Story 1: “The Coin Beneath the Mat”

A spiritual tale of truth in silence

In a quiet village wrapped in mustard fields and morning mist, the sound of devotional hymns would rise from a small, white-walled gurdwara each dawn. This place of prayer was more than stone and paint — it was a refuge for the weary and a school for the seeking.

Among those who walked barefoot every morning to clean the marble floors was Amarpreet, a teenage boy of seventeen. His father, a simple farmer, had raised him to live with integrity, but life often threw the young heart into confusion. Amarpreet loved the serenity of the Gurdwara. He found peace in washing the floors, drying the rumalas, and sitting quietly in the back corner after the morning prayer.

It was during one of these mornings that Amarpreet’s faith was quietly tested.

The Coin

One cold morning, as Amarpreet swept the darbar hall, his broom struck something solid under the old woven mat near the offering box. Curious, he lifted the edge and found an old brass coin — not of great market value, but distinctly antique.

But beneath that was something more — a folded cloth pouch, worn and yellowed. Inside it were several crisp currency notes, tucked carefully. His eyes widened. It must have been forgotten or misplaced by someone, or maybe deliberately hidden.

He looked around — the hall was empty except for the soft sound of kirtan echoing from the back speakers.

Amarpreet’s heart pounded. He could take it. No one had seen. And after all, hadn’t he served the gurdwara selflessly all year? Maybe this was his reward — a secret gift from the divine.

But as his thoughts began to twist into justification, a quiet voice rose within him — one he couldn’t silence.

“Do not make excuses for what you know to be wrong.”

He remembered what his father once said while placing a hand on his head, “Your honesty must not depend on being watched. The divine sees even where no one does.”

The Struggle Within

Amarpreet sat cross-legged on the marble floor, the pouch still in his hand. He didn’t know who the money belonged to. The granthi hadn’t mentioned any missing donation. He thought of his school fees, the cracked sole of his chappals, the holes in his winter sweater.

Still, something within him refused to allow his fingers to close around that pouch. He stood up, walked to the granthi, and said, “I found something beneath the mat.”

The granthi opened the pouch and was surprised. “This was probably an offering someone made and forgot to put in the box,” he said. “Or maybe someone wanted to leave it secretly.”

He took the pouch, offered a prayer over it, and placed it inside the donation chest. Then he looked at Amarpreet with kind eyes. “The One sees all things, puttar. But sometimes He also sends tests — not to trap us, but to polish us.”

Amarpreet said nothing, but the knot in his heart had softened. The pouch was no longer his concern. What mattered was that he had walked away clean.

A Month Later

Time passed, and the incident faded. But something had changed within Amarpreet. He no longer struggled to do what was right. He began to feel light — as though the simple act of honesty had opened a window inside him. He could sit longer in prayer. He could forgive faster. Even when others mocked him for being "too good," he smiled, unaffected.

Then one day, after the evening ardaas, an old man approached him quietly.

“You are Amarpreet?” he asked.

“Yes, uncle,” he replied.

“I had come here many weeks ago. I left a pouch near the mat... It was mine.”

Amarpreet’s eyes widened. “It’s in the donation box now, uncle.”

The old man nodded. “That is where it belongs. But I wanted to see the one who didn’t take what wasn’t his.”

He handed Amarpreet a small envelope and said nothing more. Amarpreet opened it later to find a simple note:

“Truth is the only offering that reaches beyond this world. Yours has already been accepted.”

There was no money inside, just the words — and that, for Amarpreet, was more valuable than any gift.

The Lesson

Years later, Amarpreet became the caretaker of that same gurdwara. People respected his soft voice and upright nature. Children would gather around him and ask, “Bhai ji, how do we know what’s right?”

He would smile and say, “Rightness is like the early morning breeze — pure, quiet, but unmistakable. If you still your mind, it will guide you.”

And sometimes, as he swept the floor, he would glance toward that old mat — now replaced — and feel a silent joy, knowing that long ago, he passed a test no one else knew had happened.

Story 2: “The Bell That Rang Itself”

 

A tale of inner honesty and divine notice

At the edge of a dusty town stood an ancient temple, nestled between neem trees and flickering oil lamps. Its carved stone pillars and weather-worn bells had seen centuries of pilgrims and silent prayers. Here lived Vasudev, a twelve-year-old boy who swept the temple grounds each morning and lit the first lamp before sunrise.

Vasudev lived with his widowed mother in a thatched hut near the temple wall. They lived humbly, eating what was offered by the priests or brought by kind devotees. Yet despite poverty, Vasudev had never once taken a coin from the temple donations. His mother had raised him to believe that what was not his, even if no one watched, would never bless his soul.

The temple priest — a stern yet fair man — often watched Vasudev’s small form circling the sanctum barefoot, murmuring quiet prayers as he polished the brass railings.

“Your honesty shines through your eyes, child,” the priest had once told him. “It’s rare — protect it.”

Vasudev never forgot those words.

A Golden Moment

One morning, as the fog still hung low and the birds had just begun their sacred chorus, Vasudev entered the sanctum to prepare it for the dawn rituals. The priest had not yet arrived. As he bent to light the deepam (lamp), he noticed something unusual — an envelope resting on the floor before the idol.

Curious, he picked it up and found inside a gold chain, delicate and brilliant, likely placed by a devotee as an offering. It must have slipped from the hands of the helper last night or been blown down by a breeze.

Vasudev’s heart raced. His mother didn’t even have a proper mangalsutra. They had sold her few gold bangles long ago. With a chain like this, their lives could change. He stared at the glinting piece of gold, then looked at the serene

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 24.04.2025
ISBN: 978-3-7554-8071-6

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Widmung:
I am dedicating this book to the people who lost their lives at Pahalgam terrorist attack in 2025