The Initiation (1135 words)

 Guna was eating alone, a bun for lunch outside, when Mano, his schoolmate one class senior, sat by his side.

“Guna, you seem to eat almost daily only bun or puffed rice. Doesn’t your mom give you idly, dosa, or some rice item?” Mano asked with friendly concern. Guna kept silent; his head bowed.

“Hey, aren’t you hearing me?” Mano asked, his tone now raspy.

“I heard you. We are poor and only make food at night. Even this, my mom gives with much difficulty,” replied Guna softly.

“Would you like to make some easy money? I do, and my purse is always full,” Mano offered with a smile.

“Do you work after school? How do you make money?” asked Guna innocently.

“I work only two hours in the evenings, and the pay is good. I can take you to my master. He’ll train you, and you’ll be set. You could bring home money every day. Then your mom can make you idly and dosa! My master needs boys like you,” Mano spoke persuasively.

“Will the work be hard?” Guna asked, intrigued.

“Not at all. It’s exciting and doesn’t require physical labour. I see you run fast; that might come in handy now and then. You’ll get good clothes too, and won’t have to wear those tattered ones. Come with me this evening,” Mano encouraged.

Guna’s young mind was filled with fantasies of making his mother happy, completely oblivious to the class going on. He couldn’t understand how someone could make money without hard work like his father did.

Later, Mano took Guna to an abandoned shed a few streets away. About a dozen boys Guna’s age sat on the ground before a man sitting on a plastic drum. Guna didn’t like the look of him. He was dressed in a lungi and tight red T-shirt with a black scarf around his neck. His right wrist had a thick bracelet, and his face was scarred. When he smiled, showing his pan-stained teeth, Guna felt more fear than respect.

“Is this the boy you mentioned yesterday, Mano? What’s his name? Has he agreed?” the master asked.

“Guna, sir. He comes from a very poor family. I think he’ll agree once you explain there’s no risk,” Mano replied.

“Guna, come here,” the master called, and Guna approached with hesitation. The master stroked Guna’s head and asked, “You look hungry. Have you eaten?”

He took a 500-rupee note from his underwear and sent one of the boys to fetch biriyani. As they waited, the master tested Guna’s hands, asking him to pick up various objects quickly, testing his reflexes and nimbleness. By the third attempt, Guna succeeded, earning a pleased “sabash” from the master.

“Practice for three or four days before you join the others. I’ll teach you the tricks, how to divert attention, and how to work unnoticed. In no time, you’ll be great at it,” the master assured.

The boys devoured the biriyani, and afterward, Guna was left alone with the master. He handed Guna 100 rupees. “You’ll earn much more daily. Don’t worry. I know people who will protect you. Just remember, never hold on to anything if there’s a commotion. Drop it or pass it to someone else immediately. Understand?”

“I’m scared of getting caught. If my amma or appa find out, they’ll kill me,” Guna confessed.

“The fear will go. Just tell your mom you’re working in a bookbinding shop or something similar. Don’t tell the truth. If you don’t like the work, I’ll let you leave,” the master said, soothing Guna’s worries.

When Guna handed his mother the 100 rupees that night, she hugged him with pride. “Don’t ever tell your father. If he knows, he’ll take the money for alcohol. And don’t neglect your studies.”

But Guna couldn’t sleep that night. He knew what he was doing was wrong, that one day he’d get caught. But the weight of poverty and his mother’s joy at the money blinded him to the crime.

Even as he trained, Guna saw the other boys return daily with their earnings, happy. Purses and wallets were collected and emptied under the master’s watch, who then paid the boys their share. Some days were more profitable than others, especially holidays.

Finally, the day arrived. Guna was sweating as the master reassured him, “Be calm. Just get one purse and come back.”

The bus was overcrowded. Guna and three others scanned the passengers. Guna found himself behind an old man with thick glasses and a hearing aid. The man’s wallet was protruding, making it an easy target. Guna slipped it out effortlessly and got off at the next stop, walking back to the shed.

“Any luck, Guna?” the master asked.

Guna handed over the wallet, which was filled with 500-rupee notes. The master let out a joyful shriek. “You’ve got real talent, Guna. Well done!”

Guna, with the other boys, reached for a random purse to empty. When Guna opened his, he froze. Inside was a faded photograph of a family—his father, mother, himself, and his siblings. One of the boys had stolen his father’s wallet.

Tears welled up in Guna’s eyes. The realisation hit him hard. Only the poor, people like his father, rode public buses. It was the poor who got hurt the most. He felt a deep shame.

At that moment, he knew what he had to do. But Mano had once warned him—those who defied the master never survived. They just disappeared.Still, Guna couldn’t continue.

“Why are you crying?” the master asked, misreading the tears. “Happy with your success?”

Guna forced a weak smile. He didn’t go home that night. Instead, he made his way to the railway station. As he sat on a bench, waiting for a train to an unknown city, he thought of his mother. The pain of leaving her weighed heavily on him, but he had made up his mind. He would make her proud someday, not with stolen money, but through honest work. The story ends here for most.

Here is a sequel to soothe the disturbed minds of some of the readers.

Guna, like many ragpickers in Mumbai, initially started to polish shoes at railway stations, do odd jobs like sewing buttonholes and stitching at tailor shops and then moved on to a saloon. After a brief apprenticeship, he became adept in hair cutting and styling, all within three years. He became a partner paying some money to an aged owner of a saloon at Hosur. He spent the mornings and evenings visiting clients’ homes for haircuts, earning a tidy sum every day, and spent the afternoons at the saloon. Life was smooth and happy.

One evening after dusk, he surprised his family, narrated the happenings and brought them safely and secretly to his place.

A Tale of Devotion and Karma (1063 words)

 Festive days were ahead. Ganesh walked aimlessly through the bazaar, gazing at the shops, glittering showcases, screaming hawkers, and people laden with bags, rushing around in a tearing hurry. The jostling crowd, high humidity, and warm weather were suffocating, and he longed to escape. It was then that he noticed a vendor in a corner of the platform, selling a variety of items—combs, mirrors, shaving gadgets, perfumes, cheap clocks, glass beads, hairclips, safety pins, toys, and other sundries, all under a placard that read, “Any item for just 10 rupees.”

Among the items, Ganesh spotted a tiny but beautiful Vinayak doll. Without a second thought, he pulled out the only ten-rupee note he had and bought the doll, tightly wrapped in a newspaper by the vendor.

There was now a spring in his step as he walked home, feeling a newfound lightness in his heart. Ganesh led a difficult life, always in need. He held a low-paying job with long hours, a wife, and two children to support. He desperately longed for a break that had been eluding him for a long time. Every month, without fail, he purchased a lottery ticket, firmly believing that God helps those who help themselves. He felt that a lottery win could be the channel through which God might bless him with a windfall. Though disappointment greeted him each month when the results were out, he remained hopeful. Now, he had a new hope—this Vinayaka idol might just become his mascot and bring him the good fortune he longed for.

Ganesh placed the idol on the puja shelf and offered a flower at its base. He reassured his wife, Vimala, that the small expense had been worth it, and that Vinayaka would soon bless their family. Although she did not share his optimism, Vimala said nothing.

A month later, as you may have guessed, Ganesh won the jackpot—Rs. 25 lakhs in a lottery. Overjoyed, he hugged his wife, his face glowing with the look of someone saying, “Did I not tell you?” Life improved dramatically, bringing them many of the comforts they had once only dreamed of. Special prayers were held for Vinayak in gratitude.

One night, a week later, as they lay in bed, Vimala said, “Our neighbour Lalitha is pregnant. They already have a daughter, and the couple hopes for a boy this time. She wondered if we could lend them the Vinayaka idol for six months until the baby is born. I told her I’d check with you. What do you think?”

Ganesh was reluctant to part with his cherished mascot, but his wife’s words swayed him. “I feel we should share the things that bring joy to others. Vinayaka will surely be pleased with us and bless us even more,” she said.

A few months later, Vimala rushed into their home from Lalitha’s, tears streaming down her face. “Lalitha is blaming us for her misfortune! She gave birth to twin girls, and now she says the idol brought her bad luck because she wanted a son. Her husband glared at me as if we’d wronged them. What can we do if it’s their karma to get twin girls? We lent Vinayak to her only because she asked.”

“Forget those foolish people. Who says girls are bad luck? We have two charming daughters, and we’re happy and blessed. Go and get the idol back,” Ganesh said firmly.

With the idol back in its rightful place, Ganesh felt reassured by Vinayaka’s protective presence. Things were going smoothly again, until one day, Ganesh’s brother, Raghu, unexpectedly paid a visit. Raghu, who had been distant for years, was now overcome by jealousy at seeing Ganesh’s newfound success, though he cleverly hid his feeling

“I’m glad to see you doing well,” Raghu began. “Amma says you’ve had all this luck because of a Vinayaka idol. As you know, I’ve been running Dad’s old grocery store in the village, but business hasn’t been good. And you know my rebellious past—no one wants to marry me. Amma suggested I take the idol and pray for some blessings. Can you lend it to me for a year?”

Ganesh noticed the smell of cheap liquor on his brother’s breath and surmised he hadn’t changed. Nevertheless, he gave Raghu some money for him and, separately, some for their mother, along with the idol. “Keep the idol with care. Vinayaka blesses those who pray sincerely. Leave your vices behind and work hard, and you’ll see good things happen,” Ganesh advised.

A fortnight later, an urgent message came from the village asking Ganesh to come at once. By the time he reached , it was dusk, and his mother’s house was dark. He found her huddled in a corner on the floor.

“Amma, what’s wrong? Where’s Raghu?” Ganesh asked as he helped her sit up.

Through tears, his mother explained that Raghu wished to conduct a puja after getting the idol, only to be mocked by his friends. Embarrassed, he left the idol behind and went out drinking. In a few days, he sold the grocery store and ran off with a married woman.

“Did he give you any of the money I sent?” Ganesh asked.

“No. He takes everything from me and gives nothing,” his mother replied.

Ganesh brought his mother home along with the idol, contemplating whether the events were somehow tied to the Vinayaka idol or just a result of Raghu’s karma. After all, Raghu had gained some cash by selling the store and got a married woman, though in an unethical way. This troubling question lingered in his mind until his wife reassured him, saying, “Faith in God is personal. The idol is a blessing to us because we believe. Vinayaka has brought us peace and fortune because we approach Him with devotion and sincerity. That is all that matters.” As an afterthought, she added,” As an additional blessing, we can now keep mother with us in good comfort.”

Ganesh smiled, feeling fortified in his faith. He realised that true blessings come from the strength of one’s belief and that Vinayaka’s grace would always remain with them as long as their devotion remained pure. Strangely, the thought of his boss’s recent assurance of a promotion with a good raise crossed his mind, even as he heard Vimala ringing the bell in the puja room.

Breaking Barriers: How Sheela Won the Job (634 words)

                             

I wished to post this on the 8th instant. Luckily we are still in March with the spirit of the month here.

Sheela waited nervously in the hall, the last of 15 candidates, all of whom were men. There was only one vacancy, and the murmured conversations between the others suggested that a decision was already taken. Sheela, desperate for the job to support her family—a sick father, an unlettered mother, and a younger brother in school—prayed silently as her name was finally called.

Inside the room, three interviewers sat with an elderly man in the centre. He greeted her kindly and began by asking about her short work stints at previous jobs. She explained, “It’s not my fault, Sir. I could only find temporary roles as leave replacements. But I’m eager for stable, permanent employment.”

Another interviewer pointed out that the other candidates had longer experience, pressing her for a reason why she should be chosen over them.

Sheela began explaining her difficult family circumstances but was quickly interrupted. “Most candidates are in the same boat. Unfortunately, we don’t choose based on sympathy. Give us something better,” one of the interviewers said.

She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and responded confidently, “You’ll see from my résumé that I’ve always been academically strong, topping my class consistently. I’m hardworking and dedicated, and I’m sure you won’t regret your decision if you give me the job.”

One of the interviewers smiled. “True, your academic record is impressive. But every candidate here has promised they’ll work hard.”

The elderly man leaned forward and said, “Think carefully and give us one reason to hire you—something that stands out.”

Sheela paused for a moment, then smiled and replied, “Sir, today is Women’s Day, and as the only woman candidate here, I believe it’s a day to honour women’s achievements and support their growth. It would mean a great deal to me.”

The panel laughed, and the senior interviewer responded, “That’s a clever answer, Sheela. But remember, we don’t give jobs based on sentiment.”

The elderly man continued his tone kind but firm. “A job isn’t given because it’s Women’s Day or for any other reason of sentiment. We are looking for capability, resilience, and performance.”

Sheela nodded quickly, her mind racing for a better explanation. “Sir, I understand that completely. I didn’t mean to suggest Women’s Day should be the only reason I’m hired. I mentioned it because you asked for something beyond my qualifications and experience. In every temporary role I’ve held, I’ve worked hard. I’m eager for a chance to prove myself in a permanent position. My real reason for deserving this job is that I’ll bring the same dedication and passion to this role, no matter what day it is.”

The panel seemed to take her more seriously now. The interviewer who had been reviewing her papers looked up and said, “That’s more like it. It’s your persistence, not the day on the calendar, that counts. We appreciate that you’ve kept going, despite the odds. And that resilience—combined with your excellent qualifications—is why we believe you’ll make the most of this opportunity.”

The elderly man leaned back, clearly impressed. “Sheela, what you’ve shown us today reflects what many women endure—not just on Women’s Day but every day of the year. It’s not the celebration of women that earns you this job; it’s your ability to face challenges head-on, stay strong, and rise above them. You’ve earned this. Please wait for your appointment letter.”

Sheela smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief and pride. It wasn’t just about Women’s Day—it was about who she was, what she had faced, and the confidence she now carried forward into this new chapter of her life.

She left the room with a grateful Namaste, her heart swelling with pride, knowing it was her perseverance—not the occasion—that had won her the opportunity.

 

Reaping What We Sow (643 words)

“Ayya (Sir), I haven’t eaten in two days. I’m starving. Can you kindly spare me something?” pleaded the young girl, barely nine years old, her voice trembling with hunger.

“Go, go away! I’m in a hurry. We’ll see later,” snapped Punyakodi, barely glancing at her as he kicked his motorcycle into gear.

“Ayya, please,” she begged, her desperation rising. “I feel like I’m going to die from hunger. Just a little money, even for a bun, would be enough. Please, do not refuse.”

“I told you once already, didn’t I? Are you deaf or what? Get lost!” he barked, his voice cold and impatient as he sped away on his roaring bike.

Later that morning, Punyakodi stood nervously in the plush office of the Joint Managing Director, fidgeting as he waited. The officer, deeply engrossed in paperwork, didn’t bother looking up.

“What do you want?” the Jt. MD asked dismissively.

“Sir, last year’s raise was far too little. If you could kindly consider a better increase this year, it would greatly help. I’m struggling to make ends meet,” Punyakodi said softly, his tone submissive.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me this early? Can’t you see I’m busy? We’ll see later,” the officer retorted, waving him away with irritation.

“Please, sir. This is my only chance to speak with you. My children are studying, and things are tough at home. I’m only asking for a little mercy,” Punyakodi urged his voice tight with anxiety.

“Didn’t I make myself clear? Get out! I said I’m busy!” The officer’s words stung with finality, dismissing him with a wave.

The humiliation weighed on Punyakodi as he returned to his seat, more stung by the harshness than the refusal itself. After 15 years of loyal service, being waved away so callously gnawed at his pride. As he brooded over the morning’s bitter encounter, a sudden image flashed in his eyes—the young girl in tattered clothes, pleading for help to buy a simple bun. He had refused her with the same coldness that he had just faced.

A wave of remorse engulfed him. Was the humiliation at the office, not karma, boomeranging for his cruelty in the morning? He felt a deep sense of shame and regret for how he had treated the girl. It was a lesson, a painful one.

The next morning, as he left his house, Punyakodi noticed the same girl walking by, not even glancing his way. Her face was downcast, worn from hunger.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice gentle.

Startled, the girl stopped and turned, unsure. Punyakodi approached her and handed her a hundred rupee note. “Take this. Buy food for yourself and your family. And come to my house with your parents this Sunday. Let me see how else I can help.”

The girl’s eyes widened in disbelief, and she hesitated momentarily before folding her hands in gratitude. She bent to touch his feet, but he gently stopped her. His heart felt lighter, the weight of guilt finally lifting.

That afternoon, at 3 PM, Punyakodi was unexpectedly summoned to the Jt. MD’s office again. His stomach twisted with unease, expecting further humiliation. But to his surprise, as he entered, the officer extended his hand in apology.

“Punyakodi,” the Jt. MD said, his tone softened, “Yesterday I was under a lot of stress with some personal issues. I realize now that I responded insensitively to your genuine request. To whom else can you plead your case but to me? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Be cheerful. No hard feelings, please.”

A wave of relief surged through Punyakodi. His heart felt at peace, not because of the promise of a raise, but because he had learned a valuable lesson about empathy and kindness. He had reaped what he had sown, but now, he had sown something better.

The Divinity Outside the Temple Gate (468 words)

 The temple was not far from my house—large and serene, yet neither as famous nor as rich as Tirupati. Still, it drew many devotees. I made it a habit to visit every Sunday, walking along the short road lined with small shops on both sides. As with many temples, the entrance was flanked by beggars, young and old, blind and maimed, pleading for alms in their shrill voices. The security guards at the temple gate were firm—they kept these destitute souls from entering.

On Sundays, I didn’t rush through my prayers. Instead, I liked to sit and observe the worshippers—the way they prayed, the way they called out the names of their deities, the intensity of their devotion. I found it fascinating how their body language revealed the depth of their faith.

One particular Sunday, I noticed a middle-aged man ahead of me in line for the prasad, dressed neatly in a white kurta and pyjama. He looked well-to-do. The temple, known for its generosity due to large donations, offered prasad in unusually large portions—unlike most places, where a small spoonful was the norm. Here, the prasad was the size of a large orange, rich with ghee. After collecting my portion of the sweet ksheera, I sat in a corner to enjoy it.

That’s when I saw the man again. He emptied his prasad hurriedly into a shining steel vessel and rushed to wash his hands at a nearby tap. I watched, curious, as he returned to the line to collect another portion. He did the same thing—emptying it into the vessel without tasting a bite. Again and again, he repeated this strange process, at least half a dozen times.

My initial reaction was anger. I thought, how could someone be so greedy, hoarding the prasad while others waited in the line? I almost confronted him but decided to hold back and observe him further. What happened next left me speechless.

With the vessel now filled with prasad, the man didn’t leave the temple to enjoy it himself. Instead, he went outside to where the beggars sat, patiently waiting. One by one, he offered each of them a generous portion of the prasad, along with a five-rupee coin. His smile was warm, genuine, and filled with compassion. The beggars’ faces lit up as they received his offering. He cared little if anyone saw or judged him; for him, the act was sacred.

I stood there, deeply ashamed of my hasty judgment. This man wasn’t greedy—he was giving, more than any of us inside the temple. In the joy and gratitude of those beggars, he saw the true essence of divinity, a vision far beyond the temple gate.

It was in their smiles, not the rituals or offerings, that he found the Gods.

The Full Circle of Love ( 826 words)

“Do not tell me you’ve never fallen in love! You’re already 25, and you always dodge my questions,” said Sunita, Bhavna’s close friend and colleague, who had come personally to invite her to her wedding. Sunita, an extrovert, had never kept​ her two-year relationship a secret from Bhavna, and now she was marrying her boyfriend.

Bhavna smiled. “What’s there to dodge? I haven’t fallen in love, at least not in the way you mean.”

“Come on, you went through school and college! Surely someone must’ve caught your eye,” Sunita persisted, determined to dig out the truth.

“Well… I had an infatuation with a guy back in class 11. We’d talk every day. It was more of a crush than anything serious. I moved to Bengaluru when my dad was transferred, and we lost contact.”

Sunita leaned in with a grin. “If you met him now, would you tell him how you feel?”

Bhavna hesitated. “It depends. I don’t even know where he is or what he’s like now. But who knows? Maybe someday.”

“Well, best wishes anyway!” Sunita laughed as she left. “Don’t forget to come to my wedding.”

That night, as Bhavna drifted into sleep, her mind wandered back to those Kolkata days.  Everything felt so real in her dream—the school, the bustling bus stop, and Bhola. Tall, handsome, with curly hair and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he’d wait for her every morning at the bus stop and walk her to the bus after school. She vividly recalled how she’d let crowded buses pass by to spend a few more minutes with him, sharing snacks and chatting about anything and everything.

The memory of the last day at school stung the most. Her father’s transfer to  Bengaluru meant leaving Bhola behind. They had sat quietly in a park, holding hands, knowing they might never see each other again.

“I’ll miss you,” he had whispered. “I didn’t sleep all night, thinking of ways to make you stay.”

She had smiled through her tears. “Maybe we’ll meet again. Where do you live? Who knows what life has in store for us?”

“Dhakuria Heights, fourth floor, second on the right side, Southern Avenue. Would you visit me before you leave?” he asked eagerly and added, "Bhola is my pet name outside and Somu in my home."

The dream faded, and Bhavna woke with a bittersweet smile, her heart unexpectedly light. Bhola occupied her thoughts all day, making her wonder how he looked now, where he was, and if he still remembered her.

Two days later, at breakfast, her father announced, “I have some work in Kolkata” and asked  her mom,” Would you like to come along?”

Bhavna’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes! I also wish to join very much,” she said, her excitement met with laughter. And so, they went.

Once in Kolkata, she made an excuse to visit Adhiti, her friend. and took a taxi to Southern Avenue, her heart pounding with anticipation. When she arrived at Dhakuria Heights, her nerves got the better of her. Was this the right thing to do? She rode the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on the door.

A young man, strikingly similar to Bhola, answered, holding a baby girl. She was shocked for a moment. But the moment he spoke in a loud voice, she knew it wasn’t Bhola.

“Sorry,” she stammered, backing away. “Wrong door.”

As she hurried toward the lift in great disappointment, she nearly bumped into someone standing in her way, preventing her from exiting.

“Bhavna?” a familiar voice asked, sending shivers down her spine. “Is it you, Bhola?”

It was him. Bhola. His soft voice, his familiar eyes, everything came rushing back. He smiled and pushed her back into the lift. “ Yes, I am Bhola, Bhavna’s soulmate. Wow, you actually came, just like you promised!”

Bhavna laughed, her heart fluttering. “I went to your place, and I think it is your brother with a baby in hand  who  sent me away!”

Bhola laughed. “Oh, him? Let’s go upstairs—my parents will be thrilled. I’ve told them all about you.”

As they stepped inside, Bhola called out, “Ma! Baba! Come see who’s here!”

His mother hugged Bhavna warmly. “So, this is the girl who has our Somu waiting all these years?” she said, caressing her head. “How lovely you are!”

His father smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Somu refused every proposal after joining the IAS, possibly rightly, I feel after seeing you, hoping to meet you again. We’d love to meet your parents and take things forward if that’s alright with you.”

Bhavna, overwhelmed but beaming, knelt to greet the baby girl who had crawled towards her, tugging at her dress. She picked her up and kissed her soft cheek, her heart filling with joy.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Bhavna smiled at how life had a serendipitous way of bringing things full circle—often when you least expect it

A Reflection for Women’s Day (727 words)

I often see an old beggar woman sitting in the same spot along the busy main road near my home. Her position is constant, though she moves to the other side of the road in the evening to escape the harsh rays of the sun. She must be around seventy, though her frail figure suggests she could be much older. Emaciated and shriveled, with hair that hasn’t seen oil in years, she crouches silently on a torn mat with a tattered bed sheet underneath. Her dimmed vision and leprosy-ravaged fingers make her a pitiable sight, yet she never pleads for alms. Despite her miserable condition, she exudes an innate dignity that transcends her poor circumstances.

It struck me that dignity isn’t associated with wealth or status. Even a beggar can hold her head high, while the rich may act without grace. Coins tossed onto her worn newspaper spread opposite her and were gathered with trembling fingers and dropped into a rusty tin box. There was never a desperate plea for alms —just the silent acceptance of what came her way. Even in her hardship, her quiet strength touched me.

One day, I saw her completely drenched in a sudden downpour, sitting there unmoving, without seeking any shelter. The next morning, I brought her an old unused umbrella to give her shelter from both rain and sun. She accepted it coolly and uttered no words to thank me but only lifted her head with what might have been a smile or acknowledgement. Every time I passed her corner, I made it a habit to leave a coin. Somehow, she always seemed to sense my approach from my steps, raising her head in gratitude. It amazed me how the body compensates when some faculties are lost—her awareness was sharp, her hearing keen.

Moved by her sorry plight, I asked my wife if she could spare a few saris for her. Without the slightest hesitation, my wife gave me several, and I eagerly set off to give them. But, to my disappointment, the beggar woman was not in her usual spot. Days passed, and she remained absent, filling me with concern. I feared she might have fallen ill or met with an accident. When she finally reappeared, there was great relief, and I rushed home to collect the saris.

“I’ve been looking for you,” I told her as I gave her the saris. Her eyes widened, and she said, “Sami (Sir), I don’t need more than two. I have no place to keep them. I sleep on the platform, and this small bag contains all I own. One spare is enough.”

As I hesitated, she added softly, “You will see on my left, a young woman sitting nearby. She’s an orphan; her mother passed away recently, and she’s left with nothing. She is troubled by wicked men when night falls, and she comes to me for protection. Daily, I stay awake to keep her safe and shout them away. Please, give her the other saris, and if you can, I would beg you to find her a secure place. I will be forever indebted to you.”

Her words left me speechless. Here was a woman with nothing, yet her concern was for someone else—an orphan, vulnerable and alone. In that moment, I realized true wealth isn’t measured by what we possess but by the kindness we extend to others. Her generosity and compassion far exceeded my own. This frail beggar woman, with barely enough for herself, stood taller and richer in spirit than I could ever hope to be.

That day was Women’s Day. How fitting, yet ironic, that it was a destitute beggar woman who embodied the strength and compassion we celebrate in women. She reminded me of the famous quote: “A bone to a dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog when you are just as hungry as the dog.”

On Women’s Day, we often honour our women in positions of power and influence, but let us not forget those women who, in their quiet and often unseen ways, show immense strength, resilience, and compassion. This beggar woman, forgotten by society, gave everything she could to protect someone more vulnerable than herself. In her, I saw the true spirit of womanhood—selflessness, dignity, and grace in the face of adversity.

Bride wanted (970 words)

A hilarious decade-old story to regale you as the new month begins

To her mom's surprise, Vanita came home earlier than usual from her office. Although she had asked no question, Vanita said with a smile, “I had not much work to do and felt like having hot bajjis with coffee from you.”

“Why not? I will have it ready in a jiffy,” her mom replied happily as she hurried to the workstation to cut the vegetables.

Vanita sank comfortably on the sofa and lazily skimmed through the day’s paper till her eyes fell on a matrimonial advertisement under the Brides wanted category. It was in bold letters against a coloured background to attract potential brides. Vanita, nearing 30 and a spinster, took delight occasionally in browsing through such matrimonial columns. It was more an amusing diversion than any serious effort to source her partner.

“A marketing executive in a multinational company aged 34,170cm with clean habits and drawing a good salary, frequently on tour, desires a life partner. Has an aged mother with initial signs of Alzheimer's. The potential partner should be a graduate around 30, without any encumbrance, not working but pleasant and smiling always. Caste and language no bar. The expectations are small and very few. She should have an aesthetic sense, love her home, keep it clean and well decorated and be good in culinary arts, experimenting daily with different cuisines of many regions and countries. Should be fond of having children and have cheerful disposition and not given to tantrums even under slight provocation. Would want her to be a home bird and not employed after marriage. All her needs would be amply taken care of. Quick marriage is contemplated

Call xxxxxxxxxx”

Vanita had a strong streak of independence and a dim view of arranged marriages. The few men she met in her workplace and social circles did not inspire her. She found them either egoistic with notions of male superiority or just plain and uninteresting. She was happy with her present state and had no intention to marry, although her mother gently broached the subject not infrequently.

Anger rose in her when she read this ad, but she nevertheless went through it again carefully. This guy needed a woman to take care of his ailing mom without spending on servants and possibly he is a foodie wanting to eat varieties of food at home. He also needed a woman waiting for him when he returned home from office or tour and willing to raise a family of many children. He would not like her to work and, in plain words, wants her to be tied to home but disingenuously clothes his real intention in words like aesthetic sense, love of home and decorating it. To cap it all, he wants her to be cheerful without frustration even under trying circumstances with an aged woman in what is possibly a case of advanced Alzheimer's.

An idea struck her mind. She called the number and asked him to visit her home the next day at 4 pm for discussions.

A well-dressed and smart-looking guy rang the bell sharp at 4 pm. Vanita’s mom was luckily asleep in the bedroom.

“Good evening. I am Abhinav and have come in response to your invitation about my ad,” he said, a bit overawed at the beautiful maiden who answered his bell.

“Come in, Abhinav. I am Vanita, who called you yesterday,” replied Vanita as she led him to the living room overlooking the workstation and kitchen area where a young woman was busy shining the glasses.

As he seated himself comfortably, considering himself fortunate to meet the charming lady, she asked, “What would you have? Apple, guava or mango juice?”

“Mango” he said, contrary to her expectation that he would leave the choice to her.

“Rukku, bring two glasses of mango juice” she said to the woman at the kitchen and turned towards him.

“I am very pleased to meet you. I hope you must have read about my requirements. I am very particular about them. Since you have invited me, I assume you have understood”

“Certainly, I have understood what you want. You are indeed lucky to have come across one who fits to the T your expectations,” said Vanita, smiling in a bewitching manner. “You need a woman who is well qualified but would stay at home tending to your sick mother, cooking different kinds of food to satisfy your palate, raise a family of many children and be always smiling and cheerful. Am I correct? “she asked.

“In a way, yes, but I would not put it so crudely,” he answered.

“Never mind how it is put. But it is a fact. Rukku, come here,” she said, and as Rukku came in, her old cotton sari with an apron tied around her waist and in a disheveled hair and perspiring face, Vanita added,” Mr. Abhinav, my maid Rukku meets all your requirements and would gladly marry you. She has written her graduate examination online, and the results are expected next month. She will stop working after the wedding. She will look very charming after a wash and dressing up. She will take care of your mother. What do you say?”

Abhinav stood up and angrily said, “I am not amused at your silly behaviour, you you …” even as he stomped towards the door

“Get out, I say, and go to an employment agency looking for a maid and not a slave for your wife” said Vanita as she banged the door behind him

She turned and rushed to hug the smiling Rukku even as her sister was in peals of laughter.

”Akka (elder sister), I thoroughly enjoyed this small act as a maid in an old sari. A fitting lesson you gave to that foolish man. Thank God, Amma is sleeping in the bedroom,” said Rukmini