Apne -

Amma patted his head. “That’s the magic, Raghav. ‘Apne’ isn’t just a word. It’s a bridge.”

The next morning, Raghav set off. The pot was heavy, and the path was steep. Soon, he met an old woman struggling with a bundle of firewood. Remembering Amma’s words, he said, “Come, apne mata ji. Rest and drink some water.” The old woman’s eyes softened. She sat down, drank, and said, “Bless you, apne beta.” For the first time, Raghav felt a strange warmth in his chest. Amma patted his head

One evening, as the monsoon clouds gathered, Raghav’s grandmother, Amma, sat him down. “Raghav,” she said, “you help everyone—the old postman, the lost goats, even the stray dog. But you call them ‘that man,’ ‘that animal,’ ‘that family.’ Never ‘apne.’ Why?” It’s a bridge

Finally, near the temple, he met an old man who had slipped on the wet stones. Raghav helped him up and said, “Hold my shoulder, apne pitaji (father).” The old man’s eyes glistened. “I lost my son last year,” he whispered. “No one has called me ‘pitaji’ since.” Remembering Amma’s words, he said, “Come, apne mata ji