{"id":2445,"date":"2025-05-28T00:06:24","date_gmt":"2025-05-27T18:36:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/anilsinghal.com\/manan\/?p=2445"},"modified":"2025-05-28T00:10:05","modified_gmt":"2025-05-27T18:40:05","slug":"just-to-give","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/anilsinghal.com\/manan\/english\/just-to-give\/","title":{"rendered":"Just to Give"},"content":{"rendered":"Reading Time: <\/span> 8<\/span> minutes<\/span><\/span>\n\n
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It was a usual July 2001 evening in Delhi, the kind that smells of wet earth even before the rain touches the ground. The clouds hung heavy over the skyline, and a teasing breeze danced through the city, announcing the coming monsoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

It was around 5 PM, and I had just wrapped up my work on the Phoenix Repertory Project, a piece of passion that had consumed much of my energy and focus in those days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stepped out of my office in Vasant Kunj and unlocked my LML Vespa \u2014 a loyal companion on countless journeys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know that this day, this ride, was going to be etched in my memory forever \u2014 not because of the weather, not because of the traffic, but because of a stranger I didn\u2019t even know I was about to meet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I rode along NH8, the familiar route back to Gurgaon, the drizzle began.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Soft, almost playful at first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Delhi\u2019s July rains often arrived like this \u2014 not with a storm, but with a gentle tap on your shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At Rajokri crossing, the red signal stopped me, and I parked behind a few other two-wheelers and pedestrians who had begun seeking shelter under makeshift covers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then, the signal turned green.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I accelerated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And in that moment \u2014 right at the crossing \u2014 life shifted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An old man, startled by the sudden drizzle, hurried across the road with his bicycle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps he didn\u2019t notice the green light. Perhaps he did, but was too worried about getting drenched to care.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He came right in front of my scooter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hit the brakes hard. Instinctively.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the road was wet. The tires lost grip. The scooter slipped. I fell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But he was safe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s all I could register in that moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Blood soaked through my pants at both knees. My left hand burned with fresh wounds. My palms stung.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But in those seconds, I wasn\u2019t thinking of pain. I was thinking: It could have been worse. He could have been hurt.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thank God he wasn\u2019t.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A small crowd gathered. A few helped me up. Someone steadied my scooter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Voices floated around me \u2014 \u201cAre you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you walk?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet us call someone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But my mind was in a haze. The wind had picked up. The drizzle had grown stronger. And my body… it hurt. But more than that, I felt dazed \u2014 like the world had briefly tilted and was trying to find balance again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I checked my hand. Blood. Scrapes. My knees \u2014 wet with a mix of water, dust, and blood. But no fracture, I thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could move. I could walk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could still ride.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One man \u2014 his face is still a blur in my memory \u2014 asked if I was sure I could go home on my own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I nodded. I needed to get home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He helped me start the scooter. I winced. But I rode.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The traffic had thinned a little after the rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I moved slowly, cautiously \u2014 not just because of the wet roads, but because every joint in my body protested the journey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My scooter, usually a steady machine, now felt like a reluctant partner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every bump on the road sent a jolt through my arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My left hand throbbed \u2014 bruised more than I had realised \u2014 and my knees were numb from pain and cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stuck to the left side of NH8, crawling at a speed no more than 10 or 15 kilometers an hour. I was not riding anymore \u2014 I was enduring<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Somewhere in that stretch between Rajokri and Gurgaon, I stopped thinking about anything except reaching home. I didn\u2019t register the landmarks as I passed them. My mind was a fog of ache and willpower. But I do remember one thing clearly \u2014 I felt alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Until I wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know someone else was riding with me \u2014 not beside me, not on my scooter, but behind me… silently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just after I crossed Signature Tower \u2014 not far from home now \u2014 a motorbike suddenly cut across in front of me and gestured me to stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It startled me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stopped, confused and cautious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man in his late 30s, perhaps early 40s, parked his bike and walked towards me. He had a helmet in one hand and concern in his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you alright?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I blinked. How does he know?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before I could say anything, he continued, \u201cI was at Rajokri when you fell. I saw what happened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He had seen me fall. And then\u2026 what? Followed me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been behind you since then,\u201d he said softly. \u201cI just wanted to make sure you were okay\u2026 that you could ride safely\u2026 that you\u2019d reach home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know what to say. Something shifted in my chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His words weren\u2019t dramatic. His tone wasn\u2019t emotional. He wasn\u2019t trying to show heroism.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was just a quiet sincerity in his face \u2014 as if he had taken it upon himself, without even thinking, to ensure I wasn\u2019t alone in this pain-ridden ride.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd this is where I take a right,\u201d he pointed towards a turn. \u201cBut I couldn\u2019t leave without checking one last time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That sentence stayed with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I couldn\u2019t leave without checking one last time.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He asked again, \u201cWill you be okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t wait for thanks. He didn\u2019t linger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He gave a small nod, like a silent farewell between strangers who somehow understood something unspoken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then he left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He merged into the Gurgaon traffic like a ripple fading into still water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No reason to return.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But something inside me felt strangely full \u2014 like a space that had been opened by pain was gently closed by care.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I rode the remaining distance home in silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not the outer kind \u2014 there were still cars honking, raindrops falling, engines rumbling \u2014 but an inner silence, where a question was forming, soft but persistent:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why did he follow me?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why did he care?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back home, I parked my scooter and walked in with a limp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My clothes were damp. My hands, now trembling from fatigue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I washed, changed, tended to my wounds \u2014 first mechanically, then carefully, layer by layer. The adrenaline had ebbed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The pain now spoke louder. I wrapped my knees and left hand in gauze. I lay down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And still \u2014 he stayed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not physically. Not even as a clear face in memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But as a presence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As a question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I replayed that moment near Signature Tower. The way he stopped me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The way he had been watching silently, following me without announcement, without interference.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just observing. Just ready, in case I stumbled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then\u2026 I thought of something else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought of how selfless it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t know me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t gain anything from helping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t ask for anything in return.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His help was not loud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It wasn\u2019t even obvious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was hidden in the act of watching over me quietly<\/em>, like a thread running through fabric that holds everything in place without being seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It wasn\u2019t dramatic. It was pure<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then a thought rose inside me \u2014 soft, but undeniable:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe he didn\u2019t come to help me in this life.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe he came to repay something from another.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because that kind of care \u2014 uninvited, unwavering, and unnamed \u2014 is not ordinary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It doesn\u2019t come from chance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It comes from memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not the kind held in the mind \u2014 but in the soul.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I must have done something for him \u2014 once. Somewhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe a gesture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe a sacrifice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe even something I didn\u2019t think twice about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But he remembered. Not with thoughts, but with essence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And on that wet July evening, his soul found mine again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just to give.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just to repay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the days that followed, my hand swelled with a dull ache that made every small task feel like a negotiation with pain. A plaster was put, six weeks of healing declared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My movement was restricted. My routine, broken. And yet, I found myself more still inside than I had been in months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every evening, as I lay in bed with my arm resting on a cushion and the news of the Agra Summit of Pervez Musharraf, the former Pakistani president playing in the background, I kept returning to that rainy evening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But now, it was not the fall that I remembered most. Not the blood on my knees. Not even the moment I hit the brakes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was him<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The stranger who had no reason<\/em>, but came anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No promise, no past, no future.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just a ride behind me. Just concern. Just care.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then\u2026 gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And slowly, something inside me shifted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I began to look back at other moments in my life \u2014 moments I had dismissed as chance, or kindness, or coincidence. But now, I looked again, with new eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I found a pattern in the fog<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In my life, many people had something in common:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They helped. They disappeared.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

No strings. No names. No memories \u2014 except mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Were they also repaying something I had forgotten I had given?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Were these souls once touched by mine in some unseen way \u2014 a smile, a favour, a gesture I made without calculation?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Or maybe these weren\u2019t debts at all. Maybe they were gifts<\/strong> \u2014 souls simply choosing, in their moment of awakening, to help another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Like wildflowers blooming on an abandoned path \u2014 not for applause, not for attention, but because that\u2019s just what they were meant to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still, I couldn\u2019t shake the deeper truth:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Their presence always felt more than human.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It felt\u2026 timed<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It felt\u2026 meant<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And in that quiet space of convalescence, something awakened in me: a new way of seeing people \u2014 not by their names or faces, but by the energy they bring and leave behind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some come to stay<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some come to teach<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But a few \u2014 a very few \u2014 come just to give<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something changed in me after that rainy July evening \u2014 not all at once, but gradually, like sunlight seeping into a room through a half-closed curtain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t speak much about the accident to others. It felt too small to be dramatic, too personal to be dissected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But inside, a quiet revolution had begun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I started watching people differently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At red lights, I\u2019d observe not just vehicles, but faces \u2014 hurried, tired, lost, hopeful. In waiting rooms, I\u2019d notice the way someone sat, the silence between their breaths. In elevators, in parks, at chemist shops \u2014 I began to feel the presence of people beyond their roles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not as strangers, but as souls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some carrying invisible burdens. Some waiting for a gesture. Some, perhaps, waiting to repay something. Or receive something they had once given.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And slowly, I realised: I, too, could be one of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not the one waiting<\/em>, but the one giving<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quietly. Softly. Without name or expectation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t have to wait for a grand opportunity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It could be as simple as helping someone lift a heavy bag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Letting someone speak without interrupting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Listening. Really listening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And never asking for thanks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because maybe\u2026 someone once did that for me.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe I<\/em> am the returning soul in their story now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It didn\u2019t make me selfless overnight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I still had my struggles, my boundaries, my imperfections.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But now, I had a compass \u2014 invisible, but steady. And every time I followed it, something inside felt aligned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not proud. Not elevated. Just\u2026 right<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And yes, sometimes, I even wondered \u2014 what if that man who followed me had not been a stranger at all?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What if he had once been my student, or my patient, or someone I gave shelter to in a moment of distress in some past life? What if I had saved his child once, or held his hand when he was broken?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We don\u2019t know. We can\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But we can feel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And since that day, I\u2019ve learned to trust the feeling more than the facts<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because feelings\u2026 they come from a place deeper than memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They come from the soul.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dear reader, If you\u2019ve ever had someone appear in your life just when you needed them \u2014 and vanish without ceremony \u2014 this story is also yours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We tend to remember big things \u2014 promotions, awards, betrayals, losses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But life\u2019s deepest transformations often begin with a gesture that costs nothing and means everything<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A helping hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A ride behind you, unseen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And perhaps, if you quiet the noise around you and within you, you\u2019ll notice the echoes<\/em> of these moments.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019ll feel that not all help comes from this lifetime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That not all giving begins now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes, a debt from a forgotten past comes knocking in the present \u2014 not to punish, but to complete.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To release.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To bring peace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And when it does\u2026 you\u2019ll know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So walk through your life with open eyes and a soft heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not everyone who helps you will stay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not everyone you help will remember.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But that\u2019s the beauty of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The soul keeps score, even when memory forgets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And sometimes, the only purpose of a meeting is to settle that ancient, silent account \u2014 with grace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So the next time someone helps you for no reason, pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the next time you feel moved to help someone \u2014 with no expectation, no recognition \u2014 don\u2019t hold back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You may just be completing a story that began long before this chapter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You may have come\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just to Give.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u0938\u093f\u0930\u094d\u092b \u0926\u0947\u0928\u0947<\/a><\/blockquote>