A Jain muni was crossing a dry plain in the height of summer. His clay pot had only a few drops of water left, just enough to wet his lips for the rest of the journey to the next village. On a small rise he saw a young deer panting in the sun, its tongue dry and pale. The muni paused. He whispered the Navkar Mantra, knelt down, and poured every last drop into a hollow of the rock. The deer drank gratefully and ran into the trees. That evening, as the muni reached the village, a farmer rushed out and offered him fresh buttermilk, fresh fruit, and shade. The muni thanked him quietly. He had not given to receive — but the world had a way of remembering.