The Still Pot By The Window

By Kalpana Kumari

In a small village between green hills and small streams, there lived a man named Rishi. His cottage stood at the edge of the fields, surrounded by plants he had been growing for years. He loved taking care of them- watering, pruning, talking to them as if they could listen.

One morning, while clearing some dry leaves near the fence, he found a small seed lying there. It looked different; smooth, round, almost shining in the light. Something about it felt special, he had not seen such a seed earlier. He turned it in his hand for a while before planting it in a pot near his window.

From that day, the seed became his favourite. He checked on it before anything else every morning. When it sprouted, he felt proud in a quiet way, like he had found something rare. He gave it the best spot, the softest sunlight, and the cleanest water. He didn’t use his old watering can for it. He poured water from a cup, slow and careful, afraid even a drop too much would hurt it.

He began treating it differently from his other plants. If the wind blew too strong, he brought it inside. If the sun felt harsh, he covered it with a cloth. Some days, he even whispered to it before sleeping. It was as if he wanted to protect it from every small thing the world could do to it.

But slowly, the leaves started losing their colour. They didn’t open wide anymore. The plant seemed tired, no matter how much he cared. Rishi thought maybe it needed more protection, so he stopped keeping it outside altogether. He checked everything; the light, the water, even the air around it.

One morning, when he went to check on it, the plant had gone still. Its stem had turned thin and weak, the leaves dry at the edges. He touched the soil, it was perfect. Everything he had done was with love, yet it had died.

He sat there for a long time, staring at it. Around him, the rest of the garden moved easily in the wind. This one had never learned to. He realized then that his care had been too much, his love too fearful. He had tried so hard to protect it that he had kept it from the very things it needed to live.

That morning, Rishi didn’t plant another seed. He just left the pot by the window, empty, with a bit of soil still clinging to the sides, realising that love can’t always mean shelter. Sometimes it means letting go.

By Kalpana Kumari