In an ancient city where silk roads crossed, there lived a merchant and a beggar. Time, the wisest teacher, showed them both the same lesson through different mirrors.
The River That Flooded
The beggar found a treasure—coins enough to build palaces. Like a river suddenly freed from its banks, his life overflowed. Laozi whispered from the Tao: “He who knows he has enough is rich,” but the beggar had forgotten what “enough” meant. He built higher walls, bought sweeter wines, surrounded himself with those who called him friend.
The Stoics had warned: External goods are not goods at all—they are merely preferred indifferents. But the beggar, now dressed as a king, could not hear philosophy over the noise of counting.
Within three winters, the treasure was gone. But worse—he was gone. The Buddha’s teaching proved true: he had grasped at permanence in an impermanent world, and when the gold dissolved like morning mist, so did the self he had built upon it.
The River That Ran Dry
The merchant chased fortune with cunning schemes. He sailed dangerous waters, gambled on ventures, sacrificed sleep and poetry and the laughter of his children. Rumi had sung: “Don’t run after the world—it will pull you down,” but the merchant believed hard work could force the universe to yield.
Reality, patient as stone, waited.
Each scheme collapsed. Each calculated risk became a calculated loss. Confucius had taught: “The gentleman understands righteousness; the small man understands profit.” The merchant had chosen profit, and profit had chosen to abandon him.
He stood finally on the same street corner where the beggar once sat—but poorer, for he had lost not just wealth but the years spent chasing its shadow.
What Time Whispered
Time, the ancient teacher, gathered both men and spoke:
“You believed wealth was the river, but you are the river. When fortune floods you, stay within your banks—let it water your fields, not wash away your foundation. When fortune eludes you, remember: a river does not chase the ocean; it flows naturally, nourishing what it touches along the way.”
From the Bhagavad Gita comes the eternal teaching: “You have a right to perform your duty, but not to the fruits of action.” The merchant had grasped at fruits before they ripened. The beggar had gorged on fruits until he forgot the tree.
The Sufi masters knew: true poverty is poverty of spirit, and true wealth is wealth of heart. Al-Ghazali wrote that the soul has two diseases—grasping after what it doesn’t have, and being negligent of what it does.
The Teaching Time Offers
Sudden wealth reveals what was always there—if you were lost, abundance makes you more lost. If you were centered, abundance becomes service. The test is not in the having but in the being.
Pursuing wealth desperately is chasing your own shadow—run toward the sun and it flees; walk mindfully and it follows. Aristotle taught the golden mean: neither poverty nor excess, but sufficiency aligned with virtue.
The Japanese speak of wabi-sabi—finding beauty in imperfection and transience. The Chinese cultivation stories you love, Cahya, teach this: true wealth is internal cultivation, not external accumulation. The greatest treasures are those that cannot be stolen—wisdom, compassion, integrity, presence.
Time’s final teaching is this:
Wealth, like weather, changes. The self that remains steady through sun and storm—this is the true gold. Neither cling when fortune smiles, nor despair when she turns away. Flow like water, sufficient unto itself, nourishing all it touches, always returning to the source.
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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