He was just another old man on a pilgrimage train—quiet,
soft-spoken, with eyes that held a world of stories. Nobody really noticed him
at first. But the next morning, after a restless night’s sleep, something small
but meaningful happened.
His wallet had slipped out of his pocket.
A fellow passenger found it and asked around, “Does this
belong to anyone?”
The old man looked down at it and quietly nodded. “Yes… it’s
mine.”
Inside was a worn photo of Lord Krishna—edges curled,
colors faded with time.
A few passengers leaned in curiously. One asked, “Is that how you know it’s yours?”
The old man smiled. “That picture… it tells my entire life
story.”
What began as a lost wallet turned into something else—a
moment, a memory, a confession. People gathered as he began to speak.
"This wallet was a gift from my father…"
“I was just a boy,” he continued, holding it gently in his
wrinkled hands. “My father gave it to me when I started school. I used to keep
my pocket money in it—and a photo of my parents.”
A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Later, as a young man in
college, I thought I had grown wiser. I replaced my parents’ photo with one of
myself. I used to look at it often—youth is like that, full of itself.”
People nodded, some smiling with recognition.
“Then I got married,” he said, his voice softening. “I took
out my picture and replaced it with hers. My wife. My partner. Looking at her
gave me strength after a long day. Just a glimpse of her photo made my fatigue
disappear.”
“And then, our son was born…”
His eyes misted over.
“I had never known such joy. My wife’s photo gave way to our
little boy’s. I would rush home from work, eager to hold him, play with him. He
was my world.”
The silence in the train compartment deepened. Everyone
listened, still.
“My parents passed away. Years later, my wife too left this
world. And now, my son is grown—married, busy, successful. He has his own life.
We talk, sometimes. But…”
The old man’s voice cracked. “He no longer has time for me.”
A long pause followed.
“I carry this picture of Lord Krishna now,” he said,
holding it up again with trembling fingers. “I wish… I wish I had placed Him in
here from the beginning.”
His voice was steady now. Peaceful.
“Everything I once loved, every person I called my own, has
drifted away. But this… this One... never left. Never asked for
anything. Never turned away.”
The One Constant
The old man looked out the window, the landscape slowly
moving by.
“In the end, we all learn this—sometimes painfully: the
world is filled with beautiful, temporary things. But there is only One who
stays.”
He smiled gently. “We enter this world alone, and we leave
it the same way. Wealth stays behind. Our homes, our friends, even our
families, walk with us only so far. But our actions—our karma—and our
love for God? They stay.”
A Lesson in Letting Go
What the old man shared that morning wasn’t just a story. It
was a reminder.
That we spend so much of our lives trying to belong—to
people, to places, to things. And yet, nothing here is truly ours. Not even our
own body.
But divine love? That connection to something greater than
ourselves—that’s real. That’s permanent. And in the quiet moments of loss and
loneliness, it’s the only presence that doesn’t fade.
Reflection
As the Mahabharata says:
“Your wealth remains on earth. Your cattle in their
sheds. Your wife walks you to the door. Your family accompanies you to the
pyre. But on the journey beyond... only your karma walks with you.”
So make peace with the passing things. Honor the ones you
love, but never forget the One who loves without leaving.
Start carrying that divine presence now—in your mind, in
your heart, even in your wallet.
___________
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