Joy Beyond Complaints

- "Kaka, I don't have a shirt to wear," he explained simply, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world.

- He found his own unique way to join the game, creating a role for himself. 

- Ravi Ila Bhatt

I n a quiet Indian village, as the sun began to set, the air filled with the sounds of evening. From a half-built house near the great banyan tree, you could hear the clanging of hammers and the scraping of spades. For the village children, this place of sand piles and stacked bricks was not a construction site; it was a kingdom of adventure.

Every evening, after their school books were put away and their household chores were done, they would gather there to play their most beloved game - "train."

The game always started with great excitement. One child would be chosen as the engine, puffing out their cheeks and stomping their feet to make loud "chuff-chuff" sounds. The others would quickly line up behind, becoming the train's coaches. Each one would grab the shirt of the child in front, giggling as they formed a long, wobbly line. Their happy shouts of "Chuk-chuk gaadi!" (Chuk-chuk train!) filled the dusty air as they weaved around the construction materials.

The roles were always changing. One day Ramesh was the proud engine, leading the line. The next day, Meena was a coach, laughing in the middle of the chain. Sometimes it was Shyam, sometimes Gita. But one boy, little Raju, never changed his role.

Raju, a thin boy with big, wonderfully bright eyes, was always the guard. He owned nothing more than a pair of old, faded shorts, but he played his part with more pride than a king. In his hand, he would wave a ragged piece of colourful cloth, perhaps once part of an old sari, holding it high like an official railway flag. He took his job very seriously.

"Jhanda hilaao, station aa gaya!" (Wave the flag, the station is here!) he would shout joyfully, his voice full of importance as he ran at the very end of the line.

One evening, Ramlal Kaka, an elderly villager with kind, wrinkled eyes, sat on his usual rope cot, watching the children. He had seen this game many times and had always noticed Raju. He was touched by the boy's spirit but also curious. He called out to him in a gentle voice.

"Arrey Raju… come here, beta," he said, beckoning him over. "I watch you play every day. You are the finest guard I have ever seen! But tell me, don't you ever wish to be the engine, pulling everyone ahead? Or at least a coach, tucked safely in the middle of the line?"

Raju paused his game and looked at the old man. He broke into a sweet, innocent smile that showed no hint of trouble.

"Kaka, I don't have a shirt to wear," he explained simply, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. He pointed to his bare back. "If I become a coach, then how will the child behind me hold on? And if I am the engine, who can stand right behind me? A shirt is very important for the coaches."

He looked back at his friends, his eyes shining. "That's why I always play the guard. This way, I can still be part of the game with everyone. It is a very important job, you know. I make sure the train is safe!"

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and ran back to his friends, happily swinging his cloth flag and shouting, "Gaadi chali, chuk-chuk-chuk!" (The train is leaving, chuk-chuk-chuk!).

Ramlal Kaka sat quietly, the boy's words echoing in his mind. He was completely struck by what he had heard. In that small, cheerful voice, there was no complaint, no hint of sadness, no envy-only pure, simple joy. At that moment, he realized a profound truth: Life never gives anyone everything they want.

That little child could have easily sat in a corner, sulking about his poverty and feeling jealous of his friends who had shirts. But he didn't. Instead, he found his own unique way to join the game, creating a role for himself that nobody else could fill, and he played it with all his heart.

How often, Ramlal Kaka thought, do we villagers-or even people in big cities-complain about what we lack? We look at a neighbor's new tractor and feel bad about our old bullock cart. We see a friend's gold necklace and feel ashamed of our plain glass bangles. We constantly worry about our looks, our height, our jobs, our business losses, or the car parked in someone else's yard.

But comparison and envy only make our world feel smaller and our hearts feel heavier. True joy comes not from what we have, but from how we see ourselves and our place in the world. Everyone has their own journey, their own pace, and their own special role to play.

Moral

Circumstances themselves are never the real problem. The problem only begins when we forget how to rise above them and find our own way to be happy. 

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