They say that some places in life aren’t just places to satisfy hunger, but every bite there satisfies a person’s heart. One such place was a small dhaba on the highway. The owner of that dhaba was Ramkishan Baba. He was around 70 years old, his face full of wrinkles, a white dhoti kurta, and a faded turban on his head. His eyes were definitely tired, but they held a strange sparkle, as if they had seen so much and yet never lost hope. The dhaba was very simple: tin sheets on the roof, old wooden benches, and the aroma and smoke wafting from the earthen stove. Truck drivers and villagers often stopped by to eat there. But Baba’s heart was happiest when uniformed soldiers stopped by. That evening, dust was still flying on the road, and the sun was about to set. Just then, some tired soldiers got off their trucks and headed towards the dhaba. Their uniforms were caked with dust, their faces drenched with sweat. One of them smiled and said. Baba, will I get something to eat? Baba’s face lit up. “Come, son, come. There’s always room for you here.” Dragging his old legs, Baba began rolling out the dough. Rotis began baking on the stove.

The aroma of lentils wafted through the air. Soon, hot food was served in earthen pots, along with tea, onions, and green chilies. The soldiers pounced on it with hunger. While eating, one offered money and asked, “Baba, how much is it?” Baba folded his hands. “Son, it would be an insult to me to ask for money for you. You risk your lives. This food is from me. A father for his sons.” Hearing his words, the soldiers stood up. They all saluted Baba and said, “Jai Hind, Baba.” Baba’s eyes were moist at that moment, but a smile of satisfaction was on his face. Days passed like this.

The soldiers returned to their duties, and Baba went about his daily life. But his small act had created an indelible place in the soldiers’ hearts. Who knew that in the days to come, this very relationship, this very closeness, would save Baba’s life? Night had spread across the highway like a dark blanket. A strange uneasiness hung in the air. The only sound was the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rumble of passing trucks. Ramkishan Baba placed an earthen lamp outside his dhaba and began to extinguish the last flame of the stove. Just then, four or five miscreants arrived on motorcycles, sticks in their hands, a terrifying intoxication in their eyes. “Hey, old man, I heard you serve free food,” one said with a laugh. Baba replied fearfully, “Son, feeding young people is an honor for me.” The miscreant angrily kicked the table. “If you want to show respect, show us. Take out the money, or we’ll destroy this dhaba.” Baba stood trembling. His wrinkled hands folded. Tears welled up in his eyes. “Son, this is a small dhaba. We barely make ends meet on our daily earnings. Where will I get the money? It’s too much.” The second thug screamed and began smashing the chairs in the dhaba. Glass glasses shattered on the ground. The earthen stove was kicked and overturned. Baba’s eyes began to tear. He stood terrified, as if the whole world was collapsing before him. Just then, a bright light suddenly flashed on the distant highway. Dozens of headlights flashed simultaneously. Large trucks and trucks rumbled to a stop outside the dhaba. Their doors opened simultaneously, and the same young men emerged. The same ones who had once eaten roti and dal here. The sound of their boots pierced the silence of the night. The thugs froze. Their faces turned pale. One young man stepped forward and roared, “Who dared touch the house we call Baba’s home?” Baba watched, trembling.

There was relief in his eyes, but a question in his heart. Would these young men, like his sons, really protect his dhaba today? And the answer was right there. A circle of uniformed soldiers, their eyes reflecting only one thing: Baba is no longer alone. The thugs, standing amid the broken utensils and scattered vegetables at the dhaba, were now drenched in sweat. Their motorcycles were parked to the side. But upon seeing the line of soldiers standing in front, their feet seemed to sink into the ground. A soldier stepped forward and kicked the stick-wielding thug’s hand. The stick fell to the ground, resounding. These hands are made for hard work, not for beating the poor. The thugs tried to run away, but the circle of soldiers grew tighter. One roared, “You haven’t just teased an old man. You’ve teased our Baba, and laying hands on Baba means inviting a fight with the entire army.” Baba was watching all this. Fear had now been replaced by pride in his eyes. Tears were flowing, but those tears weren’t of weakness; they were of protecting the soldiers like his sons. A crowd had slowly gathered. People who had previously been silently watching the spectacle now trembled at the strength and respect of the soldiers. Hey, this is the same old man who used to give the soldiers free food.

He feeds us. Whispers spread everywhere. The soldiers caught hold of the scoundrels and threw them on the ground. Their voices were shaking. Forgive us. We will never do this again. Then a soldier caught hold of his collar and looking into his eyes said. The smell of Baba’s sweat is a blessing for us. If I hurt his heart, then understand that I have hurt the soul of the country. All the arrogance of the scoundrels had vanished now. They started pleading with folded hands. Baba was standing right there. He said with teary eyes, son, don’t take revenge from them. Just teach them this much that humanity is the biggest religion. The soldiers saluted Baba and said in unison, “Your order is our final word.” The miscreants were released. But the news spread throughout the area. Now Baba’s dhaba was no longer just a dhaba. It was an army base. By morning, the news had spread throughout the town. Last night, the soldiers saved Baba’s dhaba. Crowds of people began gathering at the dhaba. Those who had ignored him until yesterday now stood before him with folded hands. Baba sat on a broken chair, a calm look in his eyes and a faint smile on his face. The soldiers hung a sign outside the dhaba, which read in bold letters, “This dhaba runs not on money, but on prayers and sacrifice.” Now, whenever soldiers came, they wouldn’t even place a note in front of Baba. They would say, “Baba, the food you cook is prasad for us.” Baba served each soldier like his own son. He would hand-bake the rotis, add a little more ghee to the dal, and say, “Eat well, son. It takes strength for you. Protecting the country isn’t easy.” Gradually, Baba’s dhaba became a symbol. People began coming from far and wide. Food wasn’t the only thing they could find, but everyone also learned a lesson: humanity, respect, and blessings are the greatest wealth. Government officials came, journalists came, and everyone together dubbed Baba the “Baba of the Regiment.” One day, Baba’s eyes filled with tears when he saw that the soldiers had dedicated a plate from their batch to Baba. “This plate belongs to Baba. No soldier will go hungry from here.” Baba touched the board with trembling hands and whispered, “What more do I need? My sons won’t let me go hungry.” The same broken wooden bench at the dhaba had now become a temple of patriotism. Every tired soldier would sit there, not just to eat, but to receive Baba’s blessings. Respect and humanity are the true wealth.”