When I was small, every morning before the sun had even stretched its golden arms across the sky, I would wake up to the sound of my dadi’s soft voice. She would gently shake me awake, her bangles jingling as she whispered, “Chalo, beta, it’s time for the temple.”
Wrapped in a cozy shawl, I would hold her wrinkled yet strong hand as we stepped out into the quiet dawn. The streets were empty except for a few stray dogs and milkmen riding bicycles, their cans clanking rhythmically. The temple was not far, but the walk always felt special—like a secret ritual between my dadi and me.
She would walk with slow, measured steps, her saree brushing against the wind, while I, barefoot and half-asleep, would try to match her pace. The temple bells would echo in the crisp morning air, welcoming us even before we reached the steps.
One winter morning, just as we were nearing the temple, I saw him.
An old man, sitting on the pavement near the temple gate, shivering. His clothes were worn-out, his face lined with age and hardship. But what caught my attention most were his shoes—or rather, what was left of them. They were falling apart, the soles barely holding together, the fabric frayed.
I stopped, my tiny fingers tightening around Dadi’s hand. She noticed where my eyes had settled and sighed softly. “He comes here every morning,” she murmured. “Waiting… hoping.”
I glanced down at my own feet—bare but warm from the walk. I was used to it. But he—he wasn’t.
A strange thought entered my mind, and before I could second-guess myself, I let go of Dadi’s hand and knelt in front of him.
“Baba, yeh lijiye,” I said, slipping off the soft slippers Dadi had given me just the week before. They were small, probably too small for him, but they were whole. They were warm.
The old man looked at me, his face a mix of surprise and something else—something almost like disbelief. His hands trembled as he picked them up, tracing the straps as if they were something precious.
“You…” His voice cracked. “You don’t need them?”
Before I could answer, Dadi placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. Her eyes held a quiet pride, the kind that needed no words.
I smiled, shrugged. “I can walk to the temple barefoot.”
He didn’t cry. He didn’t say much at all. But he pressed his hands together in a silent blessing, his eyes glistening.
That morning, as I stepped onto the cold marble floor of the temple, my feet tingling with the chill, I felt something else settle inside me. A warmth, quiet yet powerful.
The Next Morning’s Gift
When we reached home, my feet were still cold, but my heart was warm. Dadi sat me down, wrapped a thick shawl around me, and handed me a small bundle.
Inside was a spare sweater and another shawl, neatly folded.
“You can give him this tomorrow,” she said, her voice kind but firm.
I looked up at her, my eyes wide.
She smiled, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Helping once is good, but remembering to help again is even better.”
The next morning, as I held the bundle close to my chest on our walk to the temple, I realized something: kindness is not just about a single moment. It’s about showing up, again and again, for those who need it.
And so, I did.