The Brahmin's Dream

In a small village, there lived a poor Brahmin named Swabhavakripa. He was alone and had no family. He lived on alms and donations from kind people.

One day, a wealthy merchant gave him a large pot filled to the brim with fine white flour. The Brahmin was overjoyed. “This is enough food for a week!” he thought. ” Or… maybe I should save it.”

He took the pot home and hung it on a hook near his bed so he could protect it from rats. That night, after eating a simple meal, he lay on his cot and stared at the pot. The moonlight shone on it, making it look like a pot of silver.

His mind began to wander. “This pot is full of flour,” he thought. “If a famine comes to the land, the price of flour will go up. I can sell this pot for at least a hundred silver coins.”

He closed his eyes and smiled. “With a hundred silver coins, I will buy a pair of she-goats. They will have kids every six months. In a few years, I will have a whole herd of goats. I will sell the goats and buy cows and buffaloes. I will sell their milk and butter and make thousands of gold coins.”

His dream grew bigger. “I will build a huge mansion with four wings. I will have servants and a beautiful garden. Then, a rich Brahmin will come and offer his beautiful daughter in marriage to me. We will have a son. I will name him Somasharma.”

The Brahmin chuckled in his sleep. “Somasharma will be a naughty boy. One day, he will crawl into the kitchen near the fire. I will be reading a book. I will shout to my wife, ‘Darling! Look at our son! He is in danger!’ But she will be busy with housework and won’t hear me.”

The Brahmin frowned, getting angry at his imaginary wife. “The boy will get closer to the fire. I will have to get up myself. I will run to him and… I will kick him away from the danger!”

In his sleep, the Brahmin really did kick out his leg—hard! CRASH!

His foot hit the pot of flour hanging right above him. The pot shattered into a hundred pieces. Poof! A cloud of white flour rained down on the poor Brahmin. It covered his face, his bed, and the floor. He coughed and sputtered, waking up with a start.

He looked around in the darkness. There was no mansion. No cows. No wife. No son. There was only broken pottery and spilt flour all over his face.

He realized sadly that his beautiful life was just a dream, and because he was too busy dreaming instead of working, he had lost the little food he actually had.

Moral of the Story: Hard work builds a future; daydreams build nothing but air castles.

Moral of the Story: Do not build castles in the air. Action is better than just dreaming.