Maq Masi Blog

By Maq Masi

Pity is a tender act, born from the quiet pulse of empathy, yet it carries a hidden edge. It can heal, but it can also wound — not in the offering, but in how it’s received, and in what lingers after. A Gujarati proverb cuts through this truth with stark clarity:

“દયા ડાકણને ખાય”

(Pity devours like a witch.)

This isn’t a rejection of compassion, but a caution about its shadow. Not everyone who accepts help holds gratitude in their heart. Not every hand extended is remembered with kindness.

Imagine a blind man, his stick tapping through a world veiled in darkness. That stick is his lifeline, steadying each uncertain step. But when sight returns, the stick is cast aside — forgotten, unneeded. It was only a tool, after all, owed nothing.

Now place a person in its stead.

Someone broken, lifted by another’s quiet tenderness, leans on that kindness to find their footing. Yet once they stand, they walk away. Worse still, some turn back to wound the one who held them, as if that care were a weight too heavy to bear. This isn’t resilience — it is a subtle cruelty, carving wounds deeper than any blade: the sting of betrayal from someone once cradled in love.

Not all wounds come from betrayal, though. Some are quieter, slipping in like shadows from old hurts. They show up in the burns on a woman’s hand, unnoticed until someone offers concern. She didn’t seek pity, but spoke from a deeper place, her pain a reminder of the unseen scars we all carry. In that moment, a few lines stirred within me, raw and simple, like a proverb born from the ache of forgotten care:

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जब अंधा था, लाठी प्यारी

दृष्टि आई, लाठी उतारी

सेवा की जब पाँव चले

फिर ना पूछा कौन सँभाले

Translation:

When he was blind, the stick was dear.

Sight returned — the stick was cast off.

So too with those who lean on our care:

once they walk, they rarely look back to see who steadied them.

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And yet, the heart that gives is so often unseen. Another verse formed, carrying the same quiet sorrow:

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दिया सहारा, जब डगमगाया

उठ खड़ा हुआ, फिर भूल गया

दिल ने दिया जो बिना माँगे

वो दिल का दर्द, ना कोई देखे

Translation:

I gave support when they stumbled and fell.

They rose, walked on, and forgot it all.

The heart that gave without asking a price

bears a pain no one sees, no one tries.

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These wounds — of care unreturned, of hearts overlooked — have no ready cure. But in their ache, I find echoes of a deeper wisdom, one that Kachan Gadhvi captured in words that settle like fine dust on the soul:

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તનના ઘાવ તો રૂઝાશે,

પણ મનના ઘાવ ક્યારે?

દેહના દુખની તો છે દવા,

પણ દિલના દુખને કોણ?

બાહ્ય વેદના તો સૌ જાણે,

પણ આંતરના ગમ કોણ?

Translation:

The body’s wounds may heal,

but when do the heart’s wounds fade?

There is medicine for the body’s pain,

but who tends to the heart’s sorrow?

Outer pain is seen by all,

but who knows the grief within?

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There’s only the fragile solace of knowing your compassion was real, even if forgotten. It mattered in its moment. Perhaps that is enough — to give with a heart that dares to care, trusting that somewhere, quietly, it leaves its mark on the world.

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