Once, in a remote and humble village, lived a man whose life was marked by simplicity and hardship. He was poor in every way, alone in the world with no family to care for him and no friends to share his struggles.
Each day, he scrounged what little he
could, often barely enough to fill his belly. But despite his hardships, he
nurtured one small dream: a modest clay pot, hanging by his bed, where he
stored a handful of rice each day, his only possession of value. Though his
meals were meager, he carefully saved a bit of rice every evening, imagining a
better tomorrow. The man had a simple but steadfast plan—once the pot was full,
he would sell the rice and use the money to build himself a brighter future.
One evening, after weeks of
meticulous saving, he noticed that the pot was finally brimming with rice.
Elation washed over him, and he couldn’t help but smile to himself. He thought,
“Tomorrow, I’ll take this rice to the market and sell it. Finally, a little
money of my own!” He lay down to sleep, but excitement kept his mind racing. As
he lay there, his eyes drifted toward the pot, and he began to dream of all the
possibilities it held.
In the depth of his sleep, a vivid
dream unfolded. He saw himself selling the rice for a handsome price, the first
real money he’d ever held. With that money, he bought eggs, imagining a clutch
that would soon hatch into tiny, chirping chicks. These chicks, he dreamed,
would grow into plump hens, which he could sell for even more money. His mind
leaped ahead: with his earnings, he would buy goats, whose little ones would
multiply until he had a full herd. Soon, he’d exchange the goats for cows and
buffaloes, filling his life with the richness of milk, which he would turn into
butter and curd. The marketplace, he imagined, would soon bustle with customers
eager for his creamy dairy, and his wealth would grow and grow.
In this splendid vision, he saw
himself building a grand house, much finer than any he’d ever lived in, and his
success was the talk of the village. The local men marveled at his riches, and
a prominent man came to him, asking if he would marry his beautiful daughter.
The man dreamed on, now picturing a happy family with a child of his own—a
lively, mischievous boy, full of laughter and energy. In the dream, his son was
running around the house, playing and causing a noisy commotion. Growing a bit
impatient with the racket, he reached for a stick, intending to teach the child
a little discipline.
Caught up in the scene, he reached
out in real life, grasping the stick near his bed as if it were part of his
dream. Still half-asleep, he waved the stick in the air. But in his eagerness,
he accidentally struck the clay pot hanging beside him. With a loud crack, it
shattered, spilling his treasured rice all over the floor. Shock jolted him
awake, and he gazed in horror at the mess—a muddied heap of rice scattered
across the ground, ruined and worthless.
Staring at the remnants of his shattered pot, the man felt the weight of his lost hopes settle upon him. All those dreams—chickens, goats, buffaloes, even his imaginary family—had vanished as quickly as they had appeared, disappearing into thin air like the rice now scattered and spoiled on the floor. In that somber moment, he realized the folly of allowing his fantasies to drift so far beyond his reality. He had focused so intently on tomorrow that he had forgotten the fragile gift of the present.
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