In the narrow alleys of Calcutta,
where sorrow clung to walls like dust,
she walked without fear-
not above suffering,
but within it.

Her hands,
small and weathered,
carried the weight
of other people's pain
without complaint,
as if love itself
were light.

She listened
to the silence between cries,
to the dignity behind the decay.
She gave not because she had much,
but because she believed
even the smallest act
was infinite.

No pulpit.
No spectacle.
Just presence-
and the courage
to look directly
into the eyes
of the forgotten
and say,
"You are still loved".