In one of the islands of Vidari there lived a tanner, whose name the villagers rarely bothered to remember. His life was simple. Day after day he worked by the river, soaking, scraping, and curing. He sold his cured hides in a nearby village. Although his labor fed his family, his heart remained restless.
Whenever he carried his hides to the market of Trishala, only the poor came to him. They would touch his leather, haggle, and buy, while the wealthy passed by with a glance of mild contempt, as though the very smell of the tanner’s work offended them.
Disheartened by this constant rejection, he told himself, “I will create the finest hide in all of Jivavarta”. He began to dream of creating something so perfect that even those who despised him would be forced to bow before it.
Days passed, months passed, then years passed. Festivals came and went, but he kept working. His children grew up watching a man chase perfection. Still he worked. He spoke little, ate little. His world had narrowed to a single pursuit, the flawless hide, the proof that his obscure life had meaning.
His family begged him to sell what he had crafted, but he refused. “Not yet,” he said. “Not until it’s worthy of the highborn.”
Then one day he emerged from his workshop holding a hide so smooth it seemed woven from water, It bore no scent, no blemish, no memory of the animal it once belonged to. He felt certain that nobles would flock to him, that they would marvel, and that they would finally see him.
With renewed hope, he loaded his goods onto a small boat and crossed the river to Trishala. The market was in full swing, bright muslins fluttering, the smell of spices, traders shouting. He laid out his wares, waiting for people to see, to marvel at what he had created.
But none came. The poor inspected it briefly, bartered as they always did, and left with polite indifference. The wealthy did not even pause.
Finally driven by frustration, he approached a nearby shopkeeper.
“Tell me, why does no one see the worth of my hide?” he asked.
The shopkeeper surprised by this question replied, “Where have you been? Nobles don’t use hide anymore. Everyone wears muslin now.”
The tanner stood still, not because he was tired, but because he realized he had mistaken labor for life. A man may give his life to achieve mastery in his work, but it is worthless if the world has moved beyond its need.
Reflection: Perfection matters, but only time decides its worth.
Jivavarta is a fictional land created by Shon Mehta, where epic tales of power, survival, and social upheaval unfold, as seen in her novels The Timingila and Lair of the Monster, along with many other stories and parables set in this richly imagined world.
I love your allegories because they touch the hidden currents of the mind. Deep down, everyone longs to see their struggles reflected in stories. Beneath the surface, we wrestle with existence, desire, and mortality. Stories that ignore these truths fade quickly, but yours continuing to resonate and keeping the reader engaged.
ReplyDeleteBeethoven’s Music. Some of his works were misunderstood initially, but over time they became cornerstones of classical music, proving their timeless value.
ReplyDeleteEven Vincent van Gogh. During his lifetime, his work was largely ignored, and he sold only a handful of paintings. Society didn’t recognize the value of his “perfection.
ReplyDeleteI like these stories, I can understand them easy.
ReplyDeleteTraditional philosophers like me seldom prioritize clear writing, since there’s little incentive and most papers are read only within narrow circles. Making our work accessible often feels futile—like adding detailed comments to code that no one else will ever read. Shon Mehta, however, holds a distinct advantage: by weaving her ideas into stories, she transforms complex thought into engaging narratives that are easy to grasp, opening her work to a much wider audience with far less effort.
ReplyDelete