The Kindness of Lord Rama: A Devotional Reflection
How this ancient tale still resonates with seekers today.
I was a washerman's son in the kingdom of Ayodhya. My father scrubbed clothes by the Sarayu River. Each morning, I’d gather bundles for him and carry them back before mid-day. We were nobody. Just workers in the shadow of kings.
Until one day, kindness changed everything.
Lord Rama had returned from exile after defeating the demon Ravana. I had only heard rumors—how He crossed the ocean, how His arrows burned like fire, how even the monkeys obeyed Him. Grown men cried in the alleys just hearing the Ramayana chanted under banyan trees.
But I didn’t see a warrior when I first laid eyes on Him. I saw a man of peace.
It happened in the marketplace. My bundle of wet clothes slipped from my hands. A wealthy merchant barked at me, "Boy, you’ll dirty my sandals!"
I crouched to pick up the clothes quickly. The embarrassment stung worse than the smack my father gave me when I was late. I bent down—and the shadow changed.
“Are these yours?” a voice asked.
I looked up. It was Him. Lord Rama. Face calm. Skin like darkened copper. The same hands that broke Shiva’s bow, now handing me back a fallen robe.
I froze. Others around me bowed or whispered. Some looked away. But I just stood there, a cloth bundle in one hand, and a lump in my throat.
“You dropped this,” He said again.
I took it. "Forgive me, my Lord. I didn't see you approach."
He smiled. Not a royal smile. A real one. “No forgiveness needed. A mistake is a small thing. Kindness is greater.”
And then He walked on.
That moment passed, but its echo clung to me.
You have to understand—Rama wasn’t just a king. He was the seventh avatar of Lord Vishnu, sent to restore dharma—righteous conduct—on earth. In Hinduism, every avatar has a divine purpose. Lord Krishna, who came later, guided souls in the great battle of Kurukshetra. Lord Rama, by contrast, walked the path of suffering and serenity, showing us that courage is holding on to virtue when the world abandons it.
His kindness wasn’t weakness. It was power restrained by love.
They say Lord Rama ruled for eleven thousand years. They call those years Rama Rajya—a time of peace, justice, and prosperity. In Bhagavad teachings and in temples across India, people still pray not just because He won a war—but because He remained kind in times that called for cruelty.
My father couldn’t understand it when I told him. “Kings don’t touch our kind,” he muttered.
“But he did,” I said.
That kindness stayed with me. Years later, during a flood, I tore my own dhoti to help bind a man's bleeding leg, a stranger. I didn’t think. I just helped. And afterward, as I sat under the neem tree watching the river swell, the image came back—of Lord Rama handing me a piece of cloth, not because He had to, but because that’s who He was.
That’s what I learned that day: Dharma isn’t always grand. Sometimes, it's in the way you pick up a robe for a stranger.
We tend to chase karma like it’s some invisible record, logging all our bad and good. But Lord Rama taught me something deeper: when you act from love, when you put others before yourself, the karma takes care of itself.
Goddess Sita, his wife, did the same. In exile for fourteen years, she endured hardship beside Him without complaint. Her devotion, her bhakti, was so pure that even Mother Earth opened to receive her when the world questioned her virtue. That’s not just mythology. That’s faith in action.
Now, as an elder, I tell this story to my grandchildren. I tell it simply.
“How did I meet Lord Rama?” they ask.
I say, “I dropped a cloth, and the Divine picked it up.”
The river still flows by Ayodhya. Pilgrims chant His name. The temples stand tall. But I believe Lord Rama’s greatest temple was always the heart—each moment of kindness He gave freely. And through that one moment He gave me, I found something larger than royalty or legend.
I found the shape of dharma.
And I never forgot it.
The Kindness of Lord Rama: A Devotional Reflection
How this ancient tale still resonates with seekers today.
I was a washerman's son in the kingdom of Ayodhya. My father scrubbed clothes by the Sarayu River. Each morning, I’d gather bundles for him and carry them back before mid-day. We were nobody. Just workers in the shadow of kings.
Until one day, kindness changed everything.
Lord Rama had returned from exile after defeating the demon Ravana. I had only heard rumors—how He crossed the ocean, how His arrows burned like fire, how even the monkeys obeyed Him. Grown men cried in the alleys just hearing the Ramayana chanted under banyan trees.
But I didn’t see a warrior when I first laid eyes on Him. I saw a man of peace.
It happened in the marketplace. My bundle of wet clothes slipped from my hands. A wealthy merchant barked at me, "Boy, you’ll dirty my sandals!"
I crouched to pick up the clothes quickly. The embarrassment stung worse than the smack my father gave me when I was late. I bent down—and the shadow changed.
“Are these yours?” a voice asked.
I looked up. It was Him. Lord Rama. Face calm. Skin like darkened copper. The same hands that broke Shiva’s bow, now handing me back a fallen robe.
I froze. Others around me bowed or whispered. Some looked away. But I just stood there, a cloth bundle in one hand, and a lump in my throat.
“You dropped this,” He said again.
I took it. "Forgive me, my Lord. I didn't see you approach."
He smiled. Not a royal smile. A real one. “No forgiveness needed. A mistake is a small thing. Kindness is greater.”
And then He walked on.
That moment passed, but its echo clung to me.
You have to understand—Rama wasn’t just a king. He was the seventh avatar of Lord Vishnu, sent to restore dharma—righteous conduct—on earth. In Hinduism, every avatar has a divine purpose. Lord Krishna, who came later, guided souls in the great battle of Kurukshetra. Lord Rama, by contrast, walked the path of suffering and serenity, showing us that courage is holding on to virtue when the world abandons it.
His kindness wasn’t weakness. It was power restrained by love.
They say Lord Rama ruled for eleven thousand years. They call those years Rama Rajya—a time of peace, justice, and prosperity. In Bhagavad teachings and in temples across India, people still pray not just because He won a war—but because He remained kind in times that called for cruelty.
My father couldn’t understand it when I told him. “Kings don’t touch our kind,” he muttered.
“But he did,” I said.
That kindness stayed with me. Years later, during a flood, I tore my own dhoti to help bind a man's bleeding leg, a stranger. I didn’t think. I just helped. And afterward, as I sat under the neem tree watching the river swell, the image came back—of Lord Rama handing me a piece of cloth, not because He had to, but because that’s who He was.
That’s what I learned that day: Dharma isn’t always grand. Sometimes, it's in the way you pick up a robe for a stranger.
We tend to chase karma like it’s some invisible record, logging all our bad and good. But Lord Rama taught me something deeper: when you act from love, when you put others before yourself, the karma takes care of itself.
Goddess Sita, his wife, did the same. In exile for fourteen years, she endured hardship beside Him without complaint. Her devotion, her bhakti, was so pure that even Mother Earth opened to receive her when the world questioned her virtue. That’s not just mythology. That’s faith in action.
Now, as an elder, I tell this story to my grandchildren. I tell it simply.
“How did I meet Lord Rama?” they ask.
I say, “I dropped a cloth, and the Divine picked it up.”
The river still flows by Ayodhya. Pilgrims chant His name. The temples stand tall. But I believe Lord Rama’s greatest temple was always the heart—each moment of kindness He gave freely. And through that one moment He gave me, I found something larger than royalty or legend.
I found the shape of dharma.
And I never forgot it.
