I left the house early in the morning. The sky was overcast, and the chilly wind was adding to the brutal cold. Though the sun wasn’t out yet, signs of its arrival were evident in the east.

I started walking towards the station since whenever my older brother comes to town, he arrives by the morning train, and if I am not there to receive him, he gets upset. Whenever he is due to arrive, it’s hard for Amma to fall asleep, fearful of me oversleeping and causing my brother frustration. Today as well, the older son was coming home so as usual, Amma sat by the hearth and woke me up well before the time.

Still drowsy with sleep, I barely changed and went to the garage. The car – already malfunctioning a little – had stiffened up more in the cold and refused to start even after a thousand tries. Eventually, thinking of my brother, I decided to just walk.

I truly despise leaving my warm bed. Typically, I wake up around 9 and go to the office around 10am. I might have experienced the resplendence of the morning as a kid, but I don’t remember any of it. Oblivious to it in the moment – cursing my car and shivering with cold – I started walking towards the station.

In this winter, a beggar, wrapped in a blanket, was sleeping against a tree on the side of the road, with a dog lying next to him. Hearing my footsteps, the dog looked up and started barking softly. The beggar, then, also woke up and started pleading. When I looked at him closely, I realized that the ground next to him was all wet from last night’s rain which meant he also must have gotten drenched. This made me think of my bed, the fluffy mattress and the duvet made of feathers. I stood there, motionless. The beggar implored again. I opened my wallet and tossed an athanni into his stretched hands. His eyes widened in disbelief, and he even forgot to say a prayer in return. Partly embarrassed and partly remorseful about my philanthropy, I marched ahead, hurriedly.

Women, old and young, some in lehngas but most in colorful sarees, were rushing towards the temple. I thought to myself that these goddesses are the reason we still have faith, devotion and selfless service. What a lucky country our Hindustan is, to have Sitas who come to the temple so early for worship, do ritual baths and prayers in the cold, while I keep slumbering lazily in my bed. The athanni that I gave to the beggar suddenly seemed quite insignificant compared to their devotion. My heart swelled up with so much reverence that I wanted to touch the feet of every woman going towards the temple, especially since we were taking the same route. The women kept walking ahead, engrossed in their prayers. There was an ocean of these goddesses that kept gushing, even though it wasn’t a day of any religious festival; such was their devotion.

In their hands, they carried flowers or other stuff wrapped in handkerchiefs, with only a few seeming to be empty-handed. I also saw some carrying money, though they were very few in number compared to the large group of beggars who charged upon these women and started pleading with their hands stretched. Seeing this throng of vagrants so close to them, the women started screaming, “Hey, get away; what are you doing? Don’t you dare touch me.”

A paisa would land between a group of ten or fifteen, and they would all dash to the ground for it. A single paisa would cause swearing, smacking or even a full-blown fist fight. Those goddesses of virtue would throw the money with an air of superiority and walk away, protecting their attire, not even looking back to see how their act of virtue turned out.

Outside the temple, in the compound, a few paisas had caused just such a rumpus among human beings, a commotion, while these models of selfless service merrily fed bread to the cows. The sight nauseated me. Were these the goddesses that made my heart swell with reverence? Were these the women whose feet I wanted to touch? These, who made hungry people fight for a few pennies, who took the food from humans and fed it to cows, and were selfishly thinking that they were serving faith early in the morning?

I checked the time; the train was about to come. I left behind this sinful scene and treaded forward. My path went through the field, and at a little distance from the trail there was a donkey, moribund, laying on the ground. I had noticed this dying donkey in the past two or three days as well while driving through the place, but these are such common sights in Hindustan that nobody stops and inquires. But today, I walked close to it and noticed a big wound on its back that had started attracting flies, was oozing pus, and even the bone had become visible through the wound. There was quite a bit of blood and pus under the donkey which meant that there was also an injury on the side that it was laying on. The whiteness was visible in the half-open eyes, and it was clear that the donkey was dying. Vultures were sitting at some distance from it, probably having spent the night waiting for the donkey to die. I caressed it and it tried to open its eyes, thinking that I was its owner, eyes that were full of grievance.

I trudged forward. One of the priests, chanting, “Radhe Shaam! Radhe Shaam!” while carrying his mug, was walking towards the temple. I stopped him. “Pandit Ji, this donkey has been dying slowly for the past few days, right in front of the temple, and nothing has been done about it?”

“Is this donkey ours? Whoever owns it needs to do something.”

“That’s cruel. Probably better to just shoot the poor thing so it doesn’t suffer anymore,” I suggested gently.

“Ram Ram Ram! That’s murder. Taking a life is murder.”

“And this gradual murder that has been happening for last four days?”

“God’s will.”

Chanting “Sita Ram, Sita Ram” he walked away.

I also marched on. By then, I neither remembered the train nor thought about my brother. Walking through the lanes and the alleys, I came out into the open. The sun had risen and its light was shining through the shredded clouds, climbing down from the trees and buildings, and spreading all around. At a distance, some people could be seen feeding the crows. A few money-lenders, some sitting inside tongas, and some on foot, were busy in this act of virtue. I came closer; amongst the crows were children, poor, hungry, and unclothed, hastily picking up the feed, just like the crows, and putting it in their mouths. The gentlemen were quite upset by the starved children and were calling them names.

I don’t know when exactly I reached home, but my brother was sitting in a corner, upset, and Amma was explaining to him, “Not sure what happened, where he went, he was definitely headed to the station when he left this morning.”