On a hill above the village of Mithila, where the rice fields ran down to
the slow brown river, a boy named Ravi was trying to catch the wind.
His grandmother Nani had set him a gentle task that morning. "Sit by the
pond," she had said, dipping her brush in indigo, "and just watch your
breath, only your breath, for as long as a song." Ravi had lasted about
four breaths. Then his mind had bolted — to his puppy Moti, to a kite he
wanted to fly, to whether there were sweets in the kitchen, to Moti
again. He had given up and run outside.
Now the wind came pouring over the hill, bending the tall grass flat and
snatching at his hair. On a wild impulse Ravi snapped both hands shut
around a gust. He opened them. Empty. He grabbed again — clap! — and
peered into his cupped palms. Nothing but warm air. The wind streamed
right between his fingers, laughing, gone.
He was still snatching at it, giggling, when Nani came up the path with
Moti bounding ahead.
"What have you caught?" she asked.
"Nothing!" Ravi laughed. "You can't catch the wind, Nani. It's too fast,
and too strong, and it won't hold still."
Nani sat down on a flat stone, her painting hand stained blue. "Now you
know," she said, "exactly what your mind is like."
Ravi blinked. "My mind?"
"When you tried to watch your breath this morning and your thoughts ran
everywhere — that was you reaching for the wind. Restless. Strong. It
won't sit when you order it to. Squeeze it tight and it slips straight
out between your fingers." She smiled. "Long ago, a great warrior named
Arjuna told Lord Krishna the very same thing. He said, 'Holding the mind
is as hard as holding the wind.' And he was a hero who could shoot a
hundred arrows in a breath. Even he found his own mind the hardest thing
of all."
Ravi looked at his empty hands, then back at her. "So if even Arjuna
couldn't catch it... how does anyone?"
Nani's eyes crinkled. "Ah," she said. "That is exactly what Arjuna asked
next. And the answer is not what you would guess. You do not catch the
wind by grabbing harder."
