One hot afternoon, I slipped away into the woods to escape chores and thought. I carried nothing but a water jar and the weight of my questions. In a small clearing, I found an old man meditating beneath a banyan tree. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved softly in a Sanskrit mantra I almost recognized from my earlier life.
I settled on a nearby rock, pretending to drink water, but really listening. His words were like a quiet stream of sound, neither loud nor hurried. The silence around him felt sacred. A few moments later, without opening his eyes, he spoke. "A gift that lies hidden is like fire in a jar. One day it will break free." His voice was gentle but wise.
I jumped at the sound, heart pounding, but managed a smile. "My father says I have a sharp mind," I ventured, unsure. The sage opened his eyes, revealing pupils deep and calm like wells of water. He chuckled softly. "Many fathers say such things. But not all sons believe them."
For a long time we said nothing more, just inhaling the quiet. I felt both out of place and strangely at peace. Finally, the sage looked at my dusty hands and feet. "You do the work of a potter," he said, "but your eyes have seen other worlds."
I frowned. How could this stranger know? He had not heard the river's voice or the thunder's whisper. I merely observed, but he seemed to know.
"Are you a learned man, sir? My teachers never praised me so," I asked.
He smiled. "No, boy. I am no scholar by worldly measures. I read dust and stone more than books. Tell me — what do you carry in your heart tonight?"
His question caught me off guard. I looked at the carved symbols on my clay pot that I still carried — my name. "I carry many things," I answered honestly, "even those I barely understand."
His eyes grew distant as I spoke. Then he asked, "Are they dreams you carry, or the weight of truth?"
I thought of nothing to say. The question itself felt as weighty as a full moon. Finally I whispered, "Both, perhaps."
He nodded and closed his eyes again, as if satisfied. He took a white pebble from his robes and placed it in my hand. It was smooth and cold. "A small truth," he said. "Let it remind you: power grows quietly, like seeds in darkness. Use it when time is right."
I stared at the stone. It felt heavier than any jar of water I had lifted. "How do you know this?" I asked softly.
He only smiled, and as I watched, the sage faded back into the heat haze, returning to his meditation. In that silence, I realized one truth that even the sage hinted at: I was not alone in carrying secrets. Quiet and unseen as I was, the world had more mysteries than I could ever imagine.