Pot is back to its Origin

In the holy city of Varanasi, where fire kissed the skies and chanting echoed the banks of the Ganga, there lived a potter named Bhairav. His silent hands created pots from earth, function in shape, and beauty in work.

One night, a mystic visited his small shop. He purchased nothing, merely sat quietly as Bhairav worked with clay. Then, nearly in a whisper, he added, "You're not creating pots. You're giving shape to forgetfulness."

Curious, Bhairav asked, "What do you mean?"

The mystic smiled and replied, "Son! Earth becomes a pot. But the pot forgets it was once earth.”

That night, Bhairav couldn't sleep. He held a finished pot and thought: "Is this the final truth of this clay?" From then, he stopped selling pots.

Instead, he began gifting them to pilgrims, asking only this strange request: “Bury it near the riverbank when it breaks. Let it return to the womb of the earth.”

People laughed. Some thought he’d gone mad. He became known in the town as Pagal Kumhar—the mad potter. But those who buried his pots found an odd peace, a silence that echoed in their hearts.

Years passed and Bhairav became very old and silent like the Gangamayi river. His shop is nomore, it is a tiny hut near the river now. People still called him Pagal, but now with a tone of change. Some began bringing their sorrows to him. He would just smile and hand them a pot. No advice. No words. Only silence.

By the time he died, the banks of the Ganga had become a quiet graveyard of pots—each one a symbol of the truth: we are just clay remembering our shape for a short while.

And so, Bhairav was no longer Pagal Kumhar. He became Pagal Baba. 

This story's inspiration comes from the following Quote: 

“The happiness of the drop is to die in the river.”- Al Ghazali