by Abiansh Dash
In a sun-dappled village cradled by mango orchards and coconut groves, young Abinash lived in a home where stories were as vital as air. His father, a scholar with ink-stained fingers, filled their modest house with books—novels, journals, and ancient manuscripts that spilled from shelves like a river of wisdom. To him, each page held the promise of insight, empathy, and a life of purpose. Abinash, barely tall enough to reach the higher shelves, was nudged from childhood to read, to ponder, to imagine. His mother, practical and patient, would grumble as she swept away the dust that settled on these treasures, yet her heart warmed at the spark they kindled in her son.
As a boy, Abinash delighted in helping his father arrange their literary haven. Sorting books, he dreamed of becoming a librarian, a keeper of tales. His father often recited an Odia proverb: “The father rides a horse, and the son learns to ride, step by step.” Abinash took this to heart, diving into every book he could grasp. Some stories eluded his young mind, their depths too vast for his understanding, but each word read was a brick in the foundation of the man he would become.
One golden summer, during the lazy days of the paddy harvest, Abinash’s father returned from the Puri Rath Yatra, his arms laden with books. Among them was a worn, illustrated volume called He Walked Among Us. With a gentle nudge, his father tasked Abinash with reading it before the holidays faded. Eager to please, the boy carried the book to their garden, settling beneath the sprawling arms of a banyan tree. The air was alive with the hum of cicadas, the rustle of leaves, and the distant song of a koel. On a woven mat, Abinash opened the book and was swept into a story that would carve itself into his soul.
It was the tale of Jesus, a man whose love knew no bounds. He moved among the weary and the wanting, offering miracles—bread and fish multiplied to feed thousands, the dead restored to life. His teachings wove a tapestry of sacrifice and grace. But it was the story’s heart-wrenching peak that seized Abinash. Condemned to a cruel death, Jesus bore a heavy cross toward Golgotha, his body broken by lashes, his spirit burdened by humanity’s flaws. A fickle crowd, caught in a moment of madness, freed a thief named Barabbas and sentenced Jesus to die.
As Jesus faltered under the cross’s weight, a Roman soldier’s eyes fell on a stranger in the throng—a lean man from Cyrene, a traveler whose purpose in Jerusalem was a mystery. Torn between duty and a flicker of pity, the soldier ordered the man to carry Jesus’s cross. The gentleman bristled, his voice sharp with protest: “I am a man of standing from Cyrene, here to roam, not to shoulder the load of a doomed stranger. Why me? I know nothing of this man or his crime!” Yet the soldier’s command was iron. Grudgingly, the gentleman of Cyrene lifted the cross, his steps heavy with reluctance as he walked beside Jesus.
The story closed with Jesus’s crucifixion, his final breath a prayer: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Abinash shut the book, his chest tight with wonder and sorrow. Jesus was a hero, a radiant symbol of love. But the gentleman from Cyrene haunted him—a fleeting figure whose unwilling act of kindness left a lingering question. What became of him? Abinash asked himself. Did that single deed redeem him?
He posed this question to his father time and again, his young heart grappling with the enigma. His father, eyes crinkling with a knowing smile, answered softly: “The world is a mirage, Abinash. Jesus showed us that chasing emptiness leaves us hollow. Sometimes, God picks ordinary souls for great purposes, and they may never understand why. The gentleman from Cyrene is a guide, pointing us to a life of compassion and duty.”
Time spun forward, and Abinash grew into a man of learning and drive, his father’s teachings woven into his core. But he was not without faults—pride, a fiery temper, and a fierce guard over his reputation. His father, now retired, remained a quiet pillar of truth, his candid wisdom both a balm and a mirror.
One Sunday during Pitru Paksha, the season of ancestral rites, Abinash’s father visited him in Bhubaneswar. The morning unfolded gently, with Abinash’s toddler daughter clattering her toy pots in the dining room and his wife bustling about. A knock at the door broke the rhythm. It was Sudhir, the gardener from their government quarters, his posture tense, his eyes downcast. He offered a hesitant namaste to Abinash’s wife and faltered, words caught in his throat. Abinash’s father stepped forward, sensing the man’s need.
In a voice thick with desperation, Sudhir shared his burden. It was the day of his late father’s shraddh, a sacred ritual, but no Brahmin would perform it. Those who agreed demanded a hundred rupees—an impossible sum for a man scraping by. Exhausted and near despair, he had come to ask if Abinash’s father, a man of respect, might help.
Before his father could speak, Abinash’s anger erupted. “How dare you ask my father to do such a thing?” he thundered. Sudhir recoiled, his face pale with fear. Abinash’s daughter began to wail, startled by the outburst. His wife and father tried to calm him, but Abinash’s pride roared louder. “A mere gardener asking my father to act as a Brahmin? What will people think?” he spat. Sudhir slipped away, and a heavy hush fell over the house.
Later, returning from chores, Abinash learned his father hadn’t eaten. He found him in the drawing room, lost in a book—perhaps Dakmunsi. Urging him to eat, Abinash was met with a steady gaze. “Today is your grandfather’s shraddh,” his father said. “Since I couldn’t return to the village, I’ll fast here.”
The words struck Abinash like a stone. He knew this was no truth—his father, adopted long ago, had no custom of honoring his birth parents’ shraddh. The real reason dawned, sharp and searing. His father was fasting for Sudhir, the man Abinash had driven away. Quietly, his father spoke: “Sudhir came to honor his father, Abinash. You could have shown him mercy, but you chose harshness. Do you understand what shraddh means to a poor man? He may still be waiting, hungry, holding fast to his duty. I fast to honor his heart.”
Guilt flooded Abinash, his father’s words a bridge to the past—to the gentleman from Cyrene, who bore a stranger’s cross despite his resistance. Without a word, Abinash donned his ritual attire and stepped into the blistering noon sun. He had never visited Sudhir’s home, and the search was arduous. At last, he found it—a fragile structure of mud and plastic, its small veranda kissed by the shade of a lone tree.
Sudhir sat against the wall, his face worn by fatigue. Seeing Abinash, he scrambled up, trembling. “Forgive me for this morning,” he whispered, hands folded. But Abinash saw beyond the fear—a quiet strength, the dignity of a man who carried his sorrows with grace.
“Sudhir,” Abinash said gently, “prepare my meal first. Whatever you have will suffice. But I’ll accept no less than a rupee as dakshin.”
Tears spilled from Sudhir’s eyes. He clutched Abinash’s hands, his sobs a release of gratitude and relief. As Abinash felt the heat of those tears, his gaze drifted past Sudhir. In the haze of the midday sun, a figure flickered—a man from another age, a cross upon his shoulder, trudging up a hill. It was the gentleman from Cyrene, no longer a stranger but a reflection.
In that instant, Abinash understood. The gentleman’s tale was not about reward or redemption. It was about the bravery to act, to lift another’s load when every instinct screams to turn away. Like the gentleman, Abinash had been summoned to a duty he hadn’t sought. And in answering that call, he found a truth as old as time: meaning lies in the burdens we choose to bear for others.
As he sat for the shraddh meal, the sun’s warmth bathed his face, and his soul felt unburdened. The gentleman from Cyrene was no longer a riddle but a revelation—a testament that true greatness is found in the humble, hesitant steps we take toward compassion.
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