Apne

Amma patted his head. “That’s the magic, Raghav. ‘Apne’ isn’t just a word. It’s a bridge.”

The next morning, Raghav set off. The pot was heavy, and the path was steep. Soon, he met an old woman struggling with a bundle of firewood. Remembering Amma’s words, he said, “Come, apne mata ji. Rest and drink some water.” The old woman’s eyes softened. She sat down, drank, and said, “Bless you, apne beta.” For the first time, Raghav felt a strange warmth in his chest. Amma patted his head

At the temple, Raghav poured the remaining water at the shrine. But he realized the pot was no longer heavy. The word “apne” had filled it with something lighter than water—a sense of belonging. It’s a bridge

Amma smiled and pointed to the mountain path. “Tomorrow, carry this pot of water to the temple on the hill. Along the way, you’ll meet three people. Offer them water. But use the word ‘apne’ when you speak to them. Then come back and tell me if the word made a difference.” Remembering Amma’s words, he said, “Come, apne mata ji

One evening, as the monsoon clouds gathered, Raghav’s grandmother, Amma, sat him down. “Raghav,” she said, “you help everyone—the old postman, the lost goats, even the stray dog. But you call them ‘that man,’ ‘that animal,’ ‘that family.’ Never ‘apne.’ Why?”