A Human Touch

There was a small village where an old man lived by himself. He was a carpenter by profession and had spent most of his life making wooden toys. His little workshop stood at the end of a narrow street, beside a banyan tree. Children often gathered there, watching him carve pieces of wood into birds, horses, carts and little human figures.

One day, a young man from the city came to meet him. He was carrying a laptop and a small wooden horse.

"I want you to make something like this," he said, placing the horse on the table.

The old man picked it up and examined it carefully.

"Who made this?"

"I did, with the help of a computer. I described what I wanted, and it created the design. It can make almost anything. I can even show you a thousand different designs of wooden horses. All you have to do is choose one."

The old man smiled.

"Then why have you come to me?"

The young man laughed. "I wanted to see whether you could make one with your hands."

The old man looked at the horse again. It was beautifully made, at least in appearance. Its legs were perfectly proportioned, its body smooth, and its mane carefully carved. There was hardly anything to criticise.

He put it down and asked the young man to come back the following evening.

The young man returned the next day. The old carpenter had made a horse. It was not as perfectly shaped as the one in the photograph. One leg was slightly shorter, and the mane was uneven. There was a small mark near its neck where the wood had chipped.

The young man examined it.

"This is not quite right," he said. "The legs are not equal, and the finishing is not perfect. I can get a much better design."

The old man nodded.

"Perhaps you can."

The young man picked up the horse and turned it around. "But why is this mark here?"

The carpenter looked at it for a moment.

"That happened when I was carving it. My hand slipped."

"Couldn't you correct it?"

"I could. But I thought I would leave it."

The young man was puzzled. He paid the old man and left the horse on the table, saying he would return another day.

A few weeks passed.

One afternoon, the young man returned. This time, he was carrying a photograph of a little boy.

"Can you make a wooden horse for him?" he asked. "It is for my nephew. He is turning five."

The old carpenter looked at the photograph.

"Does he like horses?"

"I don't know. He likes playing with things. I thought a wooden horse would be a nice gift."

The old man asked him to sit down.

"Tell me about the boy."

The young man began telling him a few things. The boy was five, lived with his parents in another city, liked running around, and was always asking questions. He was particularly fond of his grandfather, who had recently passed away.

The old man listened quietly.

"Did his grandfather make things for him?" he asked.

"Yes. He used to make little toys out of whatever he could find. My nephew still keeps some of them."

The carpenter looked again at the photograph.

"Come tomorrow. I will make something for him."

The young man returned the following evening. This time, the old carpenter handed him a small wooden cart. It had four wheels, a little wooden driver and a space at the back where a child could put small things.

The young man was surprised.

"I asked for a horse."

The old man smiled.

"I know. But I thought he might like this."

The young man turned the cart around. On its side, the carpenter had carved a small figure of an old man holding the hand of a child.

"Why did you make this?"

The carpenter did not answer immediately.

"When I was young, my father used to take me to the fields in a bullock cart. I would sit beside him and ask him where we were going. He would say, 'Wherever the road takes us.' I never understood what he meant. I only wanted to know the destination."

He paused and looked at the little cart.

"After he died, I made this toy for my grandson. He would sit on the floor and push it around, pretending to take his grandfather on long journeys. He would ask me where they were going. I would give him the same answer."

The young man looked at the little figure carved on the side.

"Wherever the road takes us," he repeated.

The old man nodded.

The young man took the cart home.

A few days later, he received a photograph from his sister. His nephew was sitting on the floor, playing with the wooden cart. He had placed a small photograph of his grandfather inside it.

The young man looked at the photograph for a long time.

He had spent the previous few months experimenting with a new technology. He could create stories, paintings, music and designs with a few instructions. He had come to believe that almost anything that could be imagined could also be produced. And often, what was produced was far better than what he could have made himself.

Yet, he found himself looking at this little wooden cart more often than at anything else he had created.

He returned to the carpenter's workshop a few days later.

The old man was sitting outside, rubbing a piece of wood with sandpaper.

"I want to ask you something," the young man said.

The carpenter looked up.

"How did you know my nephew would like the cart?"

"I didn't know."

"Then why did you make it?"

The old man put down the sandpaper.

"Perhaps I did not make it for him alone."

The young man waited.

"When I was a child, my father made things for me. When I grew older, I made things for my children. Now I make them for my grandchildren. Every time I make something, I remember something. Sometimes I remember a person. Sometimes a place. Sometimes something I had forgotten for years. I suppose I am still learning to make things."

The young man looked around the workshop. There were hundreds of toys, some finished and some lying unfinished on the shelves.

"Have you ever thought of making something completely new?" he asked. "Something nobody has ever made before?"

The old man laughed.

"Every morning, I come here thinking I will make something new. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I make the same thing I made fifty years ago. But I am not the same man who made it fifty years ago."

He picked up a small piece of wood and began carving.

The young man watched him for a while. The old man's fingers moved slowly. His eyesight was not what it used to be. He occasionally stopped, examined the wood, and made small adjustments.

"Your hands have become old," the young man said.

"Yes," the carpenter replied. "But they have seen a lot."

The young man smiled and sat beside him.

Outside, a little girl was running along the street. She stopped near the workshop and looked at the unfinished toy in the old man's hands.

"What are you making, grandfather?" she asked.

The old man held it up.

"I don't know yet," he said.

The little girl laughed.

"How can you make something when you don't know what it is?"

The old man looked at her and smiled.

"That is how most things begin, child."

He returned to his work.

The young man opened his laptop. There were a thousand designs he could generate, a thousand possibilities waiting to be explored. But for once, he did not feel the need to ask for anything.

He watched the old man's hands move over the wood.

After a while, he noticed something. The old man was no longer looking at the piece of wood. He was looking at the little girl, who had begun playing with some wooden blocks on the floor.

And slowly, the shape of a small bird began to emerge from his hands.

To Walk in Grace

As I take a step,

things are not the same —

but not different either.

What I once disregarded,

what I once feared,

what I once saw as separate —

is now what I hold.

Not for lack of choice,

but because it is all

what makes me whole.

It is in the grace I walk,

in the grace I receive,

and the grace I give.

Who Am I — The Journey That Matters

Who am I?

It’s the question we rarely ask.

And perhaps that makes sense.

We're born into a world already in motion — a world where people rush through their own problems, chasing dreams, carrying regrets, solving things.

We look around and see others — some smiling, some struggling, some simply surviving. And without asking, we assume: I must be just like them.

We see babies enter the world through a mother’s womb, and we think, That’s how I came too. We see lives unfold, and we fall into the rhythm. Without pause. Without question.

We take our existence for granted.

We accept what is outside as real.

We accept what is within as vague.

We build assumptions around this “I” —

never stopping to ask what this “I” truly is.

But if — in the middle of all this noise - you were to pause…

Just for a moment.

Not to solve. Not to plan.

But to reflect — deeply, honestly.

Who am I, really?

That single question opens a door —

a door that doesn’t lead outward,

but inward.

And what lies beyond that door

is not ordinary. It’s not boring. It is a journey — the most extraordinary journey possible. A journey into the mystery of the universe and your own being.

A journey that begins not in temples or books or theories,

but in silence. 

In stillness.

In the aching, beautiful question that refuses to go away.

As you walk,

you begin to see that this isn’t a straight path.

It spirals.

It circles back.

It lifts you up. It tears you down.

It shows you everything — your fears, your beliefs, your truths, your illusions.

And yet, the deeper you go,

the more it begins to make sense.

Not only intellectually, but also existentially.

You begin to see:

This question — Who am I? —

is not only a riddle to solve,

but a truth to realise.

It illuminates every corner of your life.

It melts everything that is false.

And slowly, steadily,

you come closer to something unshakable.

Something still.

Something true.

This is the path

the ancient sages walked under the stars.

This is the question that echoed in the minds of philosophers through stone courtyards and silent libraries.

It is the oldest journey — and the only one truly worth undertaking.

Not for escape.

Not for answers.

But for the simple, undeniable truth:

That to know yourself is to be free from everything that’s not you.

Dead Desires.

The wind whispered through the empty corridors of his past. Arjun sat beneath an ancient banyan tree, his fingers tracing patterns in the dust. The world had once seemed vast, filled with opportunities, ambition, and unfulfilled longing. Now, it was small—contained within the quiet rise and fall of his breath.

There was a time when his desires had defined him. He had chased them like a man running after his own shadow, always grasping, never holding. Wealth, recognition, love—each had promised completion, yet left him emptier than before.

He remembered the nights spent staring at the ceiling, the weight of his wants pressing down on his chest. He had wanted to be seen, to be admired, to carve his name into something lasting. But even in moments of triumph, something remained just out of reach.

Then, the shift had come—not all at once, but like mist lifting from a valley. A simple question had cracked the foundation of his restless seeking: Who is the one that desires?

He had watched his thoughts like a distant observer, seen how they rose and fell, how they clung to ideas of identity, ownership, longing. And in that watching, something loosened. The desperation to be someone began to fade. The idea of lack, of incompleteness, dissolved like a mirage in the desert heat.

Desires that once burned fiercely turned to ash. He did not renounce them—they simply lost their meaning. What was there to gain, and who was there to gain it? The chase had ended, and with it came a stillness he had never known.

Arjun opened his eyes. The banyan tree stood as it always had—silent, unmoving, unconcerned with the world’s rush. He smiled, not because he had reached something, but because there was nothing left to reach.

The weight was gone. The wind carried away the last whispers of his past self. He was here. He was free.

And that was enough.

Roots of Joy

She sat in her office, surrounded by the trappings of success, yet feeling strangely detached from it all. She felt insecure about life as she wondered how she is going to manage the firm which is grappling with financial instability. As she thought, memories of her carefree childhood began to rush into her mind.

Laxmi's days had become a whirlwind of corporate meetings, financial strategies, and seemingly endless emails. In her pursuit of maintaining financial stability and societal stature, she had inadvertently let go of the simple joys that once defined her. The laughter and carefree spirit she recalled from her childhood had faded, replaced by the weight of responsibilities and the pursuit of success.

Amidst this fast-paced life, fragments of stories shared by her maternal grandmother often visited Laxmi's thoughts. Her grandmother would spin tales of their family's past, of a time when they were humble street vendors, struggling to make ends meet. Amidst these tales, one stood out, vivid and poignant – the story of the day they won the lottery that changed their fate forever. Laxmi's father used that unexpected money to start the successful business that now played an integral role in her life.

However, what intrigued Laxmi even more was the perspective her grandmother added to that story. She recounted how, on the day they won the lottery, she had noticed a radiant smile on young Laxmi's face. Though unaware of the event's significance, the child had felt immense joy witnessing her parents' profound happiness. The grandmother emphasized that the child was happy because she felt safe and secure in her parents' eyes.

As Laxmi reminisced about her grandmother's stories, she realized that amidst her pursuit of financial stability and success, she had lost sight of what truly mattered. It wasn't just about accumulating wealth or climbing the corporate ladder; it was about finding joy and security in the simple moments of life.

She remembered the radiant smile she had worn as a child, not because of material wealth or grand achievements, but because of the love and security she felt within her family. It dawned on her that perhaps she had been chasing the wrong kind of success all along.

With a newfound clarity, Laxmi decided to shift her focus. Instead of solely fixating on the financial stability of her firm, she would prioritize fostering a supportive and nurturing environment for her team. She understood that true success wasn't measured solely by profit margins, but by the well-being and happiness of those around her.

Taking inspiration from her family's humble beginnings and the lessons imparted by her grandmother, Laxmi embarked on a journey to reconnect with her roots and rediscover the simple joys of life. She began incorporating elements of joy and camaraderie into her workplace, encouraging her team to find fulfillment beyond monetary gains.

Slowly but steadily, the atmosphere in Laxmi's office began to change. Employees felt more valued and supported, leading to increased productivity and creativity. As Laxmi focused on fostering genuine connections and creating a sense of belonging, she found that the financial instability that once plagued her firm began to dissipate.

With a renewed sense of purpose and a deeper understanding of what true success meant, Laxmi found herself not only steering her firm towards stability but also experiencing a personal transformation. She had learned that happiness and fulfillment couldn't be found in external accomplishments alone; they stemmed from within, from nurturing relationships, embracing simplicity, and finding joy in life's everyday moments. And as she looked back on her journey, Laxmi realized that the greatest lottery she had ever won was the love and support of her family and team.