring in my heart. If I possess what others do not, does it not become my responsibility to share it? Devotion should never be limited by affordability. Worship should not depend upon one’s purse.

The leaves trembled lightly in the breeze as if in agreement.

In the Shiv Purana, it is said that even a single bel leaf offered with pure intent pleases Lord Shiva. He does not look at grandeur; He looks at bhava — the feeling behind the offering. A simple leaf, placed with sincerity, outweighs the costliest ritual performed without devotion.

As Swami Vivekananda beautifully said, “It is the heart that conquers, not the brain.”

And Ramakrishna Paramahamsa taught, “God looks at the purity of the heart, not at the outer show.”

If that is so, then sharing bel leaves is not merely distributing foliage — it is sharing an opportunity for devotion.

I imagine an elderly woman who cannot climb trees, a daily wage worker who cannot spare extra money, a child who wishes to offer something to Mahadev with tiny folded hands. If a few leaves from our tree can become their bridge to prayer, then withholding them would feel like withholding grace itself.

So the basket fills — green bel leaves fresh with tiny droplets of rain, bright blossoms glowing with fragrance. They are not mine alone. They belong to every devotee who wishes to whisper “Om Namah Shivaya” with folded hands.

The more hearts that remember Shiva, the gentler the world becomes.
The more prayers that rise, the lighter the air feels.

Under the silent gaze of the bel tree, sharing becomes worship, and worship becomes joy.

Pic : Pixabay

Sacred Pages, Sacred Love

“Do you want to read any book?” I asked the young boy who had come to collect a blood sample. His work was routine, yet his eyes were not. They wandered across my drawing room, pausing not on the furniture or décor, but on the bookshelf.

He looked at the books the way a thirsty traveler looks at a well.

He nodded hesitantly.

I walked toward the shelf and began pulling out volumes one by one — Agni Puran, Srimad Devi Bhagavat Puran, Skanda Puran, Garud Puran, Narad Puran, Padma Puran. I showed him several editions of Kalyan, and books written by revered saints and spiritual thinkers. He handled them carefully, almost reverentially, flipping through pages dense with Sanskrit verses and elaborate commentaries.

The more he turned the pages, the more a subtle confusion appeared on his face. The sea of wisdom was vast, and he did not know where to begin.

Sensing this, I gently took out a copy of Shiv Puran — one with a clear Hindi translation alongside the original Sanskrit verses.

“Take this one,” I suggested. “Shravan month is approaching. Reading about Lord Shiva during Shravan is considered especially auspicious. It is said that devotion during this month bears manifold fruits.”

His face brightened. He held the two volumes of book close to his chest as though it were not paper and ink, but something alive.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Months passed.

Nearly six months later, I happened to see him standing near the main gate of the building. Recognizing him, I walked up with a smile.

“Did you find time to read the book?” I asked casually.

He smiled — a deeper, more confident smile than before.

“I did not take it for myself,” he replied. “I took it for my mother. She lives in our village. She is an Anganwadi worker. She loves listening to stories of Bhagwan Shiva, but she never had a proper book to read.”

For a moment, I was speechless.

In that instant, the image of the confused boy flipping through heavy scriptures dissolved. In its place stood a devoted son.

He had not chosen the book for intellectual curiosity.

He had chosen it out of love.

As Swami Vivekananda once said, “It is love and love alone that I preach.”

Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam wrote,
“If you want to shine like a sun, first burn like a sun.”

I imagined his mother, after a long day of tending to village children, sitting under the dim yellow light of a bulb, reading the Shiv Puran, perhaps moving her lips softly over the sacred verses. Perhaps she read it not just as scripture, but as a gift sent with love from her son.

In the Shiv Puran, Lord Shiva is often described as Bholenath — the innocent, easily pleased one. It is said that He looks not at grandeur, but at bhava — the purity of intention.

What greater offering could there be than a son’s thoughtfulness?

That day, I realized something profound:
The book had reached the right reader.
The blessing had reached the right heart.

And perhaps, somewhere beyond our sight, Lord Shiva smiled.

Pic : Pixabay

Seven Tails and a Bowl of Milk

Every morning begins the same way for me—not with tea, not with breakfast, but with quiet offerings.

Before I feed myself, I step out to feed those who cannot ask.

The stray cow waits near the bend in the road, her large, patient eyes following the rhythm of my footsteps. The birds arrive like punctual little guests, scattering down from wires and rooftops the moment they see grain in my hands. And near the tea shop at the corner, there is usually a black dog who accepts her bowl of milk with calm dignity, as though we share an unspoken agreement about kindness.

That morning seemed no different.

I placed the familiar bowl of milk beside the tea shop wall, calling out softly as I always did. But instead of the black dog padding toward me, a tiny nose appeared from the narrow gap between the ground and the raised shop floor. Then two bright eyes. Then a small, hesitant body.

A puppy.

Before I could fully register the surprise, another tumbled out. Then another. And another—like little secrets spilling from a hidden pocket of the earth. I knelt down, astonished, as more of them squeezed through the narrow opening. Soon there were seven in all—seven small bundles of black fur, identical in size and color, their ears too large for their heads and their paws comically oversized for their tiny frames.

They surrounded the bowl with earnest urgency, lapping at the milk as though it were the greatest feast they had ever known. Between gulps, they looked up at me, tails wagging furiously—seven little metronomes of gratitude. Their tails seemed too small to hold so much joy, yet they tried anyway, swishing back and forth in pure, uncomplicated affection.

The tea shop, with its clatter of cups and murmured conversations, faded into the background. In that moment, there was only the soft sound of lapping tongues, tiny paws shuffling against concrete, and the quiet warmth that spreads through the heart when kindness finds its way to the right place.

I realized then that the black dog I had been feeding was not alone. She had been a mother all along, sheltering her little ones in that narrow space beneath the shop floor—hidden, protective, patient.

Later that evening, as I walked home, I saw her again. She stood a little distance away from the shop, alert and proud, a pigeon held firmly in her mouth. It was a hard-earned catch, proof of her fierce devotion. Hunger may have shadowed her days, but motherhood had sharpened her instincts. She had hunted not just for herself, but for seven waiting mouths and fourteen hopeful eyes.

There was something powerful in that sight—not cruelty, but survival; not savagery, but sacrifice. The same tenderness that wagged seven tiny tails in the morning now stood strong in their mother’s determined stance at dusk.

Even in ordinary street life, there are powerful stories of love, sacrifice, and care—but only those who observe closely truly understand their beauty.

Pic : Seven Tails and a Bowl of Milk