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LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR
The tree of Bharat's ancient culture has spread its green foliage and continued to blossom luxuriantly in spite of the storms of numerous invasions and subjugations over the centuries. I have often wondered what could have fostered its roots that it has thus withstood the ravages of time and violence. I believe it was the spirit of self-sacrifice that sustained Bharat's culture.
Over three hundred years ago, Akbar's son; Salim, invaded Mevad and, according to the usual custom, his army pillaged its food supply from the country under attack. Salim's General commanded one of his subordinates to obtain grams, for the horses, from the fields.
The officer led a small contingent in search of fields of gram. It was a hilly region; far away, there were a few patches of green, but there was no human being in sight who could guide them. He was about to change his direction when he spied a lonely hut. In answer to his peremptory knock, a sturdy old man opened the door. The officer ordered him to lead them to a gram field. The ancient's swarthy face became darker on hearing this. He dared not disobey •the command; he must conduct them to a gram field—but whose? For a few seconds his heart was torn with conflict. Then, in a calm voice, he said: "Follow me, Sir."
Soon they came upon a gram field, green with the
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