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
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