It was the month of May, and the school holidays had begun. Soon after, the season for sowing arrived. Whenever Shyam came home for the holidays, he would help his mother with whatever she was doing. Whether it was grinding grain, fetching water, washing clothes, cleaning the utensils, sorting rice and lentils, or sweeping the courtyard, he never hesitated to lend a hand with any household chore. He felt no shame in helping his mother with the work that needed to be done.

By this time, his mother’s health had begun to fail. Now and then, she would be struck by fever. But as soon as the fever subsided, she would return to her work. There was no one else in the house to help her. So, whenever Shyam came home, she felt relieved. He would assist her with all the tasks, doing whatever was necessary as she instructed. And if, by chance, his mother was bedridden, then massaging her feet was a duty he never neglected.

So it was, one evening. Night had fallen. Everyone had finished their meal. Outside, the moonlight bathed the world in a gentle glow. His elder brother, having eaten, went out. The younger brother went to bed. Mother cleared away the dishes and smeared the floor with cow dung. Then she said to Shyam, “Shyam, there’s a little grinding left to do. Will you help me with it? Haven’t you already done enough digging this evening? Are your hands aching?”

“Aai, my hands don’t hurt at all. Of the four hands, two are still left. When your loving hand touches me, my tired hands find new strength.” Saying this, she spread a sack in the courtyard. She sat down to grind the grain. Mother began to move the grinding stone. Shyam’s favorite sweet, patolyo, was to be made that day, so she had decided to grind the rice herself. In the courtyard, under that clear moonlight, the two of them sat together, grinding. A cool breeze blew all around. In that pure, nectar-like radiance of the moon, Mother began to sing a lullaby for Shyam. As she sang, she wove Shyam’s name into the song. Hearing his name in her song filled Shyam with joy.

Hearing the sound of the grinding stone, Janaki-vayani—a neighbor—came over. She sat down to help with the grinding, but soon got up and left, feeling awkward. She showed her irritation as she left, and later complained to Mother about it.

Mother explained to her, “Oh, she was only teasing you. Why take offense? Why blame someone for helping with such work? And why be ashamed to help? In fact, those who laugh at such work do not understand its value. Don’t you know that God himself helped Janabai with grinding?”

“He did the grinding, washed clothes, and when Namdev’s drum broke, he played the cymbals at the kirtan, and even danced—is that really true, Aai?” asked Shyam.

Mother asked Janaki-vayani to sit down. Then she explained to Shyam, “Shyam,