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.