The Beggar’s Gift

 The Beggar’s Gift

It was a bright morning in the posh Greenview Colony, where the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the gentle hum of luxury cars. The streets were lined with villas boasting manicured lawns and high-tech security cameras, ever watchful of any unwelcome guests. In one such villa lived Mr. and Mrs. Mehta—an elite, well-educated couple who took immense pride in their sophistication.

Mrs. Mehta, a woman in her early forties, had a penchant for charity, albeit with a selective approach. She donated only to causes that had certificates of authenticity. If an NGO asked for funds, she would first check its tax records before contributing. She was, in her own way, a philanthropist—but only when it was convenient.

That morning, as Mrs. Mehta scrolled through her phone, evaluating which organic honey brand was truly organic, the doorbell rang.

DING-DONG!

She opened the door to find a frail, bearded man dressed in tattered clothes. His eyes sparkled with wisdom that didn’t quite match his appearance. He folded his hands in a polite greeting.

"Madam, I haven't eaten since yesterday. Could you spare some food?" he asked in a soft, articulate voice.

Mrs. Mehta, caught off guard by his well-spoken request, hesitated for a moment. Her first instinct was to say no—after all, what if he was running a begging scam? But then, a thought struck her: This was an opportunity to display her benevolence.

"Of course! Wait here," she said, heading inside.

She opened her fridge and scanned the shelves. Leftover quinoa salad? No, too precious. Organic Greek yogurt? No, that was ₹600 a jar! Ah! There it was—a plate of last night's dry chapatis and a bowl of slightly stale dal. She transferred the food into a disposable container and walked back.

"Here you go," she said, handing it over with the air of a queen distributing gold coins.

The beggar smiled warmly. "Thank you, madam. May God bless you."

And with that, he walked away, whistling a cheerful tune.

The Surprise Gift

The next morning, the doorbell rang again.

DING-DONG!

Mrs. Mehta sighed. She was halfway through her yoga routine, trying to perfect a pose she had seen on Instagram. Annoyed, she opened the door and found the same beggar standing there.

"This is not a food distribution center," she wanted to snap, but before she could speak, the beggar extended a neatly wrapped book toward her.

"For you, madam," he said with a mysterious smile.

Mrs. Mehta took the book, puzzled. "Why are you giving me a book?"

"You helped me yesterday, so I wanted to return the favor," he replied and walked away, leaving her standing there, utterly confused.

Curious, she looked at the cover.

The title read: "How to Cook Food"

Her jaw dropped.

At first, she thought she had misread it. But no. It was a step-by-step guide on how to cook basic meals, from boiling rice to making chapatis—complete with pictures for beginners!

Fuming, she stormed inside. "The nerve of that man!" she muttered. "He comes here begging for food and then insults my cooking?"

She spent the whole day grumbling. She ranted to her friend on the phone, then to the neighbor while collecting courier packages, and even to the housemaid, who wisely nodded without getting involved.

The Husband’s Reaction

That evening, Mr. Mehta returned from work. A distinguished lawyer with an air of perpetual exhaustion, he barely had time for household drama. But today was different.

The moment he entered, his wife pounced.

"You won’t believe what happened today!"

Mr. Mehta sighed. "Let me change first—"

"No! Listen to this! That wretched beggar, whom I graciously fed yesterday, came back today and gave me this—" She shoved the book in his hands. "Look at the title!"

He glanced at the cover.

"How to Cook Food?" he read aloud.

There was silence.

Then, suddenly—

A chuckle escaped his lips.

Mrs. Mehta narrowed her eyes. "Why are you laughing?"

Mr. Mehta tried to hold it in, but within seconds, he burst out into full-blown laughter.

"This… This is brilliant!" he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "He asked for food, ate it, and then—Hahahaha—decided you needed cooking lessons! Hahahaha!"

Mrs. Mehta’s face turned red. "Stop laughing! It’s an insult!"

"An insult?" Mr. Mehta gasped between laughs. "No, no, this is constructive criticism!" He clutched his stomach, doubling over. "This beggar is a genius!"

Mrs. Mehta folded her arms. "Are you saying my cooking is bad?"

Mr. Mehta gulped, realizing he was on thin ice. "No, no, I’m saying that even the underprivileged believe in education. See? He wants to uplift society!" He held up the book like a sacred text. "Madam, this is a noble mission!"

She snatched the book from his hands. "I hate you."

That night, Mr. Mehta laughed himself to sleep while Mrs. Mehta furiously searched for gourmet cooking classes online.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the streets of Greenview Colony, the beggar sat under a lamppost, humming to himself, pleased with his day’s work.

After all, education should be for everyone—even for those who needed it most.