A story
The Sultan's Lantern and the Shepherd Girl
Long ago, in a kingdom of green hills and quiet rivers, there lived a Sultan named Nasser. He was not a cruel sultan, but he was a proud one. His palace had a hundred windows, and in every window there hung a lantern of colored glass. When night came, the servants lit them all, and the palace glowed like a jewel on the hill.
The Sultan loved his lanterns more than anything. But his favorite was a great golden lantern that hung above the palace gate. It was so bright that people in faraway villages could see it shining at night.
"Look at my lantern," the Sultan would say to his ministers. "There is no light in the whole world as fine as mine."
And his ministers would bow and say, "Yes, Your Majesty. No light is as fine as yours."
At the bottom of the hill, in a small stone house, lived a shepherd girl named Salma. She had twelve woolly sheep, one old dog called Barq, and a little clay lamp that her grandmother had made. Every evening, Salma filled the lamp with a few drops of olive oil and set it in her window.
Her lamp was small. It was plain. It did not glow like a jewel. But it did something the Sultan's lantern did not do. It showed the way home.
You see, the road below the hill was narrow and full of stones. Travelers who came late at night often lost their way. But when they saw the little light in Salma's window, they walked toward it. And Salma always opened her door. She gave them warm bread, a cup of milk, and a corner by the fire to rest.
One winter, a terrible storm came over the hills. The wind howled, and the rain fell like silver ropes. That very night, the Sultan had gone hunting with his men, and on the way back, the storm caught them on the road.
"Where is the palace?" cried the Sultan. "I cannot see my golden lantern!"
The rain was so thick that the great lantern above the gate looked like nothing more than a faint smudge in the sky. It was very high, and very far away. The horses stumbled. The men shivered. Nobody knew which way to go.
Then one of the young guards pointed. "Look, Your Majesty! A light, there, close to the ground!"
It was Salma's little clay lamp, shining steadily in her window. The storm could not reach it, because it was tucked behind the thick stone wall.
The Sultan and his men rode toward the small light. When they knocked, Salma opened the door at once. She did not know who they were. All she saw were cold, wet travelers.
"Come in, come in," she said. "There is room by the fire."
The Sultan stepped inside. Water dripped from his fine cloak onto the clay floor. The little house had only one room, a few cushions, and a pot of lentil soup bubbling gently. Barq the old dog thumped his tail in greeting.
Salma poured soup into every bowl she had. When the bowls ran out, she poured it into cups. When the cups ran out, she gave her own bowl to the youngest guard and ate nothing herself.
The Sultan watched her quietly. "Little girl," he said, "why do you keep a lamp in your window every night? Oil is not cheap for a shepherd."
Salma smiled. "My grandmother told me that a light is not for the one who lights it. A light is for the one who is lost. A big light far away is beautiful to look at. But a small light nearby can lead you home."
The Sultan said nothing for a long time. He thought of his hundred lanterns and his great golden one. He thought of how he had lit them only so that people would admire his palace. He had never once thought about the travelers on the dark road below.
In the morning, the storm had passed. The sky was washed clean and blue. The Sultan thanked Salma and rode back up the hill. Salma waved goodbye, still not knowing that she had fed a king.
Three days later, a messenger came to her door. "The Sultan asks you to come to the palace," he said.
Salma was frightened. Had she done something wrong? She brushed her best dress, took Barq with her, and climbed the hill.
In the great hall, the Sultan was waiting. Beside him stood his ministers, and they all looked surprised, because the Sultan was not wearing his golden crown. He was holding a small clay lamp.
"Do you know me, Salma?" he asked.
Salma looked closely, and her cheeks turned pink. "You are the traveler who ate my lentil soup!"
"I am," said the Sultan, laughing. "And you taught me something that all my ministers never did. I have decided to change my lanterns."
From that day, the Sultan ordered that the colored lanterns be taken down from the palace windows. Instead, they were carried down the hill and hung along the stony road, one every hundred steps, so that no traveler would ever be lost again. And he asked Salma to show the workers where the road was most dangerous, because she knew it better than anyone.
The great golden lantern was moved too. It was set at the crossroads where three paths met, the place where most travelers lost their way.
"But Your Majesty," said one minister, "now your palace will be dark. People will not see how splendid it is."
"Let them see the road instead," said the Sultan. "A palace that shines only for itself is like a lamp under a bowl. It is better to light the way for others."
The people of the kingdom began to love their Sultan in a new way. Not because his palace was bright, but because their journeys were safe.
And Salma? She went back to her stone house and her twelve woolly sheep. Every evening she still lit her grandmother's little clay lamp. But now, when she looked out of her window, she saw a long, gentle string of lights winding up the hill, like stars that had come down to walk beside the travelers.
And she smiled, because she knew that a light is most beautiful when it helps someone find their way home.
The lesson: True greatness is not in shining for ourselves, but in giving light and help to others.
The Sultan loved his lanterns more than anything. But his favorite was a great golden lantern that hung above the palace gate. It was so bright that people in faraway villages could see it shining at night.
"Look at my lantern," the Sultan would say to his ministers. "There is no light in the whole world as fine as mine."
And his ministers would bow and say, "Yes, Your Majesty. No light is as fine as yours."
At the bottom of the hill, in a small stone house, lived a shepherd girl named Salma. She had twelve woolly sheep, one old dog called Barq, and a little clay lamp that her grandmother had made. Every evening, Salma filled the lamp with a few drops of olive oil and set it in her window.
Her lamp was small. It was plain. It did not glow like a jewel. But it did something the Sultan's lantern did not do. It showed the way home.
You see, the road below the hill was narrow and full of stones. Travelers who came late at night often lost their way. But when they saw the little light in Salma's window, they walked toward it. And Salma always opened her door. She gave them warm bread, a cup of milk, and a corner by the fire to rest.
One winter, a terrible storm came over the hills. The wind howled, and the rain fell like silver ropes. That very night, the Sultan had gone hunting with his men, and on the way back, the storm caught them on the road.
"Where is the palace?" cried the Sultan. "I cannot see my golden lantern!"
The rain was so thick that the great lantern above the gate looked like nothing more than a faint smudge in the sky. It was very high, and very far away. The horses stumbled. The men shivered. Nobody knew which way to go.
Then one of the young guards pointed. "Look, Your Majesty! A light, there, close to the ground!"
It was Salma's little clay lamp, shining steadily in her window. The storm could not reach it, because it was tucked behind the thick stone wall.
The Sultan and his men rode toward the small light. When they knocked, Salma opened the door at once. She did not know who they were. All she saw were cold, wet travelers.
"Come in, come in," she said. "There is room by the fire."
The Sultan stepped inside. Water dripped from his fine cloak onto the clay floor. The little house had only one room, a few cushions, and a pot of lentil soup bubbling gently. Barq the old dog thumped his tail in greeting.
Salma poured soup into every bowl she had. When the bowls ran out, she poured it into cups. When the cups ran out, she gave her own bowl to the youngest guard and ate nothing herself.
The Sultan watched her quietly. "Little girl," he said, "why do you keep a lamp in your window every night? Oil is not cheap for a shepherd."
Salma smiled. "My grandmother told me that a light is not for the one who lights it. A light is for the one who is lost. A big light far away is beautiful to look at. But a small light nearby can lead you home."
The Sultan said nothing for a long time. He thought of his hundred lanterns and his great golden one. He thought of how he had lit them only so that people would admire his palace. He had never once thought about the travelers on the dark road below.
In the morning, the storm had passed. The sky was washed clean and blue. The Sultan thanked Salma and rode back up the hill. Salma waved goodbye, still not knowing that she had fed a king.
Three days later, a messenger came to her door. "The Sultan asks you to come to the palace," he said.
Salma was frightened. Had she done something wrong? She brushed her best dress, took Barq with her, and climbed the hill.
In the great hall, the Sultan was waiting. Beside him stood his ministers, and they all looked surprised, because the Sultan was not wearing his golden crown. He was holding a small clay lamp.
"Do you know me, Salma?" he asked.
Salma looked closely, and her cheeks turned pink. "You are the traveler who ate my lentil soup!"
"I am," said the Sultan, laughing. "And you taught me something that all my ministers never did. I have decided to change my lanterns."
From that day, the Sultan ordered that the colored lanterns be taken down from the palace windows. Instead, they were carried down the hill and hung along the stony road, one every hundred steps, so that no traveler would ever be lost again. And he asked Salma to show the workers where the road was most dangerous, because she knew it better than anyone.
The great golden lantern was moved too. It was set at the crossroads where three paths met, the place where most travelers lost their way.
"But Your Majesty," said one minister, "now your palace will be dark. People will not see how splendid it is."
"Let them see the road instead," said the Sultan. "A palace that shines only for itself is like a lamp under a bowl. It is better to light the way for others."
The people of the kingdom began to love their Sultan in a new way. Not because his palace was bright, but because their journeys were safe.
And Salma? She went back to her stone house and her twelve woolly sheep. Every evening she still lit her grandmother's little clay lamp. But now, when she looked out of her window, she saw a long, gentle string of lights winding up the hill, like stars that had come down to walk beside the travelers.
And she smiled, because she knew that a light is most beautiful when it helps someone find their way home.
The lesson: True greatness is not in shining for ourselves, but in giving light and help to others.
