You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the Carpenter and the Broken Door taught the village what true freedom was.
My name is Nanda, a boy barely twelve, known more for shadowing my father’s footsteps than doing much of use. My father, Jaya, was the village’s only carpenter—one who believed more in silence than in speed, and more in patience than praise. I thought him slow, but everyone else called him wise.
Now, our village sat nestled between the Banyan forest and the banks of the Nadi River, in a region not far from where the Enlightened One, the Buddha, had once walked. People remembered his teachings, though not all lived by them. Our lives, like most, were ruled by our cravings for success, wealth, or simply being noticed.
It was mid-summer when Bhumi, the richest merchant in the village, stormed into our workshop. His voice thundered louder than the storm clouds behind him.
“My door has broken again, Carpenter!” he barked, eyes wide with anger. “Fix it! This time, make it strong. I don’t want it falling over every time someone pushes it even a little!”
Father simply nodded, as calm as the still evening pond. “It is a door, sir,” he said, “not a wall.”
Bhumi glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Doors are meant to open.”
Father told me to fetch his tools—I groaned but obeyed. When we reached Bhumi’s home, it was clear what he meant. The door wasn’t just broken—it had been torn from its hinges and forced open. A simple wooden plank, now splintered and bent, leaned against the frame.
Bhumi folded his arms. “This is the third time. Why do you make it so light? I want strength. Make it thick, sealed, and locked tight. How else can I protect what is mine?”
Father observed the doorframe in silence. Then, with startling gentleness, he said, “Sometimes the things we try hardest to protect become the burdens that break us.”
I didn’t understand then, and clearly, neither did Bhumi.
Still, he allowed Father to work. But something strange happened. Father didn’t build a heavier door. He built a lighter one—a beautiful frame of smooth wood, balanced by simple hinges. It swung perfectly. Bhumi was furious.
“This is lighter than before!”
“It won’t resist,” Father replied, “It will yield. Like a tree that bends in the wind is not broken.”
Bhumi snorted and walked away.
A week later, during festival night, a fire broke out in the merchant’s home—someone had knocked over an oil lamp. Panic swept the courtyard. Everyone ran for water, but Bhumi—he was trapped inside.
The villagers clawed at windows and walls. But then, one remembered the door. Light. Yielding. Open.
We rushed. It swung aside with ease. Bhumi stumbled out, choking but alive.
He never looked at doors the same way again.
That night, I sat beside Father under the moon.
“Why didn’t you give him what he wanted?” I asked.
He smiled softly. “Because fear builds walls, Nanda. But wisdom builds doors—and doors set us free.”
And in that moment, I understood. Not all strength is about holding firm. Sometimes, the greatest strength lies in letting go.
I walked home that night, not as a boy who followed footsteps, but as someone beginning to understand the path.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there the day the Carpenter and the Broken Door taught the village what true freedom was.
My name is Nanda, a boy barely twelve, known more for shadowing my father’s footsteps than doing much of use. My father, Jaya, was the village’s only carpenter—one who believed more in silence than in speed, and more in patience than praise. I thought him slow, but everyone else called him wise.
Now, our village sat nestled between the Banyan forest and the banks of the Nadi River, in a region not far from where the Enlightened One, the Buddha, had once walked. People remembered his teachings, though not all lived by them. Our lives, like most, were ruled by our cravings for success, wealth, or simply being noticed.
It was mid-summer when Bhumi, the richest merchant in the village, stormed into our workshop. His voice thundered louder than the storm clouds behind him.
“My door has broken again, Carpenter!” he barked, eyes wide with anger. “Fix it! This time, make it strong. I don’t want it falling over every time someone pushes it even a little!”
Father simply nodded, as calm as the still evening pond. “It is a door, sir,” he said, “not a wall.”
Bhumi glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Doors are meant to open.”
Father told me to fetch his tools—I groaned but obeyed. When we reached Bhumi’s home, it was clear what he meant. The door wasn’t just broken—it had been torn from its hinges and forced open. A simple wooden plank, now splintered and bent, leaned against the frame.
Bhumi folded his arms. “This is the third time. Why do you make it so light? I want strength. Make it thick, sealed, and locked tight. How else can I protect what is mine?”
Father observed the doorframe in silence. Then, with startling gentleness, he said, “Sometimes the things we try hardest to protect become the burdens that break us.”
I didn’t understand then, and clearly, neither did Bhumi.
Still, he allowed Father to work. But something strange happened. Father didn’t build a heavier door. He built a lighter one—a beautiful frame of smooth wood, balanced by simple hinges. It swung perfectly. Bhumi was furious.
“This is lighter than before!”
“It won’t resist,” Father replied, “It will yield. Like a tree that bends in the wind is not broken.”
Bhumi snorted and walked away.
A week later, during festival night, a fire broke out in the merchant’s home—someone had knocked over an oil lamp. Panic swept the courtyard. Everyone ran for water, but Bhumi—he was trapped inside.
The villagers clawed at windows and walls. But then, one remembered the door. Light. Yielding. Open.
We rushed. It swung aside with ease. Bhumi stumbled out, choking but alive.
He never looked at doors the same way again.
That night, I sat beside Father under the moon.
“Why didn’t you give him what he wanted?” I asked.
He smiled softly. “Because fear builds walls, Nanda. But wisdom builds doors—and doors set us free.”
And in that moment, I understood. Not all strength is about holding firm. Sometimes, the greatest strength lies in letting go.
I walked home that night, not as a boy who followed footsteps, but as someone beginning to understand the path.
