Long ago, in the foothills where three roads met under an old banyan tree, a teacher sat watching travellers pass. One day, three friends arrived at the crossroads together, on their way to a great fair in the city beyond the hills. The teacher offered them rest, and as they sat, he watched them closely.

The first traveller settled in the shade, breathed the cool air, and sighed happily. "How pleasant this is," he said. "The breeze, the shade, the quiet. Let us stay a while. I do not want this good feeling to end." Hours passed, and still he lingered, unwilling to leave the sweetness.

The second traveller could not sit at all. He paced. He checked the road. "We must go, we must go! There is so much to see at the fair, so much to buy, so much to do!" His feet itched; his hands fidgeted. Even resting, he was busy inside, planning the next thing and the next.

The third traveller had stretched out and fallen fast asleep. When the others nudged him, he muttered, "Later... it doesn't matter... which fair was it again?" He had quite forgotten where they were going, and did not care to remember.

The teacher smiled and spoke. "Friends, look at yourselves. You" — he nodded to the first — "are tied by a golden thread to your happy ease. You" — to the second — "are tied by a racing thread to your doing and wanting. And you" — he touched the sleeper's shoulder — "are tied by a grey thread to your forgetting. Each thread is a different colour, but each one holds you to this crossroads."

"Then how does anyone ever reach the fair?" asked the first.

"By seeing the thread," said the teacher. "The moment you notice the rope — golden, racing, or grey — your hand can begin to loosen it. The traveller who watches his own threads is already half free."

The three friends looked at one another, and at the three roads, and for the first time each one saw the colour of his own quiet rope.