Long ago, in days when journeys were made on foot or by bullock cart, a lone traveller set out for a village named Kunjabangarh of Kalinga—a place known for its natural wealth. Herbal roots, wild honey, rare flowers, and sacred herbs grew in abundance there. People came from far and wide to collect them—some to heal, some to trade, some simply to learn.
The traveller wore simple clothes and carried a cloth bag with a few coins, a bottle of water, and a modest meal. The road was long and dusty, winding through dry fields and wooded stretches. Birds chirped lazily, and the hot sun beat down overhead. The journey had been tiring, but the hope of reaching the village and collecting nature’s gifts gave him strength.
After hours of walking, he reached a place where the road split into three paths. There were no signs, no milestones, no other people—only trees swaying in the hot breeze. He looked in all directions but couldn’t guess which path led to the village.
As he stood in confusion, he noticed an old man sitting under the wide shade of a banyan tree nearby. The man was hunched over, stitching a piece of torn cloth with his bare hands. His beard was white, his clothes worn but clean, and his body looked fragile yet sturdy.
Approaching him, the traveller asked politely, “Could you tell me which path leads to Kunjabangarh?”
The old man didn’t reply.
Thinking perhaps he hadn’t been heard, the traveller asked again, louder this time.
Still no answer.
He asked a third time, now with impatience and louder. But the old man did not lift his eyes or acknowledge his presence. His hands moved calmly, stitch by stitch.
The traveller’s patience broke. Feeling insulted, he muttered, “If this man weren’t so old, I would have shown him some manners!” Angry and disappointed, he turned away and sat down on a stone under a nearby tree, glancing back occasionally with irritation.
Some minutes passed. The heat had dulled the world. Suddenly he saw another person walking down the same road. This one appeared younger, with a straight back and a calm face. He was also confused by the three way road. He looked if anyone could help him finding the right way. He easily noticed the old man stitching under banyan tree.
Without hesitation, the younger traveller walked toward the old man under the tree and greeted him with respect. “Excuse me, kind sir. Could you please tell me the right path to Kunjabangarh?”
The old man didn’t respond.
The younger traveller asked again. Then a third time. Still nothing.
But instead of getting upset, he smiled. He folded his hands, bowed deeply in a respectful pranam, and said, “Thank you.” With quiet trust, he picked one of the paths and started walking down it.
The first traveller, still watching from the stone, rushed toward him. “Wait! You’re going to Kunjabangarh? Please let me join you. I’m headed there too.”
The younger traveller nodded, and the two began walking together under the tall trees that lined the forest path.
On their way, the first traveller couldn’t stop asking the second . “That old man back there—I asked him so many time the road to Kunjabangarh and he didn’t even blink. I was close to hitting him. He acted like a fool. But you bowed to him? You even thanked him! For what?”
The younger one stopped walking and turned, his face calm but firm. “How dare you call my teacher a fool. "
The first traveller was startled. “Your teacher? But he didn’t say a single word to you, even it seems you have never met him before!”
“Yes true,” the other said with a soft smile. “He didn’t helped me out, but I learned from him anyway.”
The older one frowned, curious now.
“I watched him,” the younger one explained. “He was fully absorbed in what he was doing. I asked once, twice, three times—but he remained focused on his work, stitching that cloth as if the world didn’t exist. And in that silence, I saw something.”
The older traveller listened, now quietly.
“I realized he was teaching by doing. First, he showed me the value of complete focus—how, when we do our duty, we must do it with total attention, undistracted. He wasn’t being rude. He was simply absorbed in the task before him.”
“And second,” he continued, “I saw a reflection of deep meditation in him. When one meditates, they must go inward, not be pulled by noise around them. That old man was so still, so inward, that not even a loud question disturbed his peace.
The young traveller added” The attitude of oldman inspired me that " if I would meditate to God, I should not pay attention to anything that comes across so to get presence of my God.
The first traveller was stunned for a moment listening this and conveyed gratitude with a Pranam to the young second traveller.
Moral:
Sometimes, silence speaks louder than words. True teachers may never utter a sentence, but through focus, calm, and presence, they reveal lessons to those ready to learn. Ego blocks the eyes; humility opens them.
