Untitled Award

Long ago, in a certain city, lived a very wealthy man named Faqir Chand. Though he was the richest merchant in town, he was extremely miserly. Short in height, with a protruding belly, he waddled when he walked, looking like a rolling ball. His wife, however, was kind-hearted and generous. She regularly helped the poor.

Every Tuesday, beggars and disabled people gathered outside Faqir Chand’s mansion because his wife distributed flour to them. Faqir Chand disliked this practice but tolerated it out of respect for his wife. Once, he argued that charity was useless, claiming beggars wasted it on bad habits. His wife calmly replied that their wealth itself was the result of charity and reminded him of the time when he had nothing. This reminder irritated him deeply, as he liked to present himself as a man of noble background.

Like other wealthy men, Faqir Chand was obsessed with increasing his fortune. His warehouses were filled with sugar, oil, wheat, rice, and pulses. When prices rose, he was pleased; when they fell, he lost sleep. One year, drought struck the country. Grain disappeared from markets, and prices soared. Seeing an opportunity, Faqir Chand stopped selling grain. Even the Tuesday charity was halted.

One morning, while Faqir Chand relaxed after breakfast, a poor man came and begged for a few measures of chickpeas to feed his starving children. Faqir Chand angrily drove him away. The next day, the man returned carrying a brass water pot. Once again, Faqir Chand scolded him, but the man calmly interrupted and asked if he recognized the pot. It had Faqir Chand’s name engraved on it.

The man reminded him that twenty years earlier, when Faqir Chand was new to the city and penniless, he had mortgaged this pot to Ramu, the snack seller, for four annas and written a receipt. He had forgotten to redeem it. The poor man said he had only come to return Faqir Chand’s property.

Faqir Chand’s anger vanished instantly. He nervously looked around and offered to pay four annas to retrieve the pot. Ramu laughed and explained that times had changed. Back then, Faqir Chand owned nothing but that pot and wore torn clothes; now he was a millionaire. Such a rare pot, bearing his name and proof of his past poverty, was worth far more than four annas.

Faqir Chand offered five rupees, then more, but Ramu refused. He said he could auction the pot in the market, revealing to the entire city who Faqir Chand once was. With that threat, Ramu left, keeping the pot.

That night, Faqir Chand could not eat or sleep. Fear consumed him—if his secret became public, his honor would be destroyed. Memories of his past flooded his mind. He recalled arriving in the city on foot, starving and unknown. Desperate, he had mortgaged his brass pot, bought cheap chickpeas, and survived.

Later, he found work as a clerk for a wealthy merchant. Through hard work, he gained trust and access to the treasury. When the merchant suddenly died, greed overtook him, and he secretly took a bag of money. After disputes among the heirs, Faqir Chand left, opened a small shop, and gradually became wealthy.

The next morning, unable to bear the fear, he went to Ramu’s house. The pot hung from the roof, tied with a rope. Faqir Chand offered one thousand rupees for it. Ramu refused and returned the pot without taking any money. He reminded Faqir Chand that he, too, had once been poor and belonged to the same class as starving people now dying of hunger.

Ramu urged him to open his warehouses and save lives. Shamed and awakened, Faqir Chand admitted the truth and promised to distribute free grain. For an entire week, his warehouses fed the poor. He also donated money and clothes, inspiring others to do the same. Everyone praised his generosity, but only Ramu knew that the real miracle was caused by a simple brass pot.