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

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