My Story Book

Page 1

The Silent Prayer

Devappa Potter

In a quiet village nestled between green hills and a shimmering river, there lived a humble potter named Devappa. His hands, though cracked and calloused from years of molding clay, created pots that held an unexplainable grace. The villagers often wondered how such ordinary clay could become vessels of such beauty. Despite his artistry, Devappa lived a simple, selfless life. Each morning, before touching the clay, he would light a small lamp before a modest idol of Lord Krishna in his home. His prayers were not of demands but of gratitude — a silent offering of his heart. To him, his work was not just labor; it was a humble act of service, a way to serve the unseen Lord residing in every soul of the village. .

Page 2

Changing Village

Devappa's Dedication

Devappa had a son, Ravi, who had left years ago in search of wealth and prosperity in the distant city. The absence of his son left a quiet ache in his heart, yet he saw it as Krishna's will, trusting that every separation had a purpose. Whenever loneliness struck him, he would look at the clay beneath his hands and remind himself, “Even this lifeless clay surrenders to the Lord’s will. How could I not?” Years passed, and the village changed. Roads widened, fields shrank, and the gentle rhythm of life quickened. Yet, Devappa remained the same — molding clay, offering his silent prayers, and waiting with patient faith for his son's return.

Page 3

Calamity

One fateful evening, a severe storm lashed the village. The river swelled, overflowing its banks, flooding homes, and destroying crops. The village temple, a sanctuary for all, lay shattered — its idol of Lord Krishna broken and buried in the mud. The villagers mourned, feeling as if the divine presence had abandoned them. In their despair, they turned to Devappa, their potter and silent devotee. The village head approached him with folded hands, saying, "Only you, who see the Lord in every clay you touch, can restore Him to us." Devappa’s heart trembled. How could his imperfect hands create the flawless image of the Lord? Yet, he saw it not as a test of his skill, but as an opportunity to serve. “It is not I who shape; it is He who shapes through me,” he whispered, accepting the task as a divine command.

Page 4

Villager's Request

Days turned to weeks as Devappa worked tirelessly, shaping and reshaping the clay. Yet, the form felt incomplete. Doubt clouded his mind — how could a mortal create the image of the divine? Still, every sunrise, he would light the lamp before his little idol and whisper, “Krishna, this is Your work, not mine. If You wish to return, shape Yourself through these hands.” One night, wearied by his struggle, Devappa fell to his knees before the half-formed idol. Tears of surrender mingled with the clay, and in a voice choked with devotion, he prayed, “My Lord, I am but a vessel. My hands are Yours; my heart is Yours. If these hands are worthy, let them serve You.”. .