Nestled on the banks of the river Satluj, near the sacred city of Anandpur Sahib, lay a quiet village called Surajgarh. The village was known not for its wealth or architecture, but for its old Gurdwara Sahib built from stone and cedarwood, where the aroma of langar mingled with the gentle hum of kirtan echoing across mustard fields.

  In Surajgarh lived a cobbler named Bhola Singh, a man of modest means but extraordinary kindness. His workshop, shaded by an ancient banyan tree, was a place where villagers came not only to repair their shoes but also to rest their hearts. Bhola was not formally educated, but his actions spoke louder than scriptures—he treated all people equally, with quiet respect and compassion.

  Every morning, Bhola offered his ardaas at the Gurdwara Sahib and then sat cross-legged to work, humming verses of Gurbani under his breath. Fakirs, children, travelers, and even those rejected by society found in him a silent friend. He would give them tea, sometimes a coin, or simply his listening ear.

  But not everyone admired his ways. A grain merchant named Ratanlal, proud of his status and narrow in his beliefs, often ridiculed Bhola’s open heart. “A cobbler showing kindness to beggars and fakirs as if he’s a guru himself,” he would scoff. One day, enraged to find his son sitting with a fakir near Bhola’s shop, he stormed over and hurled insults. “You pollute our children with your low company!” he shouted.

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  Bhola stood up, quietly folded his hands, and replied, “Tolerance is like oil in a lamp. Without it, the flame of love cannot burn.”

  The villagers watched, stunned by his calm. Bhola didn’t argue, nor did he show anger. He offered Ratanlal water and said gently, “Even shoes made from rough leather become smooth over time. So do hearts—if we let them.”

  Over time, Ratanlal’s own heart began to soften. He noticed how Bhola never returned hatred with hate, never excluded anyone from his circle of care. Eventually, the merchant started visiting the Gurdwara Sahib more often, sometimes even sitting beside Bhola, quietly watching him serve tea to a leper or shoes to a child.

  Years later, when Bhola passed away, the entire village—Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, rich, poor—gathered to light a lamp in his memory. And it burned bright into the night, not just with fire, but with the silent light of tolerance he had shown all his life.