Master and Minds

Master Rihan was not a teacher in the usual sense. He taught no fixed syllabus, gave no tests, and never raised his voice. Yet his classroom was always full, and his students rarely left without their minds changed—and often, their hearts.

He taught under a banyan tree in the heart of a quiet village. People called him “Master,” though no one could say where he studied or if he held any titles. What he did hold was the attention of minds eager to know—not just facts, but truths.

His disciples were a curious lot—young, bright, and unusually thoughtful for their age. There was Ira, who could memorize anything but struggled to believe in what she read. There was Naren, who questioned everything, even his own questions. And then there was little Sameer, the youngest, who never spoke unless asked but listened like the world was being whispered only to him.

One morning, Master Rihan sat with them under the tree, a pot of water before him. He picked up a ladle and poured a single drop into the dry soil.

“What did I just do?” he asked.

“You watered the ground,” Ira answered quickly.

“No,” said Naren. “One drop can’t water anything. It vanished. Nothing happened.”

Sameer watched in silence.

Rihan smiled. “Interesting. Ira sees a purpose. Naren sees a waste. And Sameer?”

Sameer hesitated, then whispered, “The ground drank the drop. Maybe... it remembers it.”

Master Rihan’s eyes twinkled. “Three minds. Three truths. All correct, yet all incomplete.”

This was his way. He never gave answers, only more questions. Each lesson was a riddle disguised as simplicity.

One day, Ira grew frustrated. “Why won’t you just tell us the truth, Master? You always give us questions. Why not answers?”

He looked at her, not with impatience, but with the quiet intensity of someone who sees a door ready to open.

“Because answers are still. But questions… they walk.”

“What does that mean?” Naren frowned.

“It means,” Rihan said, “a true answer ends the journey. But the right question? It leads you forward, through valleys of doubt and mountains of discovery. You cannot grow if you only arrive.”

Sameer’s eyes lit up like lanterns.

From then on, the lessons changed. Or perhaps the students had.

Master Rihan once drew a single circle in the sand and sat beside it.

“This is what you know,” he said.

Then he drew a much larger circle around it. “This is what you know you don’t know.”

He drew an even bigger circle beyond that. “And this? This is what you don’t even know you don’t know.”

Naren leaned forward, awe and humility battling in his face. “Then what are we really learning, Master?”

Rihan chuckled softly. “To be aware of the circles.”

Seasons passed. The banyan tree dropped golden leaves, then grew them again. The disciples grew, too—not just taller, but inward. Ira stopped seeking perfection in every sentence. She began writing her own thoughts, messy and powerful. Naren softened, letting wonder live beside skepticism. Sameer started asking questions—quiet ones, beautiful ones.

Then came the day they feared.

Master Rihan announced he would be leaving.

“Where?” Ira asked, voice trembling.

“There are others waiting under different trees,” he replied.

“But we’re not ready!” Sameer cried. “We have so many questions still!”

Rihan smiled. “Exactly. That is how I know you are ready.”

He handed each of them a small book. Blank pages, no title.

“Your minds are strong now. These are your journals. Not for answers, but for the questions you meet along the way. Fill them well.”

The next morning, he was gone. No farewell, no ceremony. Only footprints in the dirt, and the scent of burnt sandalwood where he once sat.

At first, the three students felt lost. But then, the banyan tree called to them like an old friend, and they returned.

They taught each other. They debated, scribbled in their journals, asked wild, unanswerable questions. Word spread, and soon others came—villagers, travelers, children with curious eyes.

Ira taught them how to think bravely. Naren challenged them to doubt with grace. Sameer listened and told stories that stirred the soul.

Years later, an old traveler arrived. He sat under the banyan tree, watching the three grown students now masters in their own right.

He smiled, pulled out a small, tattered journal of his own, and left it in the crook of the tree.

It was signed: Rihan.

Inside, one line was written:

“May your questions forever outrun your answers.”

Moral of the Story:

True learning begins not with answers, but with the courage to ask—and live—the right questions.