Raghav shrugged. “What difference does a word make, Amma?”
One evening, as the monsoon clouds gathered, Raghav’s grandmother, Amma, sat him down. “Raghav,” she said, “you help everyone—the old postman, the lost goats, even the stray dog. But you call them ‘that man,’ ‘that animal,’ ‘that family.’ Never ‘apne.’ Why?” Raghav shrugged
Amma patted his head. “That’s the magic, Raghav. ‘Apne’ isn’t just a word. It’s a bridge.” Amma?” One evening
From that day on, Raghav never forgot to say “apne.” And the village noticed—because when he spoke, everyone felt a little more like they belonged. as the monsoon clouds gathered