In the quiet town of Lalgudi, where schoolboys still waited eagerly for their batting turn at the cricket crease and the aroma of festival feasts filled the lanes on special days, young Krishnan had begun to struggle with impatience. When a good opportunity appeared— a chance to bat first, a word of praise from the teacher, or a larger share of sweets—he reached for it quickly. When it seemed to pass him by, he felt a sharp sting of disappointment and sometimes tried to hold on to what was never truly offered.
One evening on the terrace he spoke of this restless feeling to Uncle Venkatesh.
“Uncle, I find it hard to wait. When something good comes near, I want it at once. When it goes to someone else, I feel left out.”
Uncle Venkatesh opened his copy of Epictetus and turned to a short essay in the Enchiridion.
“The old teacher gives a simple picture,” he said.
“Behave in life as at a banquet. When a dish is handed around and comes to you, put out your hand and take it politely. If it passes you by, do not try to stop it. If it has not yet reached you, do not be impatient; wait until your turn comes. Bear yourself in this way toward all things—whether it is a place in the team, a friendship, a small success, or any other good. Then, one day, you will be worthy to banquet with the gods.”
Krishnan sat quietly, imagining a long table where dishes moved slowly from hand to hand.
The next day he decided to practise the banquet attitude. During cricket practice the captain began choosing batsmen. When Krishnan’s name was not called first, the old impatience rose. He remembered the teaching and simply waited. Later his turn came; he took it calmly and played without the usual fever of having to prove himself.
At lunch a plate of sweets was passed around. When it reached him he took one piece politely and did not eye the rest. When it passed further without returning, he let it go. The taste of the single sweet was better for not having been grasped at.
In class, when the teacher asked a question and another boy answered first, Krishnan did not feel the familiar rush of resentment. He waited for the next opportunity and, when it came, spoke clearly. Slowly the habit of reaching too soon or clinging too tightly began to loosen.
Weeks later he sat again with Uncle Venkatesh as the evening sky turned deep blue.
“Uncle,” Krishnan said, “I am learning to treat the day like a banquet. When something good comes to me, I take it politely. When it passes, I let it go. When it has not yet arrived, I wait. The impatience is quieter now, and the things I do receive feel lighter.”
Uncle Venkatesh smiled. “That is the grace Epictetus describes. Life keeps handing dishes around. We do not control the order or the quantity. We control only the manner in which we receive or release them. Practise this courtesy toward everything that comes and goes, and the mind becomes fit for a higher table.”
In the soft dusk of Lalgudi, while other boys still lunged for every passing advantage, young Krishnan walked home with a calmer step. He had begun to sit at the long banquet of ordinary days—accepting what reached him with courtesy, allowing what passed to continue on its way, and waiting without agitation for his proper turn. And in that simple, steady practice, he found himself a little more ready, one day, to banquet with the gods.