The Story of the Magic Pot

In a small village nestled between rolling hills and bamboo groves in northern Vietnam, there lived a widow named Cúc and her young son Minh. Their tiny house was built of bamboo and palm leaves, with walls so thin that the wind whistled through them in winter, and their daily meals often consisted of nothing more than rice porridge and whatever vegetables they could grow in their small garden.

Despite their poverty, Cúc had raised her son to be kind and generous. “Remember, my child,” she would tell him, “a bowl of rice shared is worth more than a feast enjoyed alone. The gods smile upon those who give, even when they have little to spare.”

One particularly difficult season, when the rains had failed and their rice crop had withered, Cúc and Minh were down to their last handful of rice. As Cúc prepared their meager dinner, she heard a weak knocking at their door.

“Please,” came a feeble voice from outside, “I have been traveling for days without food. Could you spare even a small bowl of rice for an old man?”

Cúc looked at their pot, which contained barely enough rice porridge for two small bowls. Her stomach ached with hunger, and she knew Minh had eaten nothing since morning. But her kind heart could not turn away someone in need.

“Of course, grandfather,” she said, opening the door to reveal an elderly man with white hair and tattered clothes. His face was gaunt with hunger, and he leaned heavily on a walking stick. “Please, come inside and share our meal.”

“Mother,” whispered Minh, tugging at her sleeve, “we barely have enough for ourselves.”

Cúc knelt down to her son’s level and spoke gently. “My dear child, when we share our food with others, it tastes twice as sweet. The gods will provide for us if we first provide for those who need our help.”

She gave the old man the larger portion of their rice porridge, keeping only a few spoonfuls for herself and Minh. The stranger ate gratefully, tears rolling down his weathered cheeks.

“You have shown me kindness that I will never forget,” he said when he had finished. “I wish I could repay you, but I have nothing to give except this old clay pot.” He reached into his bundle and withdrew a simple, round cooking pot that appeared quite ordinary, even somewhat cracked with age.

“Oh, grandfather, you don’t need to give us anything,” Cúc protested. “We were happy to share.”

“Please,” the old man insisted, “take this pot. It may serve you well.” With those mysterious words, he departed into the night.

Cúc examined the pot by lamplight. It seemed perfectly ordinary—brown clay with a lid, showing signs of much use. She set it aside and thought no more about it until the next morning when they had no rice left to cook.

“Perhaps I should try cooking with the new pot,” she told Minh. “Maybe it will make our food taste better.”

She put their last few grains of rice into the pot with some water and placed it over the fire. As she lifted the lid to check the rice, she gasped in amazement. The pot was full to the brim with perfectly cooked rice—far more than the few grains she had put in.

“Minh!” she called. “Come quickly and see this miracle!”

Her son ran over and stared in wonder. “Mother, how did such a small amount of rice become so much?”

“I don’t know,” Cúc whispered, “but let us give thanks for this blessing.”

They ate their fill for the first time in weeks, and there was still rice left over. The next day, Cúc experimented by putting a single sweet potato into the pot. When she opened it, she found enough roasted sweet potatoes to feed a dozen people.

“This pot multiplies whatever we put into it,” she realized. “What a wonderful gift!”

But Cúc’s first thought was not of keeping this bounty to herself. She remembered the old man’s words about sharing, and her own teachings to her son. She filled several bowls with rice and sweet potatoes and went to visit her neighbors.

“Sister Lan,” she called to her neighbor, a woman whose husband had recently died, leaving her with three small children, “I have extra food today. Please take some for your little ones.”

Lan was amazed. “But Cúc, you have been as poor as I am. Where did all this food come from?”

“The gods have blessed us,” Cúc replied simply, “and blessings are meant to be shared.”

Word of Cúc’s generosity spread throughout the village. Every day, people would find baskets of rice, vegetables, and other good food at their doors, especially the elderly, the sick, and families with many mouths to feed.

The village chief, however, was a greedy man named Định who had always hoarded his wealth while others struggled. When he heard rumors about Cúc’s mysterious abundance of food, he became suspicious and jealous.

One day, he confronted her. “Cúc, everyone knows you are the poorest woman in the village, yet suddenly you have food to give away every day. Are you stealing from the communal storehouse?”

“I steal nothing,” Cúc replied calmly. “I simply share what I have been given.”

“Impossible!” Định snarled. “No one gives away food they cannot afford to lose. You must show me where this food comes from, or I will report you to the authorities.”

Reluctantly, Cúc brought Định to her house and showed him the magic pot. She demonstrated by putting a single grain of rice into it, and when she opened the lid, the pot was full of perfectly cooked rice.

Định’s eyes gleamed with greed. “This pot should belong to someone who can use it properly,” he declared. “Give it to me at once.”

“But sir,” Cúc protested, “I use it to feed the hungry in our village. Surely that is the proper use?”

“Nonsense! I am the village chief. I deserve this pot more than a mere widow.” Định snatched the pot from her hands and carried it away to his large house.

That night, Định rubbed his hands together in glee. “Finally, I will have all the wealth I deserve,” he muttered. He decided to start by making gold, so he placed a single gold coin into the pot.

But when he opened the lid, instead of finding more gold, he discovered that the pot was full of ordinary stones. Angry, he tried again with silver, but again found only rocks. Everything he put into the pot with greedy intentions turned to worthless stone.

Meanwhile, Cúc continued to share what little she had with her neighbors, even without the magic pot. Her kindness had inspired others in the village to help each other, and soon families were sharing vegetables from their gardens, helping with each other’s farm work, and caring for one another’s children.

After a week of futile attempts with the pot, Định stormed back to Cúc’s house. “This pot is broken!” he shouted. “It gives me nothing but stones!”

Cúc looked at him with pity rather than anger. “Perhaps, sir, the pot only works for those who use it with pure hearts.”

“Nonsense! Fix it immediately!”

“I cannot fix what is not broken,” Cúc replied gently.

In his rage, Định hurled the pot to the ground, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. As the clay fragments scattered, a brilliant light filled the air, and the old man from that first night appeared once more.

“You have learned well, dear Cúc,” he said, his form now glowing with divine light. “You understood that the pot’s true magic was not in multiplying food, but in multiplying kindness. Because you used my gift to serve others, you have created something far more valuable than endless rice—you have created a community bound together by love and mutual care.”

The old man, who was actually a mountain spirit testing the village’s virtue, waved his hand. Suddenly, every family’s rice store was filled, their gardens bloomed with vegetables, and their animals were healthy and productive.

“Your village will always have enough,” he promised, “because you have learned to share what you have. But as for you, Định,” he turned to the cowering village chief, “you will know hunger until you learn to feed others before yourself.”

With that, the spirit vanished, leaving behind only the memory of his wisdom and the lasting prosperity he had given to the village.

From that day forward, the village became known throughout the region for the kindness of its people. Travelers were always welcomed with food and shelter, and no child ever went to bed hungry. Cúc became the village’s unofficial leader, guiding others in the gentle art of sharing and caring.

And though the magic pot was gone, its lesson remained: true abundance comes not from having much, but from giving freely of whatever we possess, trusting that kindness multiplied is the greatest magic of all.

Years later, when visitors asked about the secret of their village’s happiness and prosperity, the villagers would smile and tell them the story of the magic pot, always ending with Cúc’s favorite saying: “A bowl of rice shared is worth more than a feast enjoyed alone.”