The Small Hands That Held the Gita
Unbelievable, yet true. Some moments do not end when they pass; they linger—softly, insistently—like a question the heart refuses to forget. One such moment unfolded before me when I saw a little child holding a small idol of Lord Krishna (Laddu Gopal) in one hand and the holy book The Bhagavad Gita in the other. This, in a time when adolescence is increasingly defined by glowing screens, restless fingers, and endless games, and when visits to temples or engagement with sacred texts feel like fading customs. In such an age, the sight of a child embracing the Gita feels almost unreal—fragile, precious, and deeply unsettling in its quiet truth.
After a gap of three to four years, I returned to the Jamshedpur Book Fair—a place I have always held close to my heart. As I wandered through the stalls, leafing through books that ranged from novels to mythological scriptures, a strange fatigue crept in—not of the body alone, but of the mind. I paused at an eatery within the fair, seeking comfort in traditional Bengali food, and ordered veg cutlets, a familiar indulgence that always brings a sense of warmth.
It was there that the child arrived—wrapped in a red sweater, accompanied by his mother—and took the seat beside mine. Every time our eyes met, he lowered his gaze with a gentle, fleeting smile, as if modesty had found its way into his nature far too early. He leaned towards his mother, whispering softly, then turned back to the book, as though the pages were not merely being read but listened to. He tried to explain something—perhaps an image, perhaps a verse—and his mother listened quietly. This tender exchange repeated itself, unhurried and undisturbed, like a rhythm untouched by time. Watching him, one could not help but feel that the stories of the Gita were not ancient for him; they were alive, breathing through his voice. I finally gathered the courage to speak. Turning to his mother, I said, “Your son seems different—so deeply drawn to mythological books at such a tender age.” She smiled, a smile carrying both wonder and quiet acceptance, and replied, “When he was a toddler, at an age when most children crawl and play with toys, he would walk into our prayer room and sit silently before the deity. We would have to bring him back ourselves. He never cared for games, neither indoor nor outdoor, and never quarrelled with his elder sister, the way children usually do.”
When I asked the boy about his school, he answered calmly, “I study in Class 6, English medium.” His voice carried no pride, no hesitation—only simplicity. Soon, the eatery owner arrived with fish cutlets for his mother and crunchy cheese balls for the boy. His mother smiled again and said, “We can hardly imagine a meal without fish, yet my son has never tasted non-vegetarian food, nor has he ever wished to. He prefers bread, milk, fruits, and vegetables—and eats them with genuine joy.”
I found myself staring at the child, forgetting the world around me. Words failed me. Somewhere between his silence and his devotion, something within me felt exposed. A single thought refused to loosen its grip—do children like this truly exist? It felt strange, almost uncomfortable, yet the truth sat right there, quietly dismantling all excuses. If a child, standing at the threshold of life, could find meaning in sacred pages we so easily abandon, then perhaps the question was never about time or age—but about willingness.
And in that unspoken realization, the Bhagavad Gita seemed to close its pages—not in front of the child, but before us.
He was reading, but I was the one who learned.
