A Fist Full Of Joy I Poem By Arika,11,Faridabad
Arika writes about how a small Diwali gift reminded her of an elderly woman in need, whose silent plea for food made her realize the insignificance of material wealth and the true compassion found in sharing.
A Fist Full Of Joy
On Diwali, I held a gift—
A small sum of money, wrapped in a beautiful envelope,
A simple offering of the season’s joy,
A token of light in a darkened world.
But as I walked through the evening air, with lights
Flickering in every corner,
A memory began to rise, unbidden and strong—
Of an older woman living in a fragile straw hut.
Her hands were frail, her skin almost translucent,
Her eyes were heavy with the weight of a lifetime worn.
She had asked for so little, just a handful of vegetables,
Basic food, nothing more, to ease her hunger.
Her voice barely whispered, as if each word took
Everything she had.
I could see the deep, quiet resignation in her gaze,
As though she had long learned to live without,
As though she no longer expected to be seen—
Just waiting for some small kindness to relieve her suffering.
At that moment, as I stood there, the wealth in my
Hands suddenly felt so meaningless,
A mere trinket in a world where a human life could be so fragile.
I wondered how I could walk away while she had nothing.
How could I, with all I had, ignore her silent plea,
Her dignity hidden beneath the weight of her need?
I turned to my mother, heart heavy with the burden.
Of that moment,
And asked, “Can we bring her what she needs?”
Without a word, my mother understood;
Her eyes meeting mine,
Her gentle nod said everything I needed to hear.
Together, we returned with food—simple but heartfelt,
Our hands trembling as we gave it to her,
Her hands shaking as they took it, her face lighting
Up for just a brief moment.
There was a quiet gratitude in her eyes, but still that deep
Emptiness lingering.
We left without speaking, but the silence between us was thick,
Her voice echoing in my mind long after we’d gone—
The weight of a need that couldn’t be fixed by mere charity.
That memory stays with me, a quiet grief that hasn’t faded,
For in her eyes, I saw the truth I wasn’t ready to face:
True wealth isn’t in what we possess,
But in what we’re willing to share,
In the quiet recognition of suffering,
And the humility to offer what little we have, even
If it’s not enough.
Now, each Diwali, when the lights glow bright and
The fireworks fill the sky,
I think of her, of the woman with the empty hands,
And I remember that the wealthiest gifts are not those we can buy,
But the ones we give freely, with open hearts,
To those whose needs are often unseen,
To those who wait in silence for someone to notice,
Someone to provide not just food but the warmth of compassion,
The light of seeing them, truly seeing them, for the first time.
***
This article is published by Bookosmia, India’s #1 publisher for and by young people. Bookosmia publishes stories, books, podcasts, events, TED-Ed talks, workshops, bedtime stories and more related to kids and young adults.
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