The Tale of the Wise Old Man

In a small village surrounded by bamboo groves and lotus ponds, there appeared one day an elderly man who seemed to have materialized from nowhere. He was simply dressed in plain white robes, carried no possessions except a worn walking stick, and spoke little. The villagers called him Ông Khôn, though no one knew his real name or where he had come from.

What made this old man remarkable was not his appearance or his words, but his questions. Whenever someone in the village faced a problem or complained about their circumstances, Ông Khôn would appear nearby and ask a simple question that somehow made the person think about their situation in an entirely new way.

The village leader, Ông Lý, was the first to encounter the old man’s peculiar wisdom. Lý had been complaining loudly in the market about how difficult it was to govern the village.

“These people never listen to good advice,” he grumbled to anyone who would hear. “They always want to do things their own way, and then they blame me when problems arise.”

Ông Khôn, who had been sitting quietly nearby feeding grain to some sparrows, looked up and asked gently, “When you plant rice, do you expect it to grow into corn?”

Lý stared at the old man, puzzled. “Of course not. Rice grows into rice, corn grows into corn. That would be foolish.”

“Indeed,” Ông Khôn nodded. “Then why do you expect people, who are all different like different plants, to all respond the same way to the same advice?”

This simple question troubled Lý for days. Eventually, he began to understand that each person in his village had different needs, different ways of learning, and different strengths. Instead of giving the same commands to everyone, he started listening to people individually and offering guidance that matched their particular situations. To his amazement, the village began running much more smoothly.

Word of the strange old man’s wisdom began to spread. Soon, people were seeking him out whenever they faced difficult decisions or felt confused about life.

A young farmer named Tùng was struggling with his rice crop, which seemed to be growing more slowly than his neighbors’ fields despite his hard work.

“Honored elder,” Tùng said when he found Ông Khôn sitting by the village pond, “I work harder than anyone, yet my rice grows poorly. What am I doing wrong?”

Ông Khôn pointed to the lotus flowers blooming in the pond. “Do you see how some lotus buds are still closed while others are fully open?”

“Yes,” Tùng replied, wondering what flowers had to do with farming.

“If you tried to force open the closed buds, what would happen?”

Tùng thought carefully. “They would be damaged and never bloom properly.”

“And yet, if you are patient and tend them well, they will open in their own time and be more beautiful than if you had forced them,” Ông Khôn observed. “Perhaps your rice is not slow – perhaps it is simply taking the time it needs to grow strong roots that will support a better harvest.”

Tùng decided to be more patient with his crop, focusing on careful tending rather than worrying about speed. When harvest time came, his rice was indeed the strongest and most abundant in the village, having developed deep roots during its slower growth period.

A wealthy merchant named Bà Giàu came to the old man with a different kind of problem. Despite her success in business, she felt constantly anxious and unhappy.

“Wise one,” she said, “I have more money than anyone in this village, yet I cannot sleep peacefully at night. I worry constantly about losing what I have. How can I find peace?”

Ông Khôn was watching some children play with soap bubbles, laughing as the iridescent spheres floated through the air and eventually popped.

“What makes the children so happy about these bubbles?” he asked Bà Giàu.

“I suppose it’s because the bubbles are beautiful and… oh.” She paused, understanding beginning to dawn on her face.

“They know the bubbles won’t last forever,” Ông Khôn said gently. “That’s what makes each one precious. They don’t spend their time worrying about when the bubbles will pop – they simply enjoy their beauty while they exist.”

Bà Giàu began to understand that her constant anxiety about losing her wealth was preventing her from enjoying what she had. She started using her money to help others and found that the more she shared, the less she worried about losing what remained.

Perhaps the most challenging case came when two brothers, Hai and Ba, brought their bitter dispute to the old man. They had inherited their father’s land but couldn’t agree on how to divide it fairly.

“He wants the better half with the water access,” Hai complained.

“But he wants the half with the fruit trees,” Ba countered.

They had been arguing for months, and their dispute was tearing apart not just their family but the entire village, as neighbors were forced to take sides.

Ông Khôn listened to both brothers carefully, then asked them to meet him at their father’s grave the next morning.

When they arrived, they found the old man planting a small sapling directly on the grave.

“What are you doing?” both brothers asked, shocked.

“I am planting a tree for your father,” Ông Khôn replied calmly. “Tell me, when this tree grows large, should the roots go to Hai and the branches to Ba? Or perhaps the trunk to one and the leaves to the other?”

The brothers looked at each other, beginning to understand.

“The tree won’t survive if you divide it,” Hai said slowly.

“And the land your father left you was not meant to be divided either,” Ông Khôn explained. “It was meant to keep your family together, not tear it apart. Your father’s spirit is like this tree – whole and undivided. How can you honor him by destroying what he worked to build?”

The brothers realized their mistake and decided to work the land together, combining their different skills to make it more prosperous than either could have managed alone.

As months passed, more and more people sought out Ông Khôn’s wisdom. A young woman worried about choosing between two suitors learned from watching birds that the heart knows its own song. A group of fishermen arguing about fishing spots discovered from observing ants that cooperation yields better results than competition.

But perhaps the most important lesson came when a group of young people approached the old man with frustration.

“Honored elder,” their spokesperson said, “we have been listening to your questions and watching how they help others find answers. But when we try to do the same thing, people just get annoyed with us. How can we learn to be wise like you?”

Ông Khôn smiled and pointed to a butterfly that had just emerged from its chrysalis, its wings still soft and folded.

“Can this butterfly fly immediately?” he asked.

“No,” the young people answered. “It needs time for its wings to dry and strengthen.”

“Wisdom is like those wings,” Ông Khôn explained. “It cannot be rushed or forced. It comes from experiencing life, making mistakes, learning patience, and understanding that every person’s journey is different. You cannot simply copy the words or actions of a wise person – you must grow your own wisdom through time and experience.”

He looked at each of them kindly. “But the fact that you want to help others find their own answers shows that your wisdom is already beginning to grow. Be patient with yourselves and with others. Ask questions not to show how clever you are, but because you genuinely want to understand. Listen not just to the words people say, but to the feelings behind those words.”

As seasons changed and years passed, the village flourished under the influence of Ông Khôn’s gentle guidance. People learned to think more deeply about their problems, to consider different perspectives, and most importantly, to find their own answers rather than simply being told what to do.

But one morning, the villagers awoke to find that the wise old man had disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived. His simple sleeping mat by the temple was empty, and no one had seen him leave.

Initially, people panicked. “Who will help us solve our problems now?” they worried.

But gradually, they realized that Ông Khôn had already given them the greatest gift – the ability to think wisely for themselves. When problems arose, instead of looking for someone to give them answers, they began asking themselves the kind of thoughtful questions the old man had taught them.

The village established a tradition that when someone faced a difficult decision, they would sit quietly by the lotus pond where Ông Khôn had often been seen, and ask themselves: “What would the wise old man ask me about this situation?”

More often than not, the right question would lead them to their own best answer.

Years later, when travelers visited the village and remarked on how wise and peaceful the people seemed, the villagers would smile and tell them about Ông Khôn.

“But where did he go?” the travelers would always ask.

“Perhaps,” the villagers would reply, “he went to find other people who needed to learn how to ask themselves the right questions. Or perhaps he is still here, in every thoughtful question we ask and every patient moment we take to really understand a problem before trying to solve it.”

And indeed, on quiet evenings by the lotus pond, when the light falls in just the right way, some people swear they can still see an elderly figure in white robes, sitting peacefully and watching the world with eyes full of gentle understanding.

Vietnamese Cultural Note: This story reflects the Vietnamese cultural respect for elders and the Confucian tradition of learning through guided self-discovery rather than direct instruction. The character of the wise old man embodies the Vietnamese ideal of “trí tuệ dân gian” (folk wisdom) and the importance of patient teaching that helps people find their own understanding.