In a small village, lived Govinda, a postmaster with hands weathered by years of service. Every day, he walked miles under the blistering sun, sorting letters and delivering them with a kindness few had known. His hands were rough, his back bent, yet it wasn’t just his efficiency that earned him the village’s admiration—it was the way he handled the bad news.
When a laborer’s son wrote asking for money his father didn’t have, Govinda would quietly slip a few rupees into the reply envelope. When a widow received no letters for months, he’d sit with her, inventing stories of her distant daughters, just to make her smile. Govinda didn’t just deliver letters; he delivered compassion.
Years passed, and the village grew. New, efficient clerks worked in the shiny new post office, but the village never forgot Govinda. On his retirement day, they gathered to honour him. The collector praised his punctuality and dedication. Govinda, with a soft smile, shook his head. “The walking was easy,” he said, placing his hand over his chest. “The hard part was keeping this soft.”
Moral:
True strength isn’t in becoming unbreakable. It’s in bearing life’s heaviest burdens and remaining soft enough to lift others.
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