In the quiet town of Lalgudi, on a warm afternoon when the Kollidam flowed slow and brown, old Krishna sat on the steps of the river ghat, watching the boys splash about. He had once taught arithmetic in the Board High School, but now he spent his days here, feeding the crows bits of coconut and talking to whoever cared to listen.
Young Sridhar, who should have been at home memorising his history lessons, came and sat beside him, kicking his heels against the stone.
“Sir,” the boy said, “why do people grow old and die? My grandmother says we must all go one day. It seems a great pity.”
Krishna smiled, the kind of slow smile that comes to men who have seen many monsoons. “Ah, Sridhar, that is the price we pay. Nature has given us this fine mind that can think of yesterday and tomorrow. But with that gift comes the knowledge that our time is short. Without something more, such knowledge would sit heavy on the heart.”
He pointed to a bright kingfisher diving into the water. “See that bird? It does not know it will die. We do. Yet we are also given the power to wonder—to look at the river, the sky, even a common crow, and feel that everything is strange and beautiful. That wonder saves us. It makes the knowledge of ending bearable.”
Sridhar frowned, trying to understand. “But how did we come here at all, sir? My science master says the earth is only a small ball spinning in space.”
“Precisely,” said Krishna. “Each one of us is most improbable. The chances of any particular boy named Sridhar being born are so small that one might as well call it a miracle. And this town of Lalgudi, this earth itself—there is no other quite like it that we know of. We are made of the dust of old stars, borrowed for a little while from a universe that is always changing, always wearing itself out. Nature invented wonder long before men began telling stories of gods and prophets. It is the oldest religion, and the kindest.”
A vendor of roasted groundnuts passed by, calling his wares. Krishna bought a small packet and shared it with the boy.
“There are two ways to live, Sridhar,” he said at last, brushing the salt from his fingers. “One is to walk about as if nothing is a miracle—the school, the river, the groundnuts, your own breath. The other is to walk about as if everything is a miracle! Choose the second way, my boy. It makes the short loan of life much sweeter.”
Sridhar nodded solemnly, though he was not sure he had understood it all. He took another groundnut and looked at the kingfisher, which had caught a silver fish and was flying off toward the far bank. For a moment the ordinary afternoon in Lalgudi seemed, even to a schoolboy, a little more remarkable than before.