In the quiet lanes of Lalgudi, where the river Kollidam wound past the old temple and the market stalls sold everything from fresh jasmine to brass pots that gleamed like small suns, there lived a young man named Raman. He was known, not for any great ambition, but for his steady hand with a bow.
Raman had learned archery from his uncle, an ageing watchman at the school, who still kept an old bamboo bow polished with coconut oil. On most evenings Raman practised alone on the open ground beyond the railway track. He would set up a simple mark—a piece of cloth on a stick—and shoot until the light faded. When there was nothing particular to gain, his arrows flew true. The string sang, the shaft left his fingers without effort, and he felt the whole of himself in the act. Neighbours sometimes paused to watch and nodded, saying, “That boy has the gift.”
One festival season the municipal committee announced a competition. First prize was a modest brass buckle, the kind officials wore on their belts. Raman entered, as everyone expected him to. Yet the moment the buckle was mentioned, something shifted. His hand trembled slightly. He began to think of the buckle’s shine, of how it would look on his own belt, of the quiet envy it might stir in others. On the day of the contest he missed two easy shots. The buckle went to a boy from the next street who had never practised half as much.
Later that year a richer prize appeared: a small gold medal offered by a visiting merchant for the best archer at the annual fair. Now Raman’s mind filled with gold. He saw the medal hanging on his chest, heard the applause, imagined the newspaper notice. When he stood at the line his eyes blurred. For a moment he saw two targets. The arrow flew wide. People laughed gently, the way Lalgudi people laugh when someone they like has tried too hard.
That evening Raman sat on the temple steps, the unused bow across his knees. An old man who sold roasted groundnuts nearby came and sat beside him. The old man had once travelled far and claimed to have heard the words of many sages. He spoke softly, almost as if repeating something learned long ago from a Chinese teacher named Tranxu.
“When the archer shoots for no particular prize,” the old man said, “he has all his skills. When he shoots to win a brass buckle he is already nervous. When he shoots for gold he goes blind, sees even two targets, and is out of his mind. His skills have not changed. But the prize divides him. He cares. He thinks more of winning than of shooting, and the need to win drains him of power.”
Raman listened. The river murmured. A train passed in the distance, its whistle thin against the dusk.
“When you are living for nothing,” the old man continued, “you have all your skills. You have all your energy. You are relaxed. You don’t care. It doesn’t matter whether you win or lose.”
Raman did not answer at once. He rose, walked back to the open ground, and set up the same plain cloth mark. This time he shot without thinking of buckle or medal. The arrow found the centre as if it had known the way all along.
After that, Raman still entered the occasional contest when the town insisted, but he never again practised for the prize. He practised because the evening light was good, because the string felt right under his fingers, because the act itself was enough. The brass buckle and the gold medal found other owners. Raman kept his skill, and something quieter that no prize could touch.
In Lalgudi such things are noticed only in passing. People still say, when they see a young man tense over some small gain, “Remember Raman and the Chinese sage.” Then they smile and go about their business, which is, after all, the ordinary business of living.