Ishan’s pots didn’t just crack. They cracked in the most dramatic ways. One fell apart so quickly it looked like a clay pancake.
Another twisted into such a strange shape that his dad asked, “Is that… a lamp or a melted cheese ?”
Whenever a pot broke, Ishan’s mind would whisper,
" You are not good enough." That voice always sounded extra dramatic.
When the village announced a lamp competition, Ishan wanted to join. But the voice in his head got louder:
" Why try? You’ll just make another cheese sculpture. "
Even so, he walked to the workshop. His hands shook so much that the clay slipped off the wheel and rolled behind a bucket.
“Aha!” Ishan grabbed it. “Stop fighting me!”
The clay looked like it was wiggling. He pushed it, but it just turned into a sad lump. He almost tossed it out the window.
Suddenly, his grandmother appeared—because grandmothers in stories always appear at the perfect moment.
“Why are you wrestling the clay?” she asked.
“I’m not wrestling! I’m… losing!”
She picked up the lump and smiled. “This clay is not your enemy. And that mean voice in your head? That’s just a grumpy old mosquito. Swat it and start again.”
Ishan blinked. A mosquito? That idea completely changed his way of thinking.
He started over—slowly, calmly. When a pot leaned sideways, he said, “Nice try, lumpy.” When another cracked, he shrugged. “Oops. Lesson learned.”
After twenty-three and a half tries, he finally made a lamp. It wasn’t perfect. But when it glowed at the festival, it stayed steady, not like his earlier pancake disaster. Ishan didn’t win first prize, but he smiled anyway. He had finally stopped listening to the mosquito
Moral:
Failure isn’t who you are. It’s just clay waiting to be reshaped.
No comments:
Post a Comment