Of tradesmen and their secrets

Once upon a time, in a distant land and time, not so far away from ours, lived a small community of tradesmen. 

They traded in gems, jewellery, spices and vegetables. They were the master traders. It was their art. Their living. Their practices. It is what they had been doing since centuries. 

There was one little shop of a young merchant called Ali who was not doing too well. Since he was a simple he lacked the glitz of selling, hence, nobody purchased from him. The irony was, his vegetables were of top quality.

One day, an old bearded man came to the market. He wore a plain piece of cloth and had no fancy things on him. His appearance loudly screamed of him being a stranger. A tourist from some other continent perhaps. 

He stopped at Ali's stall and asked the price of each vegetable. 

The next day, the old man came again. This time too, he stopped at Ali's stall. The old man purchased a few vegetables from him and walked away. The routine repeated every single day. Every single day, the old man would come, purchase a few vegetables from Ali and go away. 

It sort of boggled Ali. "Why would anyone come and purchase from my stall so repeatedly?" He wondered. 

"Perhaps, the old man is up to something. Maybe he is buying from me and selling at a higher rate somewhere else. Or maybe, he is just buying from me to gain my sympathies, and one day, he'd ask for something big in return. How selfish and typical." Ali bitterly thought. Despite what he thought, the old man persistently came each day buying vegetables from him. 

Then one day, Ali decided to confront his concern of the old man's selfishness. When the old man came in the morning, Ali held his hand and stopped him from picking the vegetables. He looked into the old man's eyes and asked, "Where is your stall? How much profit are you making through my vegetables? Or do you want something from me? I can't give you anything! I am a poor man!"

The old man smiled weakly and looked at Ali. His stare was worth a million words. His silence worth words which Ali could not comprehend. He let go of his hand, the old man did not say anything and walked away. Having not been seen again ever in the village. 

The next day, a bunch of enthusiastic women came to Ali's stall and asked for vegetables. The day after, another lot of people stopped by his stall. Day after day, people started pouring in, buying his vegetables at whichever rates Ali quoted. 

He was amazed and confused at the same time. He once asked a lady, "How come you're buying from my stall suddenly?" 

She replied brightly, "Oh I would have never realized how fresh and tasty these heavenly vegetables are if it wasn't for that old man who visited our homes for lunch daily!" 

"Which old man?" inquired Ali. 

"That old bearded tourist, he used to cook fresh vegetables daily and visit each of our homes with it every day. We asked him from where he had gotten these vegetables from and he told us about you. He seemed quite fond of you. Spoke really well of you" She excitedly exclaimed. 

Ali was at loss of words. He wasn't quite sure who to label as selfish. His emotion of selfishly doubting an old man's generosity or that old man's selfless understanding and help. 

Over the centuries, we have become tradesmen. We started by trading commodities. We failed to draw lines of trade. Today, we trade emotions. We buy and sell happiness. We assume price tags to unconditional love and giving. And when in this market of humans, somebody comes along, giving for free, we don't know how to welcome it. Because we were taught the secrets of trade, but never the power of Love. 

With his shoulders heavy with guilt, Ali's eyes fell upon a small paper hidden between his stack of onions and potatoes, the paper said, "If only you trusted the quality of your vegetables, you wouldn't have doubted my purchase. For we were taught to assess the utility of trade, but never the worth of ourselves."