The Weight of Pride

In the quiet village of Chandapur, nestled between fields of mustard and dusty footpaths, lived an old potter named Hariram. For over fifty years, his hands—gnarled and stained with red clay—had shaped vessels that held water, oil, and sometimes even prayers. His pots were known for their strength, their balance, their fine carvings of peacocks, lotuses, and gods. People from nearby towns would travel just to buy one, saying, “A Hariram pot never breaks.”

He wore his reputation like a medal. And with it came a quiet, unshakable pride—not just in his work, but in the idea that no one could do it better.

Then came Sohail.

A young man with city shoes and a gentle voice, Sohail arrived one summer morning. He had studied design and ceramics at an institute far away, but he spoke of tradition with respect, not superiority.

“Could I watch you work, Master?” he asked, standing at the edge of Hariram’s courtyard.

Hariram didn’t look up from his wheel. “Watching won’t teach you anything,” he said. “And I don’t have time to hold anyone’s hand.”

Sohail nodded, unfazed. “Then I’ll learn on my own.”

He rented a small hut near the riverbank, set up a secondhand wheel, and began to work. His pots were different—clean lines, smooth surfaces, no carvings. Some villagers frowned. “Where’s the art in that?” they muttered. But others, especially younger folk and travelers, found them refreshing.

Hariram watched from a distance. At first, he scoffed. “No soul,” he said. “Just smooth emptiness.”

But when he saw a tourist hand Sohail three times the price he charged for a simple lamp, something tightened in his chest.

One evening, he passed by Sohail’s stall. “You call this pottery?” he said, louder than he meant to. “This isn’t heritage. It’s trend.”

Sohail wiped his hands on his apron. “Maybe heritage can grow,” he said softly. “Without breaking, just changing.”

Hariram walked away without answering, but the words stayed with him like a splinter.

That night, he made a decision. He would create one final masterpiece—the greatest pot of his life. Not to sell, not to prove anything to customers, but to remind the world where true craftsmanship lay.

For seven days, he worked without rest. He chose the finest clay, strained it through cloth, kneaded it with care. The form rose tall and graceful, its neck flaring like a blooming flower. He carved vines and birds with a needle-tip tool, each feather and leaf precise. When it was fired and cooled, it gleamed like honey in the sun.

He placed it at the front of his stall with a small sign: “By Hariram – Not for Sale.”

People came. They whispered. They pointed. A man from Delhi offered five thousand rupees. Hariram shook his head.

“It’s not a thing to own,” he said. “It’s a statement.”

Then, one careless moment changed everything.

A little boy, chasing a kite string, stumbled into the table. The pot teetered, fell, and shattered—sharp pieces scattering across the dirt.

Silence fell.

Hariram stood frozen. Not angry. Not loud. Just empty.

He didn’t move for a long time. Then, slowly, he bent to pick up a fragment. His hands trembled.

Sohail arrived quietly. Without a word, he knelt and began gathering the pieces.

“You don’t have to do that,” Hariram said, voice thin.

“I’m not fixing it,” Sohail replied. “I’m just helping carry what’s left.”

Hariram looked at him—really looked—for the first time. He saw not a rival, but someone who understood loss, who respected what had been made, even if it wasn’t his style.

“I spent my whole life making things,” Hariram whispered. “And in one second… nothing.”

Sohail placed a piece in his palm. “Then let’s make something new. Together.”

They sat at the wheel the next morning. Hariram guided the clay at first, his hands leading. Sohail followed, learning the rhythm. Then, slowly, they switched—Sohail shaping the base with his modern ease, Hariram adding a carved rim, a touch of the old.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest.

Word spread. Not of a masterpiece, but of two potters working side by side. Their stall became a quiet attraction—pots that carried both history and hope.

One afternoon, a woman asked, “Whose work is this?”

Hariram paused, then smiled—a small, tired, true smile.

“Ours,” he said.

And for the first time in years, his pride didn’t feel heavy. It felt light. Like something shared, not hoarded.

---

*Moral:*

Pride can build a legacy—or it can break it. But when we let go of the need to be the best, we often become part of something better.