The Ferryman and the Scholar

A young scholar traveled from city to city, carrying nothing but a satchel of books and a great pride in all he had learned.

When he reached the bank of the Narmada, he hired an old ferryman named Govind to take him across.

The river was wide and slow. The scholar, unable to sit quietly, began to speak.

“Tell me, old man, do you know mathematics?”

“No,” said Govind, pulling at the oar.

“Then one quarter of your life is wasted.”

Govind said nothing.

“Do you know philosophy?”

“No.”

“Then half your life is wasted.”

They rowed on in silence.

Near the middle of the river, a cloud the color of iron gathered overhead. Rain struck the water in sheets. The current shifted beneath the boat with a sound like tearing cloth.

“Scholar,” said Govind calmly, “do you know how to swim?”

The young man looked at the churning water and felt his pride loosen like a badly tied knot.

“No,” he said.

Govind looked at him once, then pulled steadily at the oars.

“Then I will try to ensure your whole life is not wasted.”

He brought the boat to the far bank through the storm, moving neither fast nor slow, only steady, reading the current the way another man might read a page.

When they reached the shore, the scholar stepped out and stood in the mud, still holding his satchel.

“You did not argue with me,” he said at last.

“There was no need,” said Govind, coiling his rope. “The river would settle it one way or another.”

The scholar looked at the water, then at the old man’s hands, brown and sure and unhurried.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that I have been filling my satchel from the wrong river.”

Govind smiled and pushed the boat back toward the current.

“That thought,” he said, “is worth every crossing.”

Moral: Knowledge fills a satchel. Wisdom knows which satchel to set down.