This morning unfolded in a way I hadn’t planned, but I’ll carry it with me for a long time I guess!
My dad and I had stepped out early on an errand. On our way
back, we stopped at Brahmin’s Cafe in Hanumanthanagar — that modest,
bustling place where the aroma of fresh filter coffee and piping hot idlis
feels like home.
We had our breakfast, as Dad waited inside for our parcel , I stood quietly near the entrance sipping coffee,
just watching the world pass by — the rhythm of life on the street, people
rushing, pausing, chatting, honking, living.
Then I saw him.
An old man walked slowly, almost painfully, with a walking stick. He wore a tucked-in faded brown shirt, slightly darker trousers, and carried a worn-out bag — fragile, pale, and almost invisible in the crowd.
Beside him walked another man — mid-40s perhaps — in a
navy-blue T-shirt, holding a plastic bag with mangoes. He was gently speaking
to the old man, almost as if he knew how to speak to silence.
They moved barely a metre before the younger man helped him
sit on a small steel stool near the entrance. He walked inside, and as he
passed by me, I smiled and said softly,
“I’m proud of you.”
He smiled back humbly and said,
“It’s nothing. He’s old… I just offered him some coffee.”
That sentence stayed with me.
A few moments later, he came out again holding a steaming
hot cup of coffee, handed it to the old man, and they shared a few words —
words that clearly meant more than they sounded.
Then he came back in and said to me,
“He hasn’t had anything since morning.”
I instinctively responded,
“May I join hands? I’ll get him something to eat.”
He hesitated with kindness,
“That’s okay. It’s nothing.”
I smiled back and said,
“Exactly — it’s nothing. You gave him coffee, I’ll get him breakfast.”
He nodded gently and said,
“Just two idlis… he wants it parcelled.”
I walked to the counter, paid for the food, and handed him
the coupon. He looked at me warmly,
“Thank you. Are you from here?”
“Yes,” I replied, “Bangalore.”
He introduced himself — Anand from Mumbai, visiting his brother nearby.
I told him my name, introduced my dad, who was quietly
watching the scene unfold from a distance — perhaps wondering how two strangers
suddenly seemed like old acquaintances.
As I walked back to where Dad stood, the sights around me
felt different — like I had suddenly become part of the city’s heartbeat. I
noticed people sitting on the steps — a couple laughing over coffee, someone
deeply immersed in a call, another quietly finishing a dosa, and our old man,
now trying to chat with an elderly woman beside him. It felt like…
The world operates on its own frequency — invisible, yet
beautifully orchestrated.
In a tiny pocket of time, three strangers — who never
knew each other before and may never meet again — created something ordinary,
yet extraordinary.
One got to eat, two got to give.
And in that moment, everyone was full — not just stomachs, but hearts.
As we walked back to the car, my dad asked me,
“Who was that? Do you know him?”
I smiled and said,
“No. I don’t know him.”
He was puzzled,
“Then why did you speak to him? Why did you get food for
that old man?”
I laughed and replied,
“He gave coffee. I just gave breakfast. None of us know each
other.”
He paused… and then smiled.
A simple, proud smile that only a father can give — the kind that says “I
saw you.”
As we sat in the car, I turned to him and said,
“You know Dad, Mom taught me something long ago. She always
says — ‘Whenever you feel like you can help someone, don’t overthink. If it
doesn’t hurt you to give, then give it immediately. Because the window to serve is
small — and sacred.’”
What I did today? It was just a small echo of her wisdom.
💭 And here’s what stayed with me:
Kindness is rarely about the big gestures. It’s in the
tiny moments, when no one is watching, no spotlight shines, and no applause
follows.
It looks like “nothing.”
But to someone else… it might mean everything.
No comments:
Post a Comment