# A Little Water The other day, I was thinking about a beggar I once saw. He was sitting by the roadside, and someone gave him a glass of water. The way he drank it—with both hands cupped around the glass, his eyes closed as if he were receiving a sacrament—stayed with me for days. We forget, don't we, what thirst really means. We turn a tap and water flows. We open a refrigerator and there is cold water waiting. We have learned to take the elementary for granted. But that beggar knew something we have forgotten: that water, simple water, is a miracle. I began to think about all the things we possess without recognizing their worth. A roof over one's head on a rainy night. A meal when one is truly hungry. The warmth of another person's presence when loneliness threatens to devour you. These things, which for many of us have become mere background to living, are for others the whole substance of happiness. There is a kind of blindness that comes with plenty. We see without seeing. We drink without tasting. We live without feeling the weight and wonder of existence itself. And perhaps this is why the poor sometimes seem richer than the wealthy—not in money or possessions, but in their capacity to be astonished by a glass of water. The philosopher might say that gratitude is the beginning of wisdom. But I think it goes deeper than that. It is about restoring to ordinary things their original mystery. It is about learning to see again as a child sees: everything as a gift, nothing as a given. So I have been trying, in small ways, to practice this. To pause before I drink. To notice the cold silver of water on my tongue. To remember, with something close to reverence, that this simple liquid sustains all life—that in this moment, I am drinking the same water that has fallen as rain for millennia, that has quenched the thirst of countless beings before me. A little water. That is all it takes to remember who we are, and how much we have been given.

A man becomes, in time, slow like a placid river, still as an ancient banyan tree.

The man who once raged like a storm, who swept through the neighborhood with fierce restlessness—he too, one day, becomes slow as a deep river that flows with quiet deliberation. Even the man who once ran about in turmoil, never at peace, becomes still like a tree.

Time transforms a man. As the years pass, as he grows, scars begin to form one by one upon his untouched heart. In the end, there is no such thing as an untouched heart left in this world.

The dearest person will break their word; those you thought so close, some of them will strike like a serpent when the moment comes; the trusted ones, all those grand certainties, will shatter like glass plates, one by one; a few whose blood runs with yours will show you a beast's savage face when time demands it. And then?

Then a man begins, slowly, to lose his faith. He loses the capacity to love, loses trust in everyone around him. Through losing and losing, he learns a truth: in this world, no one belongs to anyone. Man learns only after he has lost.

And so, losing happiness piece by piece, a man becomes, in time, a skeleton made of flesh and bone yet hollow from within, devoid of spirit. Then, even if he wanted to, he cannot rage like a storm anymore; he hears a joke but laughter will not rise from him; in moments of great excitement, he does not stir. Like a lifeless puppet, he becomes merely a mortar and pestle grinding grain, his only work to fulfill his duties.

In truth, sorrow hardens a man; nightmares leave him in peace.

Yet, amid all this, some people suddenly blaze like a volcano, awaken like a radiant sun—when they see that even after everything turns to ash, a small grass-flower still spreads its fragrance; when they understand that amid all this disbelief, this groundless doubt, someone, someone truly loves them, and kisses their forehead with a tenderness that holds no mere carnality; someone holds them to their breast with no calculation, no hidden gain. Yes, then a man suddenly blazes forth again and astonishes everyone.

A desert, given even a little water, will crack open and let a tree emerge; tended with care, that tree will even bloom.