Vedantic Tales : I Carry

Prema removed Niranjan empty bowl. It is not the sun we need now, she said. sighing. Can you not pray for rain? Surely the Lord will hear you.

Niranjan shook his head and smiled at the simplicity of his wife. Have I not prayed? Everything depends on His will. Prayer and worship do not cause rain any more than a child's request causes its fulfillment. The request is necessary, of course, but whether it will be granted or not depends on the will of the mother. Well, never mind. Why should you trouble your head about these subtleties? He went back into the courtyard and sat again at the manuscript.

Bring me the ink pot and pen, he called. This is truly a deplorable mistake! Again he tapped the page and shook his head, incredulous that a scholar could have so erred. The original was "I give", there can be no doubt. A copyist should never meddle with manuscripts; though perhaps his eyesight was poor and are similar.

As Niranjan muttered thus to himself, Prema brought his ink pot and pen. The baked earth was hot on the soles of her feet as she ran across the courtyard. There was a sadness in her heart, the cause of which she could not place the heat, perhaps, or the threat of famine to the village.

Niranjan dipped his pen into the ink as she held the jar for him. Then emphatically he struck two black lines across, I carry, and wrote above it in a neat hand. I give.

There, he said, it is now as it was meant to be. The Lord has graciously made me His instrument in correcting this mistake.

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