Chanda: The Price of Devotion
In small towns, devotion has its own season.
It arrives with drums, bamboo poles, colored lights, and the familiar voice —
“Bhai, thoda chanda dena hoga.”(Bro contribution please)
Every year, a group of young men goes door to door collecting contributions for the local puja.
They carry a notebook, a smile, and sometimes, a little pressure.
Some people give with faith.
Some give for face.
Some give to avoid being talked about later.
Chanda behaves like respect — the more one gives, the higher the name appears on the list.
There are slabs — ₹500, ₹1000, ₹2000.
Above ₹2500, the name appears on the main board, in bright red paint.
One year, a young voice said,
“This time our pandal should be taller than Krishna Nagar’s. Bablu bro is paying ₹10,000.”
Bablu, a local contractor, was proud of his contribution.
The message was clear — height had become dignity.
But soon, arguments began — about who should be secretary, where the idol should be placed, whose name should come first on the banner.
A new group emerged and decided to make another pandal, just across the road.
Two gods.
Two committees.
Two receipts.
Now every house had to pay twice.
Morning one group came.
Evening another.
People smiled thinly and opened their wallets again.
Faith became a subscription — renewal compulsory.
Even Bablu bro was seen saying,.
“I’m with both sides. God is everywhere.”Bablu bro is thinking to step in politics.
And the street smiled —
“Yes, and the receipt books too.”
When both pandals finally stood, the lights shone bright, music roared, and colors filled the air.
But from a distance, both looked smaller than Krishna Nagar’s.
Two halves never make a whole.
After the aarti, organisers lay down — tired, dusty, some smelling of liquor, half asleep.
They had spent days in heat and nights in noise, making others’ faith visible.
Next morning, passersby whispered,
“Sab paisa kha gaye. Looters.” ( All money eaten)
Perhaps they looted their peace, not people’s money.
That year, Krishna Nagar won again — not because their pandal was taller,
but because they stayed one.
And maybe god saw all this — the giving, the dividing, the blaming —
and went home early that night.
Ranji
Zara Hatke
The Empty Showroom That Still Sells
Several times in malls, I walk into those big brand showrooms and find… no customers.
More salespeople than visitors.
If you remove the food court and the supermarket, the whole mall almost feels like a ghost city.
And I keep thinking — how are these brands profitable?
How can a 5,000 sq ft showroom with hardly any walk-ins survive?
One day I understood the game.
And after that, I never looked at malls the same way again.
The showroom is not there to sell.
The showroom is there to create value — in your mind.
When you walk into the store:
• premium lighting
• stylish shelves
• spacious rooms
• expensive mannequins
• well-dressed salespeople
Your mind receives one big message: “This brand is premium.”
That’s all the showroom needs to achieve.
You may not buy anything that day.
But the seed is planted.
And then — days later — the magic happens.
You see the same item online.
Price in mall: ₹4,000
Price online: ₹2,000
And suddenly you feel like a smart winner.
You tap “Buy Now” with happiness.
Not because it became cheap.
But because your brain already accepted ₹4,000 as the real price.
The ₹2,000 is not a discount.
It is a psychological victory.
The showroom is not the business model.
The showroom is the price anchor.
The sales happen online.
The store shapes your emotions.
The website takes your money.
And we call that “new retail.”
In today’s world:
Sales doesn’t happen where you see it.
Sales happens where your mind decides it.
The mall may look empty.
But the brand has already won — inside you.
Ranji-Zara Hatke
The Sweeper in the Park: A Small Story About Seeing People
Every weekend, I walk in a nearby park.Music in my ears, mind free, feet moving without effort.The park is always clean — almost spotless — long before most people arrive.And that’s because of her.An elderly woman, sweeping quietly at dawn.
By the time I enter, she is done with her work and sits on the pavement, resting.She never asks for anything.Her eyes simply follow the world passing by — people walking, jogging, talking, all in their own bubble.One morning, I gave her ₹50.A small gesture.But she looked up at me as if someone had finally noticed she existed.
The next weekend, I gave again.Then it became a rhythm.
₹50 on Saturday.₹50 on Sunday.If I missed a day, ₹100 the next time.Not charity.Not obligation.
Just something that felt right — a moment of acknowledgment in a world running on deadlines and headphones.
One day, someone saw me giving her the money and said,“You know she earns ₹24,000 salary every month?”I smiled and replied,
“It doesn’t matter.”Because it truly didn’t. Her salary met her needs.
My ₹50 met my nature.
Two accounts.Two different meanings.
Some people help only after calculating.Some help because they feel it.And some gestures lose their beauty the moment you explain them.She was not poor.
But she was invisible.I wasn’t helping her survival — I was helping her dignity.
And maybe in a small way, keeping my own humanity alive.Not every good act has to solve a problem.
Some acts simply remind us who we are.
Zara Hatke -Ranji