Vitthal Outside the Temple

( Story courtesy : Seema Kedia )

Vitthal Outside the Temple

Yesterday morning, I casually stepped out for a walk. After completing a round of the colony, soaking in the fresh, cheerful silence of the morning, listening to the birds chirping melodiously, and catching a glimpse of the sun—rising lazily from behind the hills, eager to light up the earth—my daily ritual began as usual.

This breath of morning energy is what drives me through the day. And this has been my routine for the past fifteen years.

That energy walk began yesterday too. As I neared a Vitthal temple barely a kilometre away, I saw a small crowd gathered and wandered closer out of curiosity.

What I saw was a seven-year-old girl holding her one-and-a-half-year-old brother beside her, singing Lata Didi’s “Jyoti Kalash Chhalke…”

Her clothes were modest, the poverty at home was probably severe, but the goddess of melody—Saraswati—seemed to have truly blessed her. She radiated a divine aura, and in her gifted voice, it felt like Goddess Lakshmi herself had descended. Even her baby brother, far more mature than his age, sat silently admiring his sister’s brilliance.

I couldn’t explain what I felt, it was such a blissful experience. My morning felt complete. I stayed on, spellbound by one melodious song after another. Slowly, the crowd faded. I was the only one left, but I couldn’t move.

After a while, the musical goddess stopped singing. She greeted me politely, lifted her baby brother and started to leave. But I noticed something beside her—she had written something on a small slate.

It said: “I want to learn…”

Just those three words. But they froze me in place.

Out of curiosity and care, I asked around. Her name was Kasturi, and her brother was Prasanna. Their father had been a trained classical musician who lost the use of his legs in an accident a year ago. Since then, he’d been homebound. They were always poor, but the accident plunged the family into extreme poverty. Their mother worked as a maid and barely earned enough for two meals a day.

They had nothing more to offer their children except values. About a year ago, Kasturi had to drop out of school—something that pained her deeply, as I could sense from her voice.

Before I realised, an hour had passed.

“Kaka, I must leave now. I need to help Aai,” she said and hurried off, carrying her baby brother.

But that slate wouldn’t leave my mind-

“I want to learn…”

My thoughts spiralled. I began comparing my own daughter’s frequent demands—insisting on only a particular brand of school bag—and the lengths we go to fulfil them. Those words—“I want to learn”—kept echoing.

This child was willing to sing on the streets, holding her baby brother, offering divine music to the world—not to beg—but just to express a hope, a plea, to learn.

And I asked myself, was it too difficult for me to help her? Would it cost too much?

Just ₹2000–₹3000 per month at most. A sum that seemed trivial during a family dinner out, suddenly seemed enormous when it came to helping someone truly in need. How ironic.

I had always spoken of doing something for society, proudly sharing the idea with others. But when the opportunity finally came knocking, my heart and mind hesitated.

I felt ashamed.

That very day, I made a decision.

I used all my so-called “resources” to get Kasturi admitted into a reputed school in our locality. I met her father, collected her documents, and took complete responsibility for the education of Kasturi and Prasanna for the coming years.

That family soon became part of ours.

Years passed. After about 8 years, Kasturi and her family had to shift back to their hometown and gradually, we lost touch.

Then, just recently, I happened to switch on the TV. A beautiful voice moved me to tears. A young woman had just finished singing on a reality show—and she had won. The stalwarts of the music industry were showering praise on her.

This young woman, now working at a top post in a corporate firm, was asked on stage:

“To whom do you owe this success?”

She replied immediately:
“To Vitthal.”

The anchor asked, surprised:
“You mean Lord Vitthal?”

She said,
“Yes. But not the one inside the temple… the one I met outside the temple.”

She went on:
**“I had the spark… I had direction… but he gave me the courage to follow it. He admitted me to school. Maybe it was a small gesture for him… but it turned my brother’s and my life around.

Kaka, if you’re watching this today—this award is for you.”**

Tears wouldn’t stop flowing.

Kasturi had made me feel proud, not in a boastful way, but in the most fulfilling sense possible. A small act of kindness had shaped a life.

That moment is enough to give me peace for a lifetime.

“The Vitthal outside the temple…”
He stayed with me… forever.

And I slept that night with a resolve to continue looking for more such Pandyas—Vitthals who live not in temples, but among us.

Next morning, I went straight to the temple… to thank that inner Vitthal… and to pray:

“May your spark of humanity touch everyone, as it once touched me.”

And may many such Vitthals outside the temple continue to be born.

You can also hear this magical soulful and spiritual song, which this little girl was singing at the temple, when I saw her first time : (“Jyoti Kalash Chhalke by Lata Mangeshkar”)