The Inevitable Visitor

Written By : Sanjay Shharma

After many nights , I slept well last night.
Deeply.

Perhaps because the cool breeze lingered through the darkness—without the need for an air-conditioner humming in the background—I woke a little later than usual.

There is something old-world about such nights.

Windows slightly open. Curtains breathing softly with the wind. The distant barking of dogs fading into silence. Sleep arriving not like exhaustion… but like surrender.

Not forced. Not chased. Just… allowed.

When I step out into the lawn with my cup of chai, the morning still carries traces of that gentleness.

It is the month of Jyeshtha—a time usually known for harsh sunlight and restless afternoons. But this year feels different. A rare Adhik Jyeshtha.

And strangely, the weather too seems undecided.

The air carries warmth… yet the morning holds a softness. A thin veil of clouds slows the sun, and a quiet breeze moves through the trees as if summer itself has paused… as if even nature sometimes steps back from its own intensity.

Our town, resting beside the nation’s capital, feels unusually silent.

Close enough to absorb ambition.
Far enough to still hear temple bells.

Places like these change quietly. They inherit the speed of cities… and lose the stillness they once lived by.

The mornings look the same. But something in the air has shifted.

Not louder. Just… less patient.

And perhaps that is how most change happens. Not through noise… but through the quiet erosion of what once felt natural.

As the steam rises from the cup in my hands, a thought passes through:

Man spends his life building a name outside… while something within him is quietly taking shape.

Not suddenly. Not visibly. But slowly.

Like footsteps forming a path.

Paths don’t appear in a day. They are walked into existence.

And that thought reminds me of a man named Dev.

People knew him as successful.

His house grew bigger every few years. His gate taller. His smile smaller.

His walls displayed charity, recognition, respect.

And he had learned the art of appearing virtuous.

He spoke of values. Touched elders’ feet. Donated generously—especially when seen.

But the walls of a house hear things photographs cannot show.

They heard impatience. Loneliness. Silences that had stayed too long.

They also knew something else… that a person can be surrounded by people, and still remain untouched by connection.

Even his footsteps had changed.

They once carried presence. Now they carried hurry.

As if reaching somewhere had become more important than being anywhere.

Yet life seemed generous.

Until one winter evening, when a knock arrived.

Not loud. Not hesitant. Just certain.

As if it knew… it would be heard.

At the door stood a traveller.

No luggage. No urgency. Only calm eyes.

“Have we met?” Dev asked.

“Many times,” the man replied.

Inside, the stranger walked softly—his footsteps almost soundless… yet something within the house seemed to listen.

As if walls remember… what people forget.

“You have built much,” he said.

Dev smiled. “Life has been kind.”

A pause.

“And what has all this built inside you?”

The room stilled.

Not because the question was loud… but because it was exact.

“I have helped many people,” Dev said.

The man looked at him gently.

“Helping does not always soften a person. Sometimes, it only enlarges the ego.”

Then he said quietly:

“People misunderstand karma. They think it is accounting.”

He wiped dust from a small idol.

Karma is not bookkeeping. It is becoming.

“Every action leaves two footprints—one upon the world… and one upon the self.”

“When you speak harshly, it reaches another. But it settles within you.”

“When you ignore love… something within you hardens.”

The fog outside deepened.

“Karma,” he said, “is the slow shaping of the inner world.”

Not dramatic. Not immediate. But certain.

And perhaps this is where life reveals its quietest truths.

Inside homes, people no longer sit to understand. They sit to prove.

Voices rise. Words burn. Not to connect… but to win.

And it is in these very moments that karma does its deepest work.

Because harsh words spoken between strangers may fade… but harsh words spoken between those who share a bond—

a parent and a child, a brother and a sister, a husband and a wife, close friends who once trusted each other—

do not merely pass.

They settle.

They linger in memory… and more quietly, they settle within the one who speaks them.

For every word we throw outward… must first travel through us.

It leaves a mark… before it ever leaves a sound.

And slowly… that mark becomes nature.

And nature… becomes destiny.

Dev lowered his eyes.
A quiet pain passed through him… as if he already knew the answer—especially in the way he had been with his mother.

For the first time in years, he felt tired somewhere sleep could not reach.

The man continued:

“People think karma returns from outside. But it often grows within.”

“The restless lose peace. The greedy lose enough. The performative lose themselves.”

“And so, two people may live in the same house—yet only one sleeps.”

Silence settled.

Then he said:

“The deepest karma… is to forget who you are.”

The words did not echo. They entered. And stayed.

Not as thought… but as discomfort.

“Karma is not what happens later,” he said. “It is what you are becoming now.”

Then he stood.

“I only came to remind you—every step you take becomes the path you must walk.”

And he was gone.

That night, Dev walked into his mother’s room.

No phone. No hurry. Just presence.

He sat there… not to fix anything, not to prove anything, but simply to be.

And perhaps that is where healing begins—when we stop performing… and start arriving.

All night, he heard footsteps.

Soft. Steady. Unavoidable.

By morning, he understood.

They were his own.

I take another sip of my now lukewarm chai.

The town is waking up. Sounds return. Movement resumes.

But something within remains still.

Because somewhere between the night’s breeze… and this quiet morning…

something deeper has settled.

Not as a lesson… but as a knowing.

This is not borrowed wisdom. It is something life quietly reveals—that what we do, we slowly become.

And perhaps that is how life works.

Not by correcting us suddenly… but by shaping us silently.

Not by punishing us… but by preparing us… to meet ourselves.

We spend our lives trying to reach somewhere… not realizing…

we are walking there… on the strength of the footsteps we have already become.

You may or may not meet everyone in life… 

but you will always meet the footsteps you have become ,

that’s your karma..

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About the Author

I write the way conversations happen over a cup of chai — unhurried, warm, and from the heart. I observe our everyday lives, our habits, our relationships… sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a gentle nudge, and often with a little leg-pulling.

I don’t claim to teach — I simply share what I notice and what I feel. If my words make you pause for a moment, reflect a little, or choose authenticity over appearance, then the chai has been well served.