I attended a moving talk by a friend of mine, whom I shall call, J.L. The talk was a simple story told by a down-to-earth hard working man; the message was universal and profound. J.L. could have been a Hindu, a Christian, a Muslim, an atheist, a Jain, a Buddhist, a Confucian, or a Pagan. I will tell the story as he told it, in first person.

J.L. stood at the lectern, nervous and hesitant. It was his first speech to a large group in English in his life.

“I wish I could tell my story in Spanish, and you could watch a teleprompter in front of me in English. I had an experience last winter that I want to share. I think it has some meaning.”

He smiled, “My wife and I were hurrying back home after working a full day. It was very cold outside, and we were thankful to have a warm car to travel in, and a warm house as our destination. I looked to my left and saw a man walking towards us on the opposite side of the road. My first thought was to drive quickly past, but I looked carefully at the man. He was not at all dressed for the weather; he had a thin long-sleeved shirt and a cloth jacket. His trousers were held up with a hemp rope making him look something like a sack of potatoes. He wore flip-flops with no socks.”

I told my wife that I wanted to turn around and stop to see if we could help the man. She was skittish. She asked if it would be safe. It was night. What could we do? Shouldn’t we mind our own business.

I couldn’t just pass him by. It was miserable weather. I pulled up beside the man, rolled down my window, and asked him if he needed help. The man had a long full salt-and-pepper beard, and he was none too clean.

He shook his head, “no.”

I asked him again, a little more energetically. Again, he shook his head. I could not think of anything else to say or do; so, my wife and I drove on home.

It was especially cold that night. We were grateful to be snuggled close to each other in our nice warm bed with comfortable stomachs after a good filling meal.

The next morning, I drove our daughter to school for her early first class. The temperature outside was 16°. On the way back home, I saw the same man plodding along the frozen street. I hesitated—after all, he had rebuffed me the night before. I drew close enough to see that his head was bare; his ears were white with cold; his face was red and had white blotches indicative of early frostbite. His bare hands, clutching his knapsack, were blanched and turning purple.

I stopped and called to him, “Please,” I said, “I don’t want to bother you, but I can see that you need help. Please let me get you to someplace warm and get you something to eat.”

He shook his head, “no,” just as he had the night before. I could not let it be. I asked him again, and again he shook his head. I was very tempted to drive on, but it was just wrong to do that. I stopped the car and walked up to him.

“I mean you no harm. I just want to help, to keep you from having trouble.”

He looked at me rather blankly. It occurred to me that he did not speak English; so, I tried my approach again, this time in Spanish. He continued to look at me blankly for a moment then shook his head, “no”.

I realized that he was not understanding me, and that was the reason for his negative response. I had a flash of inspiration. I took out a piece of paper and wrote on it, “I want to help. Can you understand me? Can you hear me?”

He gave a wan smile and nodded his head, “yes”.

I wrote again, “Please get in.”

He looked at my warm car longingly but was about to shake his head. He thought better of it, set down his knapsack, and waited for me to open the car door. I did, then lifted his bag into the  back seat, and held the front door open for him. I turned the car heater up to full blast and watched his eyes light up as the warmth began to suffuse through him. His fingers, face, nose, and ears returned to pink. After a few minutes, he pulled a paper and pencil from a pocket and scribbled the name of a nearby, larger city on it.

“Do you want me to take you there?” I asked facing away from him.

He replied in writing, “yes.”

It was evident that he could both hear and understand English, but that he was mute. We drove quietly to the nearby city. I pulled into a gas station, walked in, and bought him a pair of thick, sturdy, woolen gloves and a wool cap. When I gave it to him, tears welled up in his eyes. They did in mine as well; he had so little, and I had so much.

“Do you have an address where I can take you,” I asked.

To no great surprise, he shook his head “no.” I was not about to leave him on the street on that freezing day; so, I took him to a homeless shelter. He entered willingly; the attendants welcomed him in and arranged for him to have a warm shower, a hot meal, and a real bed for the night.

I said, “Good-bye.”

He nodded, gave me a broad smile, and a vigorous head nod. I left him in the shelter, congratulating myself that I had been the Good Samaritan. The rest of that day, the experience nagged at me because I knew I had not done enough.

So, the next day, I thought myself to be a bit crazy, but I drove back to the shelter. My new-found friend had already left for parts unknown. I hurried around the adjacent streets in a fruitless hunt for him and finally had to give up. I repeated the exercise for several days but did not find him.

Some time later, I saw him again. This time he was a lonely little-old lady pining away in a rest home. She was clean, well-fed, warm, and comfortable, and sad. She had been removed from her home of sixty years to a place she did not know to be with people she did not recognize, and to have none of her personal possessions that meant so much to her. Small things full of memories. She looked out of the clear blue eyes of a sixteen-year-old girl full of expectations for her life. Looking in the mirror was a great disappointment.

I saw my mute friend again. This time in jail. The old man was having mild unpleasant withdrawal symptoms from a week of binging on alcohol. His eyes were watery; his skin mottled with prominent veins typical of advanced alcoholism and cirrhosis. He coughed constantly. He told me about his life before alcohol; he had been a successful construction worker. Now, in his words, he was a nothing. He dreaded being released from jail. He had no place to go.

The last time I saw my friend, he was a little boy crying on a stoop. At the age of four, he was alone for another dismal day. His father abandoned the family; his mother had to work two jobs; and his eight-year-old sister was in charge of her three younger siblings for that day as she was every day. He had sweet cereal and a soda pop for breakfast, and he told me that he and his brother and sisters were going to open a can of beans for lunch. He was dirty and tear streaks were evident on his thin young face. His childhood was a dismal portent for the rest of his life.

I want to enlist your help to find my mute friend somewhere among the lost, lonely, and forgotten: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” -Matthew 25: 40

The principle dharma (duty) of a Hindu: “As a Hindu, you are not expected to live selfishly for yourself or your family only because you are but a representative of God upon earth. Your life, identity, power, abilities, strengths, riches, and enjoyment come from Him. Therefore, in Hinduism charity (dana) is one of the highest virtues. In fact, it was the only virtue, which Brahma specifically taught to humans in the beginning of creation for their peace and happiness.”

“They ask you, [O Muhammad], what they should spend. Say, ‘Whatever you spend of good is [to be] for parents and relatives and orphans and the needy and the traveler. And whatever you do of good – indeed, Allah is Knowing of it.’” Qur’an: Surat Al-Baqarah 2:215

From Judaism: “For there will never cease to be poor in the land. Therefore I command you, ‘You shall open wide your hand to your brother, to the needy and to the poor, in your land.’” -Deuteronomy 15:11