Every morning before the sun rose, an old woman named Reva swept the courtyard of the village temple. She had done it for forty years. Her broom was worn smooth by her hands, and the stones of the courtyard were worn smooth by her broom.

A young man named Pulak watched her one dawn. He could not understand it. "Grandmother," he said, "no one pays you. No one even sees you out here this early. By noon the wind will have blown the dust right back. Why do you sweep?"

Reva did not stop her slow, even strokes. "Watch my hands," she said. "Watch my breath. Watch where my eyes go."

Pulak watched. He saw that her hands moved steadily, her body bending and rising in an easy rhythm. He saw that her eyes followed the broom without wandering. He saw that her face was calm, almost glad.

"When I sweep," she said, "my body does the bending. My hands do the work. My eyes guide the broom. My mind stays here, on this stone and the next. I am not sweeping to be thanked. I am not sweeping so the courtyard will stay clean forever — I know the dust will come back tomorrow. I sweep because while I sweep, something inside me grows quiet and clear."

She paused and lifted a small pile of leaves into a basket. "The dust on the stones, I gather with the broom. The dust inside me — the wanting, the worrying, the small angers — I gather with the doing. Each stroke out here is a stroke in here." She tapped her chest.

Pulak knelt and picked up a second broom that leaned against the wall. He began, clumsily, to sweep beside her. At first he kept glancing around to see if anyone noticed. Then, slowly, the glancing stopped. His breath fell into the rhythm of the broom. The courtyard widened around them, grey and cool in the early light.

They did not speak again. They simply swept, two figures bending and rising, asking nothing, growing clearer with every stroke — and when the sun finally rose, it found the courtyard clean, and their hearts a little cleaner too.