Laugh or cry, you have to keep going- The Broken Pots- A Timeless life-lesson story about starting again

  

Have you ever worked for months on something... only to lose it in a single moment?

 A business fails. A dream slips away. Years of hard work disappear because of one event you never saw coming.

And then comes the hardest question of all...

Would you have the courage to begin again, knowing it could happen all over again?

 An ancient folktale about a humble potter reveals a simple truth that has helped people face failure, loss, and uncertainty for generations.

 The Broken Pots

Long, long ago, when every village had its own well, its own banyan tree, and its own potter, there lived a craftsman named Girdhar. People came from distant villages to buy his earthen pots. They were smooth, strong, and beautifully shaped. Some said Girdhar had magic in his hands. He would only smile. It is only patience, he would say.

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One year, after a generous monsoon, the harvest was expected to be plentiful. The great market at the nearby town was only a few days away. It came but once a year. Whatever a family earned there had to last through the seasons ahead.

 
For weeks, Girdhar worked from dawn until the stars appeared.

He dug the finest clay from the riverbank.

He kneaded it until it was soft as butter.

He shaped each pot with careful hands.

He fired them slowly, rejecting even the slightest crack.

 His wife often urged him to rest.

"You've done enough," she said.

Girdhar smiled.

"I will rest when the last pot is ready."

 At last the day arrived.

Before sunrise, Girdhar loaded his finest pots onto the bullock cart. His wife carefully tied a small cloth bundle of rotis and onions and tucked it beside the driver's seat.

"You may not find time to eat," she said.

Girdhar smiled and thanked her.

As he climbed onto the cart, his old mother came to the doorway. She did not inspect the pots or ask when he would return.

She simply looked at her son for a long moment and said,

"Go with a quiet heart."

Girdhar bowed his head, touched her feet, and set the bullocks on their way.

 The road to the town crossed a shallow river. During most of the year it was little more than a stream. But that night, rain had fallen far away in the hills.

The water looked harmless. As the bullocks reached the middle, a sudden rush of muddy water came roaring downstream. The frightened animals lurched sideways.

 The cart tipped. One by one, the pots slipped into the river. Some struck the rocks and shattered. Others disappeared beneath the swirling water. Within moments, months of careful work had vanished.

Girdhar stood knee-deep in the river, watching the current carry away the last broken pieces. There was nothing to save.

 

He slowly walked to the riverbank and sank onto a large stone.

 For the first time in many years, his hands lay empty.

Months of patient work had vanished in a few heartbeats.

He lowered his head and sat without moving, listening only to the sound of the rushing water.

The pain was deep, but there was no one to blame.

No anger could gather the broken pots.

No tears could call them back.

After a long while, he went to his empty cart, turned it around and slowly returned home

 

 For two days the potter did not enter his workshop. The wheel stood still.

 The lump of clay beside it slowly dried and cracked.  No one spoke much. There was nothing to say.

 

On the third morning, before the village had fully awakened, Girdhar walked alone to the river. He filled his basket with fresh clay.

When he returned, a shepherd boy who had heard about the accident stopped to watch. Uncle, the boy asked, after losing everything, how do you know it won't happen again? Girdhar rested the clay upon the wheel.

 For a long moment he said nothing. Then he gave the wheel a gentle push. It began to turn. I don't know, he answered. His hands shaped the wet clay into the beginning of another pot.

 Outside, the wind stirred the leaves of the banyan tree.

Whether another flood would come, no one could tell.

Whether these pots would reach the market, no one knew.

But the wheel kept turning.

And Girdhar's hands did not forget their work.

 

Long afterwards, the elders of that village would tell the children this story whenever life seemed unfair.

Not because Girdhar became rich.

No one remembered whether he did.

Not because fortune finally smiled upon him.

No one knew if it did.

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They remembered him because, after life had taken everything he had made, but there was no option to moving on with life.  For in this world, no one can command the harvest. But each morning, we are free to sow the seed.