THE BEGGAR

 Courtesy: Pixabay

Kishor stopped near the temple steps.

The air smelled of burning agarbatti, thick and heavy.
The sun stood directly above him, pressing down on his shoulders. His shirt clung to his back. There was no tree, no shade — only stone heated by hours of light.

His legs refused to move further.

He sat on the edge of the steps and opened his bag. From inside, he took out a large steel cup, scratched and dull. He poured water and drank — once, then again — slowly, carefully, as if wasting even a drop would be a mistake.

No one was around.

He removed his shoes. The soles were torn, the edges cracked, dust packed deep into the folds. They had walked farther than he could remember.

Kishor lay down, using his bag as a pillow.

A voice broke the silence.

“Go away. This is a sacred place. Beggars are not allowed here.”

Kishor stood without argument. He wore his shoes, picked up his bag, and walked outside the gate.

Once, long ago, someone had refused him water.
“Not in my glass,” the man had said.

That night, Kishor bought this cup.

Since then, it had taken tea, water, coins — and dignity.

He looked inside his bag again. It was half full. Enough for today.

He took out a small, torn photograph — creased at the corners, almost colorless now.

He whispered, “Guruji… should I go home?”

The photograph did not answer.
But Kishor folded it carefully and walked on.

Click on the book to read sample or order☝