Once, in a village of parched souls and silent hopes, there was a man named Kavi. He had spent his life digging wells, not for wealth, but because he could not bear the sight of cracked lips and hollow eyes. He had seen too many wither before their time, their bodies curling into the dust, their spirits evaporating into the sky like the morning mist.
So, he dug. He dug when the sun scorched the land. He dug when the monsoon washed away his efforts. He dug when the wind whispered that it was pointless. And one day, after years of blistered hands and broken bones, the earth finally surrendered. A well was born—deep, endless, brimming with life.
The village gathered around, eyes wide with awe, but no one drank. Kavi laughed at first, thinking they were in disbelief. “Go on,” he said. “The water is yours.”
They stepped forward, looked in, saw their own reflections staring back at them—and stepped away.
One man hesitated. “What if it’s poisoned?”
Another whispered, “What if it’s an illusion?”
A third shrugged, “We have survived without it. Why change now?”
Kavi’s heart twisted. He had fought the earth for them, but they could not fight their fears. He had battled stones, roots, and time, but they could not battle their doubt.
He cupped the water in his own hands, drank deeply, let the coolness flood his soul. “See? It is pure.”
They watched. They nodded. But they did not drink.
Days passed. The well remained full, untouched. The people remained thirsty, stubborn.
One night, an old woman approached Kavi as he sat by the well, staring at its useless beauty. She placed a wrinkled hand on his shoulder and whispered, “You can bring them to the water, Kavi. But their thirst must be their own.”
The weight of her words sank into him like stone.
And so, he stopped making any efforts to make them understand. He stopped coaxing. He stopped mourning their reluctance. Instead, he simply lived.
He drank from the well. He bathed in its cool embrace. His skin glowed, his strength returned, his laughter echoed through the village.
And slowly, one by one, the people began to wonder.
Not because he told them to. Not because he forced them to.
But because he showed them what life could be.
And then—only then—did they begin to drink.
