The old man finally looked at him. Not with anger. With something heavier. Recognition. “When I was your age, I wanted to move to London. I had a ticket. Your dadi cried for three days. Not because she would miss me. Because she said, ‘You will forget the sound of the aarti in the evening. You will forget that the bhandara at the Gurudwara is not free food—it is seva . It is love.’”
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