In the lively town of Lalgudi, where boys still believed that happiness required a new cricket bat, a pocketful of coins, and a continuous supply of sweets, young Krishnan had begun to feel the weight of wanting too many things. Every shop window, every classmate’s possession, and every colourful advertisement seemed to tug at him. His mind was rarely quiet.
One evening on the terrace, Uncle Venkatesh read aloud a few lines from Henry David Thoreau:
“For my greatest skill has been to want but little… so little capital required, so little distraction from my wonted moods.”
Krishnan listened, then sighed. “Wanting little sounds difficult, Uncle. Everything around us teaches us to want more.”
Uncle Venkatesh smiled and closed the book. “There is a story that may help. In Hermann Hesse’s book Siddhartha, the young man Siddhartha tells a rich merchant the three skills he possesses: ‘I can think. I can wait. I can fast.’”
“The merchant laughs and asks, ‘Of what use are they?’
Siddhartha answers calmly: ‘If a man has nothing to eat, fasting is the most intelligent thing he can do. Because I have learned to fast, hunger does not drive me to desperate work. I can wait calmly. I am not impatient. I am not in need. I can ward off hunger for a long time and even laugh at it.’”
Krishnan’s eyes widened. “Thinking, waiting, and fasting… how does a boy in Lalgudi practise that?”
Uncle Venkatesh explained in simple terms, drawing also from a modern reader’s notes:
“‘I can think’ means you give yourself clear guardrails for decisions. Use pen and paper. Write down what you truly need before you decide.
‘I can wait’ means you learn to play the long game—the infinite game—rather than rushing for quick results.
‘I can fast’ means you practise not craving and not consuming every pleasant thing that appears. You train yourself to withstand small difficulties without immediately seeking relief.”
The next morning Krishnan began.
When he felt a strong desire for a new pencil box that he did not need, he took out his small notebook and wrote: “Do I truly require this? What will I feel five days from now?” The act of thinking on paper slowed the impulse. He walked away.
When a classmate showed off new cricket gear and Krishnan’s heart raced with envy and urgency to somehow obtain the same, he reminded himself: “I can wait. This is a long game. My time will come, or it may not—and either is fine.” The impatience loosened its grip.
And when the sweet-seller’s tray passed under his nose after school, fragrant and tempting, Krishnan practised a small fast. He felt the craving rise, acknowledged it, and let it pass without buying. The first few times it was hard. Later it became easier, and he even smiled at the craving the way Siddhartha smiled at hunger.
Weeks later, sitting again on the terrace as the sky turned deep blue, Krishnan reported his progress.
“Uncle, I still want things sometimes. But I am learning to want less. When I think with pen and paper, wait for the long game, and fast from constant craving, my mind feels lighter. I need less capital, as Thoreau said, and there is less distraction.”
Uncle Venkatesh nodded with quiet satisfaction. “That is the practical meaning of those three skills. Thinking keeps you clear. Waiting keeps you patient. Fasting keeps you free. Together they teach the greatest skill of all—to want but little.”
In the soft evening of Lalgudi, while other boys still chased every new desire that glittered in the market, young Krishnan walked home with a steadier step. He had begun to discover that the boy who could think, wait, and fast carried a quiet wealth that no shop could sell and no sudden loss could take away. And in that small daily practice, the spirit inside him required less and less, and found more and more peace.