THERE was a farmer who lived in the countryside.
He was a real jnani. He earned his living by
farming, He was married, and after many years a
son was born to him, whom he named Haru. The
parents loved the boy dearly. This was natural,
since he was the one precious gem of the family.
On account of his religious nature the farmer was
loved by the villagers. One day he was working in
the field when a neighbour came and told him that
Haru had an attack of cholera. The farmer at once
returned home and arranged for treatment for the
boy. But Haru died. The other members of the
family were grief-stricken, but the farmer acted as
if nothing had happened. He consoled his family
and told them that grieving was futile. Then he
went back to his field. On returning home he
found his wife weeping even more bitterly. She
said to him: "How heartless you are! You haven't
shed one tear for the child." The farmer replied
quietly: "Shall I tell you why I haven't wept? I had a
very vivid dream last night. I dreamt I had become
a king; I was the father of eight sons and was very
happy with them. Then I woke up. Now I am
greatly perplexed. Should I weep for those eight
sons or for this one Hani?"
The farmer was a jnani; therefore he realized that
the waking state is as unreal as the dream state.
There is only one eternal substance, and that is the
Atman.
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