Hey there, friend. Pull up a chair, or maybe just settle into wherever you are right now—whether you’re driving, walking, or just curled up with a cup of tea. I’ve got a story to share with you today, one that’s been sitting with me for a while, like an old memory that keeps whispering in the back of my mind. It’s a story from a time long ago, a simpler time, but it’s got a kind of quiet weight to it, the kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. So, let’s sit with it together for a bit.
Picture a small village, somewhere far off, where the days move slow and the air smells of earth and woodsmoke. There’s a woman in this village, a mother, who every day, without fail, would cook for her family. But she always made one extra roti—a big, warm, round piece of bread—and she’d place it on the windowsill just outside her home. Not for herself, not for her family, but for anyone who might be hungry, anyone passing by who needed a bite to keep going. It was her quiet way of giving, you know? No fanfare, no expectation—just a small act of kindness, day after day.
Now, every afternoon, an old fakir—a wandering holy man—would shuffle by her house. He was bent with age, his clothes tattered, his face weathered like he’d seen a hundred lifetimes. He’d take that roti from the windowsill, hold it in his hands for a moment, and then, as he walked off, he’d mutter the same words every single day: “What you do that’s bad stays with you. What you do that’s good comes back to you.” Just that, over and over, like a chant, before disappearing down the dusty path.
At first, the woman didn’t think much of it. She’d hear him say those words and shrug, going back to her chores. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, those words started to grate on her. She’d stand there by the window, watching him walk away, and think to herself, “What kind of man is this? I give him food every day, and not once has he said thank you. Not once! And what does he even mean by that—what you do bad, what you do good? I don’t even understand it!” She felt this little knot of frustration growing inside her, you know how that happens sometimes? When you do something kind and it feels like no one even notices?
I’ve been there, honestly. I remember once spending hours helping a friend move, lugging boxes in the heat, and at the end, they just waved and said, “Cool, see ya.” No thanks, no nothing. It stung, even though I didn’t want it to. So I get why this woman started to feel bitter. She thought, “Enough is enough. I’m done with this old man and his nonsense.” And in a moment of anger—maybe even desperation—she decided to do something unthinkable.
The next day, as she kneaded the dough for that extra roti, she mixed in something dangerous. Poison. Her hands were steady at first, but as she placed that roti on the windowsill, they started to tremble. She stood there, staring at it, and a voice inside her screamed, “What am I doing? This is wrong. This is a sin.” Her heart raced, and before she could stop herself, she snatched the roti back, threw it into the fire, and watched it burn to ash. Then, with a shaky breath, she made a fresh one, a clean one, and set it back on the sill.
That afternoon, the old fakir came by as always. He took the roti, murmured his usual words—“What you do that’s bad stays with you. What you do that’s good comes back to you”—and walked on, completely unaware of the storm that had just raged in the woman’s heart.
Now, every day when she placed that roti on the windowsill, this woman would also whisper a prayer. Not for herself, but for her son. He’d left home months ago, gone to a faraway city to find work, and she hadn’t heard a word from him since. She’d stand there, hands pressed together, praying for his safety, for his return. Some nights, she’d lie awake, wondering if he was okay, if he was eating, if he was even alive. A mother’s worry, you know—it’s a heavy thing.
Then, one evening, as the sun dipped low and the village grew quiet, there was a knock at her door. She opened it, and there he was—her son, standing right in front of her. But he looked… broken. Thin as a shadow, clothes torn, eyes hollow with hunger and exhaustion. She gasped, pulling him into her arms, and he managed a weak smile. “Ma,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “it’s a miracle I’m here. Just a mile away from home, I was so hungry, so weak, I collapsed. I thought I was done for. I didn’t have the strength to take another step.”
She listened, her heart breaking, as he went on. “But then, this old fakir came by. I begged him for just a bite of food, anything. And he… he gave me a whole roti. He said, ‘I only eat this one roti every day, but today, I’ll give it to you. Your need is greater than mine.’”
The woman’s breath caught in her throat. She asked, almost afraid to hear the answer, “Who was he? What did he say?” Her son looked at her, puzzled, and replied, “I don’t know who he was, Ma. But as he walked away, he kept muttering something strange. ‘What you do that’s bad stays with you. What you do that’s good comes back to you.’”
Her face went pale. She stumbled back, leaning against the wall for support, as the weight of it all hit her. That roti—the one she’d almost poisoned that very morning. If she hadn’t burned it, if she hadn’t changed her mind, it would have been her own son who ate it. Her own son who would have… She couldn’t even finish the thought. Tears welled up in her eyes as the old fakir’s words finally made sense. What you do that’s bad stays with you. What you do that’s good comes back to you.
She sank to the floor, holding her son close, and in that moment, she understood. Every roti she’d placed on that windowsill, every small act of kindness, had somehow circled back to save the person she loved most in the world. It wasn’t about thanks or recognition. It was about something bigger, something quieter.
I think about that sometimes, you know, when I’m caught up in my own frustrations or wondering if the little things I do even matter. Like holding the door for a stranger or checking in on a friend who’s been quiet lately. It’s easy to think it doesn’t count. But maybe, just maybe, it does. Maybe it comes back in ways we can’t see right away.
So, friend, as we sit here together, I wonder—what’s one small thing you’ve done lately that felt like nothing at the time? Or maybe something you’ve been holding back on because you’re not sure it’ll make a difference? I’m not saying I’ve got the answers. I’m just sitting here with you, thinking out loud. Maybe we can figure it out together, one small step, one quiet kindness at a time. What do you say?