A Childhood Dream of Becoming a Great Scholar

In the classroom, the sound of chalk gliding across the board was dry and steady. The little student sat among the rows of desks, gazing attentively at the lesson. Whenever the teacher returned the tests, he often received praise for doing slightly better than many of his classmates. One day, the teacher looked at him and said before the whole class:

"This child may grow up to become a great scholar."

Those few short words fell into his young mind like a seed. He did not truly understand what a scholar was, nor did he know how many years of hard training it takes to become a researcher. He only felt that it must be something very grand. From that day on, a dream began to form in his mind: when I grow up, I will become a great scholar.

That dream was nourished by decent test results, by the teacher's praise, and by the joy of solving a difficult problem. He imagined he could invent this thing, create that thing. Yet these visions remained vague, because he had never asked whom those inventions would serve, nor did he know the true extent of his own abilities.

Once, after hearing him mention his dream, an adult asked:

"Why do you want to become a great scholar?"

He answered quickly: "Because I do well in school. My teacher said I could become a great scholar when I grow up."

"And what does a great scholar do?"

He faltered, his eyes blinking a few times: "Um… someone who invents and creates many things."

"Invents them for whom?"

He sat in silence. At that time, such a question was beyond the thinking of a child.

The days went by, and the lessons grew harder. He no longer faced only the exercises he could solve with ease. The further he studied, the more he saw how vast the world of knowledge was, and how limited his own abilities were. The childhood praise that had once made him think he was special was no longer enough to shield him from the truth that there was so much he did not understand.

An inner struggle began to appear. On one side was the image of the "great scholar" he had held onto since childhood; on the other were the moments when he realized he was not as gifted as he had imagined. He did not want to let go of the dream, yet he could no longer keep deceiving himself.

One day, he asked himself:

"Am I truly as talented as all that?"

The answer made his heart sink. No. He had done well in school, he had been praised, but that did not mean he had the talent to become an exceptional person. He gradually saw that he had judged himself more highly than the truth. The dream itself was not necessarily bad, but within it lay the seed of illusion.

That turning point did not make him pessimistic. It simply pulled him out of an exaggerated image of himself. He understood that a good student in class would not necessarily accomplish great things; a few words of praise could never substitute for the ability, effort, and blessings from merit needed on a long road.

Years later, he entered monastic life. That path brought him to the Buddha's teachings (Dharma) and compelled him to look more deeply within. The more he studied the Dharma, the more clearly he saw how the ego can hide inside even the most beautiful dreams. The moment one thinks "I am talented" and longs for personal glory, the aspiration to create can very easily turn into delusion.

Even so, his love of invention and creation did not disappear. It followed the monk through the years, becoming a quiet restlessness about knowledge and science. Certain ideas kept returning to his mind, like traces left behind by the schoolboy who had once dreamed of becoming a great scholar.

But now, whenever such a thought arose, the monk no longer looked at it with a sense of self-importance. He knew he still had many shortcomings. He also understood that the value of an idea lies not in the fame it brings to the one who conceives it, but in how useful it is to others.

In a moment of quiet reflection, he seemed to hear the old dialogue again:

"Why do I want to do this?"

"Not to prove that I am better than others."

"Then what if there is a dream?"

"Turn it toward the benefit of all people."

Thanks to the Buddha's teachings (Dharma), the aspiration was not extinguished but redirected. Instead of dreaming of personal glory, the monk practiced placing every idea in the service of others. It was still the desire to invent and create, but the motive had changed. One seeks to build up one's own name; the other hopes to offer something useful to the world.

He understood that one does not necessarily have to abandon great dreams. What must be abandoned is arrogance and the desire to gather the fruits for oneself. When we know we still fall short, we are willing to learn. When we do not demand glory for ourselves alone, we can keep our aspirations pure.

The schoolboy of years past had believed that doing fairly well in school and earning a teacher's praise was enough to become a great scholar. The monk he later became looked back and smiled at that innocence. Yet he was also grateful for the journey that had helped him see his own limits. Without seeing our own shortcomings, we can easily spend an entire life lost in illusions about our talent.

The childhood dream did not vanish entirely in the end. It was strained of its craving for fame, re-examined with humility, and set upon a new direction. From the wish to achieve something great for oneself, it became a yearning that if anything useful could ever be conceived, that thing must belong to everyone.

The Meaning of the Story

Great dreams are not wrong, but praise and small successes can easily make us overestimate ourselves. The Buddha's teachings (Dharma) help us see our limits clearly, let go of the craving for fame, and turn every aspiration toward the common good.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang