"The Potter’s Hands"

In a quiet village nestled between green hills and winding rivers, lived an old potter named Harun. His hands, though wrinkled and worn, shaped clay with the grace of a dancer and the wisdom of ages. His pots weren’t just containers—they told stories. People believed that each curve, each etched line, held pieces of something greater than memory. They said Harun remembered things no man should.

Harun never married, had no children, and spent his days alone in a modest hut. He spoke little, but when he did, his words carried weight, as if drawn from deep wells of time. Children whispered he had lived before and came back knowing things from another life.

One day, a young boy named Malik came to the potter’s hut. He was curious, full of energy, and troubled by anger. His father had left their family, and Malik carried the wound like a burning coal.

"Old man," he said, "my mother says you know things. I want to know why life is so unfair. Why does my father leave, and why do bad people get away with everything?"

Harun looked at him with eyes like still water. "Come," he said simply. He handed the boy a lump of clay.

"Shape it," he instructed. Malik frowned but did as he was told. His hands clumsily molded a crooked pot, uneven and ugly.

Harun smiled gently. "Now break it."

Malik blinked. "What?"

"Break it," Harun repeated.

He did.

"Now make it whole again."

"I can’t," Malik muttered.

Harun nodded. "That is life. What is broken cannot be made as it once was. But it can be reshaped."

He picked up his own clay and began to work. His fingers moved with memory. A perfect vase took shape before Malik’s eyes. It was smooth and symmetrical, beautiful in its simplicity.

"When I was your age," Harun began, "I lived in another place, another life. I was not a potter. I was a soldier. I took lives instead of creating them. I believed power made me invincible. I did terrible things in the name of pride."

Malik’s eyes widened. "You remember?"

Harun nodded. "When this life began, I was born with a strange guilt I could not explain. As a child, I’d dream of fire, swords, screams. It haunted me. I sought peace in many things, but only in clay did I find it."

"Why clay?"

"Because it taught me the power to create rather than destroy. Every time I shape a pot, I feel like I give back a little of what I once took."

Malik was quiet.

Harun leaned forward. "Your father’s leaving was not your fault. People act from their own wounds, sometimes even from pains they don’t understand. What matters is not what others do to you—but what you do with your hurt."

He handed Malik a fresh lump of clay. "Try again. But this time, shape it with care. Let your pain go through your hands, not your fists."

Malik shaped the clay again. This time it was better—still imperfect, but stronger, more centered.

Over the next few weeks, Malik visited Harun every day. He learned to mold pots, and with each one, his anger softened. He began to laugh, to listen, and to grow. One day he asked, "If you could live again, would you change your past life?"

Harun smiled. "I already did. This life is my second chance."

Moral:

The wounds we carry—whether from this life or another—are not meant to define us, but to guide us. What we destroy through anger can be rebuilt through creation, patience, and forgiveness.