Hey there, friend. I’m glad you’re here with me tonight. Let’s sit together for a while, just you and I, and share a story that’s been lingering in my heart. It’s one of those old tales, from a time long gone, but it feels so close, like it could’ve happened just around the corner. It’s about a man—a mahatma, a wise soul—who lived a life so quiet, yet so full, that even the heavens couldn’t help but notice. So, grab a warm drink, settle in, and let’s walk through this together.
Picture this: a small, leafy hut tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world. Inside, or maybe just outside under a sprawling tree, lives this mahatma. He’s not loud or showy, not the kind of person who’d draw a crowd with big words or grand gestures. No, he’s the kind who sits in stillness, his mind turned inward, whispering to the divine in a language only the heart understands. But he’s not just lost in his own world. When someone comes to him—someone broken, weary, carrying the weight of their troubles—he’s there. He listens. He helps. Not with fanfare, but with a quiet hand, a gentle word. That’s just who he is.
I think about that sometimes, you know. How often do we rush through our days, barely seeing the people around us? I remember this one time, I was on a crowded bus, headphones in, lost in my own head. And there was this older woman struggling with her bags, and I almost didn’t notice. But when I did, and I helped her, the way her face lit up—it wasn’t much, but it stuck with me. Small things matter, don’t they? Anyway, back to our mahatma.
Word of his kindness, his steady presence, must’ve traveled far—farther than any of us could imagine. Because one day, something extraordinary happens. A messenger arrives. Not just any messenger, but a devdoot, an angel, sent straight from the heavens. Can you imagine that? You’re sitting there, maybe sipping water from a clay pot, and suddenly this being of light appears before you. I’d probably drop the pot, honestly. But not this mahatma. He welcomes the angel with the same calm he offers everyone else. He asks, “Why have you come?”
The angel’s voice is gentle but carries weight. “Mahatma, the divine is pleased with you. Your devotion, your service—it hasn’t gone unseen. I’ve been sent to offer you a gift, a divine power. Would you like the ability to heal the sick, to free people from their pain?”
Now, if someone offered me that kind of power, I’d be tempted. Who wouldn’t want to fix things, to take away suffering with a wave of the hand? But the mahatma, he just lowers his head, a faint smile on his lips. “If the divine is pleased with me, that is gift enough. I don’t need any power. I trust in the way things are meant to unfold. I don’t wish to interfere.”
The angel, I imagine, is a little taken aback. He tries again. “Then, perhaps the power to guide the lost, to turn sinners toward the right path. Will you accept this?”
Again, the mahatma shakes his head, his voice soft but firm. “That is a task for beings like you, messengers of the divine. I’m just a man, walking my own path, helping where I can.”
I can almost see the angel standing there, puzzled. How do you argue with someone so humble, so content? He presses on, though, because he’s under orders. “Mahatma, I cannot return empty-handed. I must give you something. Please, choose a power—any power.”
There’s a long silence. The mahatma sits, maybe gazing at the leaves rustling in the breeze, or at the dirt beneath his feet. He’s thinking, weighing something deep inside. Finally, he speaks. “Alright. If you must give me something, then let it be this: may the divine work through me without my knowing. Let whatever good is meant to happen, happen—not by my will, but by theirs. And let me never carry the burden of knowing it was me who did it.”
The angel nods, a quiet understanding passing between them. “So be it,” he says. And with that, he blesses not the mahatma himself, but his shadow—his unseen presence—with the power to heal. Then, just as quietly as he came, the angel is gone.
From that day on, something strange starts happening. Wherever the mahatma goes, people begin to feel better. Aches vanish. Fevers break. Hearts lighten. And no one knows why—not even the mahatma. He doesn’t feel any different. He doesn’t see his shadow trailing behind him, silently mending what’s broken. He just keeps walking his path, sitting with those who need him, praying in his quiet way. And the healing happens, unnoticed, unclaimed.
Isn’t that beautiful? I mean, think about it. He didn’t want the credit, didn’t want the weight of being “the healer.” He just wanted to be… himself. I wonder sometimes if that’s the truest kind of service—when you give without needing anything back, not even a thank you. I’ve had moments like that, small ones, where I’ve done something for someone and they never knew it was me. Like leaving a kind note for a coworker who was struggling, or paying for someone’s coffee anonymously. It feels… light, you know? Like you’ve added a little good to the world without tying your name to it.
There’s this old saying that floats into my mind now: “Give in such a way that even your other hand doesn’t know.” I think that’s what the mahatma lived by. He didn’t need recognition, didn’t need to feel important. And maybe that’s why the divine chose him in the first place—not just for his kindness, but for his ability to let go of himself.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, especially with how noisy the world feels sometimes. We’re always chasing something—likes, praise, a pat on the back. But what if we just did good for the sake of it? What if we helped someone, not because we want to be seen as “good,” but because it’s just… right? I don’t know. I’m still figuring that out myself.
Anyway, the mahatma’s story doesn’t end with grand revelations or big speeches. He just keeps living, day by day, unaware of the miracles trailing behind him. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the best things we do are the ones we don’t even notice—the quiet smiles, the small gestures, the unseen ways we lift each other up.
So, as we sit here together, let’s take a breath. Think about someone you’ve helped, or someone who’s helped you, without any strings attached. Doesn’t that feel like a little bit of magic? I think it does. And maybe, just maybe, we’ve all got a bit of that mahatma in us—our own quiet shadows, doing good in ways we’ll never fully know.
Thanks for sitting with me through this story, friend. I hope it’s left you with something soft to carry into your day. Until next time, take care of yourself—and maybe, take care of someone else, too, just because. I’ll be here, waiting to share another tale with you soon.