The Cracked Pot

Before the sun was up, the water carrier was already on the path.

Across his shoulders lay a long wooden pole, smooth and dark from years of use. From each end hung a large clay pot on a rope. Every morning he walked the same path, down through the fields to the stream, filled both pots, and carried them back up the hill to his master's house.

It was a long way, and the path was steep. But he walked it without complaining, and he often hummed as he went.

Two pots

The pot on his left was perfect. It was round and smooth, without a single chip, and it held every drop that was poured into it. When the water carrier reached the house, it was always full to the brim.

The pot on his right had a long crack running down one side. Nobody remembered how it had happened. Water seeped out of the crack with every step, and by the time the water carrier reached the top of the hill, the pot was only half full.

So every day, he set out with two full pots, and arrived with one and a half.

The perfect pot was proud of itself. It had been made for one job, and it did that job without fail.

The cracked pot was miserable. It felt every drop slip away. It knew that the water carrier was walking the whole long way for its sake, carrying its weight up the hill, and getting only half the reward. Each morning the shame grew a little heavier.

The pot speaks

This went on for two whole years.

Then one day, as the water carrier knelt at the stream to fill the pots, the cracked pot could keep silent no longer.

"I am ashamed of myself," it said. "And I want to say sorry to you."

The water carrier sat back on his heels in surprise. "Ashamed? Whatever for?"

"For two years I have only been able to bring half my water to the house," said the pot. "Because of this crack in my side, it leaks out all along the path. You do all this work, and because of me, you don't get the full value of it. You would be better off with a new pot."

The water carrier was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled, and patted its side.

"Do something for me," he said. "When we walk back up the hill today, I want you to look at the side of the path. Look carefully."

The path back

So, as they climbed the hill that morning, the cracked pot looked.

On its side of the path, all the way up the hill, grew flowers. There were marigolds, orange and gold. There were small blue flowers whose names the pot did not know, and tall stems of white jasmine, and wild pink blossoms nodding in the early light. Bees were already busy among them. The air smelled sweet.

For a little while, the pot forgot to be miserable. The flowers were beautiful.

But when they reached the top of the hill, it felt the familiar emptiness. Half its water had leaked away again. And it said sorry once more.

Why the flowers grew

The water carrier set the pole down gently.

"Did you notice," he said, "that the flowers grow only on your side of the path? Look at the other side."

The pot looked. On the perfect pot's side, the ground was dry and bare, nothing but dust and stones.

"I have always known about your crack," said the water carrier. "So two years ago, I scattered seeds along your side of the path. And every day, as we walk back from the stream, you water them. You have been watering them all this time without knowing it."

He reached down and touched one of the marigolds.

"For two years I have picked these flowers to put on my master's table, and in the little shrine by the door. Without you being exactly the way you are, this whole hillside would be bare. There would be no flowers in the house at all."

The cracked pot said nothing. But for the first time in two years, as the sun came up over the hill, it did not feel heavy at all.

About this story

This little parable is told all over the world, in schools, in temples and churches and on greetings cards. It is often said to come from India or China, but in truth nobody knows where it began, and no early written version of it has been found. We have told it here in our own words. This version is a shortened, simplified retelling.