(Inspired by Thoreau)
In the bustling market of Lalgudi, where the river Kollidam flowed not far away and the scent of spices mingled with the sweetness of jasmine and ripe fruit, the cloth merchant Sundar sat outside his small shop one afternoon, looking thoughtful. He had been watching the seasonal traders pack up their temporary stalls—those who came with mangoes in summer, or fresh flowers during festival months—and then disappeared when the season ended.
Krishnan, the retired postmaster, happened to pass by on one of his unhurried walks and paused beside the shop.
“You seem to be contemplating the nature of lasting things,” Krishnan observed mildly.
Sundar nodded. “I was thinking of the many celebrated trees that the most High God has created—lofty and full of shade. Yet they call none of them Azad, or Free, except the cypress, which bears no fruit. What mystery is there in this?”
Krishnan smiled his quiet smile and leaned lightly on his walking stick quoting Thoreau
“Each tree has its own appropriate produce and its appointed season,” he replied. “During that season it is fresh and blooming; when the season passes, it becomes withered and dry. The cypress alone is exposed to neither of these states. It remains always flourishing. And of this nature are the Azads—the religious independents, the free ones.”
He looked towards the distant line of trees beyond the market and continued gently.
“Fix not thy heart on that which is transitory. The great river will continue to flow long after the rulers of the day are gone. If your hands are full, be liberal like the date tree, giving freely of what you have. But if you have little to give away, then be an Azad—free like the cypress—always flourishing in your own nature, independent of seasons of gain or loss.”
Sundar sat quietly, watching the market crowd move past. The temporary stalls, the seasonal fruits, the rise and fall of daily profits—all suddenly seemed part of the same passing pattern. The idea of remaining steadily green, like the cypress, through both abundance and scarcity, settled in his mind with unexpected clarity.
“So freedom is not in having much, nor in having nothing,” he said slowly, “but in not being bound by either.”
“Exactly,” said Krishnan. “Be always flourishing—in your own quiet way—regardless of what the season brings.”
A soft breeze moved through the market, carrying the scent of the nearby fields. Krishnan raised a hand in farewell and continued his walk.
That evening, as Sundar closed his shop and stepped into the familiar lanes of Lalgudi, he felt a little less dependent on the day’s sales and a little more rooted in something steadier. And in the gentle, unassuming way of the town, where even the wisdom of ancient poets arrives between the weighing scales and the cloth bolts, Sundar began to practise being like the cypress—always flourishing, free of the need to bloom only when the season was favourable.