The Weaver's Unfortunate Words

In Srinagar lived a weaver named Hamid who made cloth of extraordinary beauty.

Every year he spent months at his loom, working strands of colour into patterns inspired by gardens, lakes, and mountain skies. Before beginning each day, he whispered a little reminder:

"May my hands work patiently, and may my words cause no harm."

Adil, a restless apprentice from another workshop, often passed Hamid's window. When he saw the magnificent cloth growing on the loom, jealousy crept into his thoughts.

"If I took that cloth to the court," Adil thought, "everyone might praise me instead."

He decided to return after dark.

But Hamid completed the cloth earlier than expected. He carried it directly to the ruler's court, where he unrolled it before the assembled craftspeople.

Everyone marvelled at its colours.

"How should such beautiful cloth be used?" asked the ruler.

"Hang it behind the royal seat," suggested one adviser.

"Make it into a ceremonial robe," said another.

"Cover the ruler's finest horse with it," proposed a third.

The ruler turned to Hamid.

"You created it. What use would honour your work?"

Hamid was skilled with a loom, but words sometimes tangled on his tongue.

"Keep it for the day when your work is finished," he said. "Then it can cover you when the people carry you away."

The hall fell silent.

The ruler frowned. "Are you wishing for the end of my reign?"

Hamid's face grew pale. He had meant that his strongest cloth could serve the ruler even at the very end of a long life, but he could not find the words to explain.

Adil had followed him into the court. Hearing the misunderstanding, he stepped forward.

"Please ask him what he meant," Adil said. "Every morning this weaver prays that his words will cause no harm. His answer was clumsy, but his intention was not cruel."

The ruler looked again at Hamid.

"Is that true?"

"Yes," Hamid replied. "I meant that the cloth was strong enough to be treasured for a lifetime. I chose the worst possible way to say it. I am sorry."

The ruler's expression softened.

"Then we shall not guess at one another's meaning," she said. "We shall ask."

She decided that the cloth would hang in the public hall where every visitor could enjoy it. Beneath it, a small card named Hamid as its maker.

Outside the court, Adil confessed that he had planned to steal the cloth.

"Yet you defended me," Hamid said.

"Hearing your daily prayer reminded me that I could still choose better words and better actions," Adil replied.

Hamid invited him to learn at his workshop. From then on, the two practised patience at the loom—and clarity whenever they spoke.