Tag: Sahitya Akademi award

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Stories

A Clever Verdict

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

Once upon a time, a wealthy merchant named Viswanatham lived in the town of Sreepuram. He owned several businesses, residential properties, and vast tracts of land.

Viswanatham had two sons. The elder, Suryam, was an upright and dutiful man. Wise beyond his years and like-minded with his father, he actively assisted in expanding and managing the family business. The younger son, Chandram, was quite the opposite—contentious, easily swayed by his wife’s manipulative counsel, and perpetually creating discord at home.

One day, Viswanatham passed away. Relatives, friends, and well-wishers poured in to pay their respects and share in the family’s grief. Suryam dutifully and meticulously performed all the solemn funeral rites and obsequies for his departed father.

No sooner had the fortnight of mourning ended and the final rituals concluded than Chandram insisted on dividing the family estate.

“Father hasn’t been gone even fifteen days,” Suryam reasoned gently with his younger brother. “Must we talk of partition so soon? Let us remain united. If you require money for your personal needs, I will gladly give you whatever you want.”

Chandram refused to yield. “This is our joint ancestral property,” he snapped back. “Why should I come begging to you for every expense and live at your mercy? I want my share separate—that is precisely why I am asking for partition.”

Seeing that all his persuasion fell on deaf ears, Suryam sighed softly. “Very well. Sit down with your wife, and we shall divide the assets between us.”

Yet Chandram remained dissatisfied. “No, let us convene the village elders and have them arbitrate the division.”

Suryam agreed and summoned the village elders. He laid out the complete inventory of properties and placed all the title deeds respectfully before them. After reviewing the estate, the elders recommended a fair, equal split: the farmland and core businesses were to be divided down the middle; one brother would take the rice mill while the other received the jaggery processing mill; and the rental houses and commercial shops would be distributed equally between them.

Chandram immediately interjected, “Since I am the younger brother, I should get the first right of choice.” Suryam readily agreed.

“I shall take the rice mill,” Chandram declared. Suryam concurred without protest.

When it came to the family cash and gold jewelry, the elders suggested an equal division. But Chandram demurred, “I do not want cash; I want all the gold.” He had been prompted by his wife, who foresaw that gold would appreciate significantly in value in the future.

The elders were taken aback. “How is that acceptable? We can divide things equally, but how can we deliver a verdict that inflicts a clear financial loss on your elder brother?”

When Chandram stubbornly refused to compromise, the elders adjourned the meeting, asking everyone to reflect overnight.

The following morning, the assembly resumed. But Chandram had abruptly changed his stance. “I have reconsidered. I want the jaggery mill instead of the rice mill. And I no longer want gold—give me the liquid cash instead!”

The elders reprimanded him, “You are backtracking on what you agreed to yesterday. That is unfair.”

“I am simple-minded and do not know how to choose properly!” Chandram blustered back argumentatively. As the debate turned increasingly chaotic and fruitless, the elders once again deferred the matter to the next day.

When they reassembled, Chandram presented yet another set of demands: “I know nothing of farming. Give me the fertile lands with guaranteed irrigation facilities and leave the dry rain-fed lands for my elder brother. Furthermore, assign all the local commercial enterprises in town to me, while Elder Brother can take the businesses situated in the neighbouring villages.”

No matter how patiently the elders explained the injustice of his demands, Chandram refused to listen. For a whole week, he concocted fresh excuses every single day to stall and dispute the division.

Fearing that endorsing a lopsided partition would burden their own consciences with sin, the exasperated village elders finally raised their hands in surrender. “We bow to your estate division and we bow to both of you! Please go to the court of law and let the judge settle your partition. This is beyond our capacity.”

Left with no alternative, the brothers approached the town judge—a magistrate renowned far and wide for his astute, brilliant, and incisive verdicts. The judge listened attentively to both brothers, took down their statements, and instructed them to return in a week’s time.

In the interim, the magistrate discreetly summoned the village elders who had attempted arbitration. He gathered a comprehensive account of the entire dispute and confirmed beyond doubt that Chandram was the sole troublemaker acting in bad faith.

When Suryam and Chandram appeared before him the following week, the judge asked, “Do either of you have anything further to state?”

Suryam replied humbly, “Your Honor, I will abide by whatever judgment you pronounce.”

Chandram, on the other hand, slyly remarked, “If the verdict does not suit me, I reserve the right to seek modifications.”

The judge, having fully gauged Chandram’s litigious nature, knew precisely how to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Pronouncing his verdict, the magistrate declared in an authoritative voice:

“It is evident from our inquiry that Suryam has acted with absolute honesty and good faith throughout this matter. Since every difficulty has been engineered by Chandram, and since no division made by others will ever satisfy him, Chandram himself shall divide the entire estate into two equal shares. Once he completes the division, Suryam shall have the first right to choose whichever share he prefers. This is my final judgment, and the division must take place right here, right now!”

Upon hearing this verdict, Chandram stood frozen—it was as if an unripe wood-apple had lodged firmly in his throat. He found himself trapped between a rock and a hard place. All along, he had criticized and disrupted divisions made by others. But now, the duty of division rested solely on his shoulders. If he unfairly stacked all the prime properties into one share for himself, Suryam would simply pick that share, leaving Chandram with the lesser portion. Thus, to protect his own self-interest, Chandram was forced to meticulously measure and balance both shares to the finest detail so that he would suffer no loss regardless of what Suryam chose.

Thus, through the judge’s masterstroke of wisdom, the long-pending property dispute was settled smoothly and flawlessly.

Everyone present lauded the brilliant magistrate for dealing Chandram the exact remedy he deserved.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Excerpt

Scenes from the Magic Mountain by Ruskin Bond

 

Title: Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond

Author: Ruskin Bond

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Introduction

Sixty-one years ago, almost to the month, I made the highland of Mussoorie in the Garhwal foothills my home. It was a sunny afternoon, and by my side was a gentle-faced elderly lady—a bit of a loner by circumstance, like me. I had mentioned in passing that I wanted to shift from Delhi, where I had been living somewhat unhappily for a couple of years, and she was showing me the vacant upper floor of her home—an old, isolated cottage at the edge of a forest of oak and maple, green, red and gold. You couldn’t see the Himalayas, or the Doon Valley below, for the cottage was tucked away in the shadow of a hill. But it was spring and when I opened the window of the small living room, the forest seemed to rush upon me, as if in welcome. And from the deep ravine rose the sweet, haunting call of the Himalayan whistling thrush. That decided it for me—the forest, which seemed full of possibilities, and the birdsong. I moved into the cottage—it was called Maplewood Lodge—and settled for good in these hills.

I was still young, and in my romantic frame of mind, I was susceptible to magic casements opening wide. I decided I would make a window-seat and lie there on a summer’s day, writing lyric poetry…But long before that could happen I was opening tins of sardines and sharing them with Miss Bean, the elderly lady who continued to live in the rooms below me. It was a solidarity of the indigent! I went away from the hills at times, but returned as soon as possible, and when I had to leave Maplewood, I rented other homes, each one old and modest, but always with a view.

Once you have lived with the mountains, you can never leave. You belong to them.

Sometimes it is hard to believe that I have been up here all these years—sixty summers and monsoons and winters, and the short autumns and even shorter Himalayan springs (there is no real spring in the plains). When I look back, it seems like yesterday when I first came up with my meagre belongings and a head full of dreams. I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape. I am too old now to walk among the noble oaks and deodars and the ancient pines, but I feel their presence at all times. The wind brings me their words of wisdom and encouragement when my spirits are low, and their benediction when I give of myself freely in love and friendship. They have seen these hills change and yet remain the same through countless seasons—renewing and healing themselves and all the life that lives upon and within them.

p. 52-53

Maplewood Lodge, Mussoorie.

The summer of 1963.

The forest is still silent, until the cicadas start tuning up for their performance. On cue, like a conductor, a bird perched high in the branches of a spruce tree begins its chant. Umeew—umeew!

The forest begins to pulse with the hypnotic buzzing of the cicadas.

Big white ox-eye daisies grow on the hillside. The sorrel—almora grass—has turned red. I sit in my garden, contemplating my old Olympia typewriter. Still writing stories, still trying to sell them.

As a boy, loneliness. As a man, solitude.

And loneliness was not of my seeking. The solitude I sought. And found.

I am to spend many summers in this cottage. Mornings in the sun, evenings in the shadows.

Some mornings, I carry my small table, chair and typewriter out on to the knoll below one of the oaks and take a little help from the babblers and bulbuls that flit in and out of the canopies of leaves. White-hooded babblers; yellow-bottomed bulbuls. Never still for a moment, they help me with my punctuation.

For dialogue I depend more on the crickets, cicadas and grasshoppers who keep up a regular exchange, debating the issues of the day. But for reflective and descriptive writing I look into the distance, at the purple hills merging with the azure sky; or I examine a fallen leaf as it spirals down from the tree and settles on the typewriter keys. The summer sun bathes everything with clear, warm light. Somewhere high up on the hills, cows are grazing. I don’t see them, but I hear the bells tied around their neck.

I write in leisure. There is no hurry.

p. 125

Maplewood. Early October, and the hill slopes are showing off their post-monsoon foliage in a variety of hues: dahlias gone wild in shades of mauve, magenta and startling red; tall cosmos swaying in the breeze; wild geranium tucked away among the ferns; asters flourishing on retaining walls; and bronzed chrysanthemums vying for attention with massive marigolds. On the knoll, the grass is just beginning to turn October yellow. The first clouds approaching winter cover the sky. The trees are very still. The birds are silent. Only a cricket keeps singing on the oak tree. Gardens both natural and man-made are at their best in the brief autumn before Diwali.

The sun goes down with a lot of fuss. First a fiery red, and then in waves of pink and orange as it slides beneath the small clouds that wander about on the horizon. The brief Autumn twilight of northern India passes like a shadow over the hills, and dusk gives way to darkness. Sometimes, I’ll step outside to watch the sunset, and to see a lamp came on in Miss Bean’s sitting room below mine, followed by the veranda light. An atmosphere of peace and harmony descends on the hillside.

Click here to read the review of the book.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Ruskin Bond has spent a lifetime paying attention to the seasons of the hills—watching their arrivals and departures, their repetitions and small variations, the ways in which they shape both landscape and daily life. He’s written of spring’s first leaves and tentative warmth; the long, insect-filled days of summer; the monsoon’s rain, mist, and abundance; autumn’s burnished light and ripening fruit; winter’s cold silences and snow-laden trees; and finally, the eternal season—the quiet renewal that begins where all endings meet.

In Scenes from the Magic Mountain, he gathers his writings and remembered moments across these six seasons, observing the natural world—along forest paths, during walks, storms, solitary afternoons, and shared silences. Birds and trees, rain and light, houses, animals, neighbours, and memories pass through these pages without hurry.

Thoughtful, attentive and reflective, Scenes from the Magic Mountain offers the seasons not as events to be marked, but as a way of living in time. A companion for slow reading, this is a book to return to across the year, as the seasons turn and return again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruskin Bond was born in Kasauli in 1934, and grew up in Jamnagar, Dehradun, Delhi and Shimla. He is the author of over a hundred books of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Among them are The Room on the Roof, A Flight of Pigeons, The Blue Umbrella, A Book of Simple Living, Friends in Wild Places and Lone Fox Dancing. He received the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize in 1956, the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1993, the Padma Shri in 1999 and the Padma Bhushan in 2014.

He lives in Landour, Mussoorie with his adopted family.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Stories

The Village That Chose Trees

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

Every morning, the people of Greenvale woke up to the songs of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the cool shade of giant trees. The village looked fresh and beautiful in every season.

Much of this greenery existed because of two people — Mr. Ravi, the village teacher, and Grandpa Hari. They loved nature deeply. Wherever they found an empty piece of land, they planted saplings. They also encouraged everyone in the village to do the same. Soon, trees began growing in front of houses, beside pathways, and around the village pond.

One year, the government decided to build a factory near Greenvale. Officials soon arrived with a plan to widen the narrow village road and build a smooth tar road for large trucks carrying machines and goods.

But there was a problem.

Many huge neem and tamarind trees stood along the roadside. To widen the road, all of them would have to be cut down.

Some of the village youngsters said, “Roads and factories mean development. Why should we stop it?”

But Grandpa Hari stood silently beneath the trees, sadness filling his eyes. Just then, Mr. Ravi arrived.“Is cutting down so many trees the only way?” he asked the officials calmly. “There is another road around the village that can be improved instead. Development should not destroy nature.”

The officials replied, “The factory will bring jobs to your village. Why are you opposing this project?”

“We are not against progress,” Mr. Ravi explained. “We are only asking you to save these trees and use the other road.”

“That decision is beyond our control,” the officials answered. “If you wish, speak to the Minister or the District Collector. We can stop the work for two or three days. After that, we must continue unless new orders arrive.”

That evening, Mr. Ravi called for a village meeting.

“Cutting down fully grown trees,” he told the villagers, “is like destroying children we have raised with care. The world is already growing hotter. Summers are becoming harsher, rainfall is decreasing, and our ponds and wells no longer stay full throughout the year. If we lose these trees, our future will suffer even more.”

The villagers listened carefully.

“Let us request the authorities to improve the alternate road instead,” he continued. “I will prepare a petition. Together, we can protect our village.”

After many discussions, the villagers finally agreed. Everyone signed the petition, and it was sent to the Minister and the District Collector. A few days later, there had news and it was good.

The alternate road would be developed, and the trees in Greenvale would remain safe.

Mr. Ravi and Grandpa Hari were overjoyed.

Months later, the village elders decided to build a community hall. However, a large tree planted years ago by Grandpa Hari stood exactly where they wanted to build it.

“We may have to remove this tree,” the elders said.

“What difference will one tree make? The hall will help everyone.”

Grandpa Hari quietly went inside his home and returned with an old diary. Inside it was a faded photograph of him as a little boy planting the tree with his father.

“This tree is a memory of my father,” he said softly, tears shining in his eyes. “Please let it live. Build the hall around it if you wish.”

Mr. Ravi smiled and supported him.

“He is right,” the teacher told the villagers. “If we keep cutting down trees, will air conditioners save us from the dangerous heat of the future? Your parents once played under this tree. Let future generations also enjoy its shade.”

The villagers respected Mr. Ravi greatly. At last, they agreed to protect the tree.

Not long afterward, a young boy in the village developed severe breathing problems. His family rushed to town searching for an oxygen cylinder.

Watching this, Grandpa Hari called the children closer.

“Did you see that?” he asked gently. “People had to travel far for one oxygen cylinder. But trees give us fresh oxygen every single day, free of cost. That is why we must never destroy them. If we continue cutting trees, one day people may have to buy oxygen just to survive.”

The children fell silent.

Then one little girl suddenly said, “Let us plant more trees!”

“Yes!” the others shouted excitedly. “Let us plant one hundred saplings near the village pond!”

The children worked together happily. They planted the saplings and cared for them every day.

Years passed.

The tiny plants slowly grew into strong trees, and Greenvale turned into a beautiful green paradise.

Rain fell regularly again. The ponds and wells overflowed with water. Birds from distant places filled the village with cheerful songs and bright colours. Farmers harvested healthy crops because water was plentiful. The cooler weather reduced the need for electrical appliances, helping families save money. Most importantly, the villagers became healthier because of the clean and fresh air.

One pleasant evening, Mr. Ravi and Grandpa Hari sat beneath the trees, watching the children play nearby.

“Look around,” Grandpa Hari said with a smile. “The small saplings we planted have become giant trees. They brought rain back to our village. Birds returned because of this greenery. Even community meetings are now held under the cool shade of trees.”

Mr. Ravi nodded happily.

“Always remember,” he told the children, “true development means growing together with nature, not destroying it.”

“We will protect every tree,” the children promised together.

And the trees of Greenvale danced softly in the evening breeze, as if blessing their promise.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Poetry

 The Boy Who Learned to Be Brave

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

Balu was a kind and bright boy who was always smiling. But he had a secret: he was utterly terrified of the dark. He never dared to step out of his house alone after sunset. Whenever the lights went out during a power cut, he would let out a small, scared squeak, cry “Mom… darkness!” and rush to hide himself in his mother’s arms.

One night, as he sat trembling on her lap, his father scooped him up. “Balu,” he said gently, “there is absolutely no need to be afraid of the dark. Think about it. When the light is on, your toys are right there on the shelf, your favourite books are on the table, and your cozy bed is waiting for you. When the light is off, guess what? All your toys, books, and bed are still exactly in the same place! Darkness doesn’t add anything or subtract anything; it just turns off the lights. It’s your own mind that invents imaginary monsters. Once you learn to push those silly thoughts away, you’ll see how brave you can really be.”

Balu nodded, trying to understand. But the next night, when the light went out, his heart began to pound all over again.

Days turned into weeks, and Balu remained as scared as ever.

One cloudy afternoon, as he was walking home from school, the sky grew unusually dark. A strong wind rustled the leaves, making them dance in eerie shapes on the ground. Suddenly, Balu froze. He heard a strange, pathetic little whimper. He stopped and listened. The sound was coming from the thick, thorny bushes by the side of the road.

“What could it be?” he wondered, his heart fluttering. He hesitated for a moment, then took a brave step closer and peeked into the bushes.

There, trapped deep within the tangle of sharp thorns, was the tiniest, fluffiest puppy he had ever seen. Its leg was caught, and its velvety ears were drooping with fear. Every time it tried to wiggle free, a thorn would prick its delicate skin, making it let out another sad cry.

Balu felt a wave of fear wash over him. “If I reach in there, those thorns will tear my skin,” he thought, taking a step back. But then he looked at the puppy’s big, soulful brown eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. He saw how hard its little body was shivering. “No, I can’t leave him. He’s just a baby, and he’s so scared,” a little voice whispered inside him. “He needs me”.

“Don’t worry, little one. I won’t let you get hurt,” Balu said, his voice stronger than he expected. He dropped his heavy school bag on the grass and looked around. He found a long, strong stick nearby.

Using the stick, he carefully pushed the sharp thorny branches aside, creating a small path. Slowly and gently, mindful not to scare the puppy further, he reached into the opening. A few thorns scratched his hands, but he hardly felt them. He scooped the tiny bundle into his arms and carefully pulled it free.

From Public Domain

Once safe, the puppy didn’t run away. Instead, it looked up at Balu, wagged its tail with all its might, and enthusiastically licked his nose. It was its own little way of saying, “You are my hero!”. His heart was filled with a warm, joyful feeling that erased all his remaining fear.

When he got home, he ran to his father and told him everything.

His father’s eyes filled with pride. “You did an incredibly brave thing today, Balu. You risked getting hurt to save a small, helpless creature. Only a person with real courage can do something like that. I am so proud of you!” He gave Balu a tight hug.

Just then, his mother arrived with a tube of soothing ointment. As she gently dabbed it on his scratches, she smiled. “Well, my little hero will be truly unstoppable once he conquers his other fear—the fear of the dark!”

Balu’s smile faded a little. “You’re right, Mom. I still have to work on that.”

His father sat next to him. “Balu, that’s where you’re wrong. What you have isn’t a fear; it’s just a misunderstanding. To prove it to you, I have an idea. Tonight, we will go into one of the rooms and sit together in the dark. I will show you that there is nothing there but silence and emptiness. Your imagination is the only thing that fills it with monsters. Will you sit with me? After that, mother will know you are a complete hero.”

Balu hesitated, a shadow of fear crossing his face. “Are you sure? Will I be safe?”.

 His father said, “I am your dad. Would I ever ask you to do something that wasn’t safe? I promise you, I will be right there with you the whole time. You’ve faced sharp thorns to save a puppy. Facing the dark is easy compared to that.”

That night, they went into a quiet room and closed the door. His father flipped the switch, and the room was instantly plunged into darkness. At first, Balu let out a gasp and squeezed his father’s hand as hard as he could. But his father just laughed softly and put his arm around him.

“Now,” his father began, “while we’re sitting here in this quiet, peaceful dark, I’m going to tell you a true story about a real-life hero who was born in our very own country. This is a story about a brave young man named Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.”

He told Balu about Shivaji’s courage, how he learned to navigate through the densest forests and the darkest, snowiest mountains without any fear. He described how Shivaji, even as a young boy, wasn’t afraid to explore hidden caves and deep canyons, always knowing that the dark was just a part of the world, not something to dread. Balu was so enthralled by the stories of battles and daring escapes that he completely forgot where he was. He was picturing Shivaji on horseback, charging through the night to defend his people.

“Wow, daddy! What an amazing hero! He was so brave,” Balu exclaimed when the story was over.

“He was,” his father agreed, smiling in the dark. “And tell me, Balu. During all this time we’ve been sitting here, while I was telling you the story, did anything happen to you?”

Balu thought for a moment. “No, nothing at all. I wasn’t even thinking about the dark! My eyes have adjusted now, and I can see the shapes of the furniture. It’s not scary at all.”

Outside the door, his mother’s phone alarm went off. The next moment, she pushed the door open, flooding the room with light.

Balu looked up at her with a beaming smile. “Nothing happened to me in the dark, Mom! I’m not afraid anymore!”

His mother hugged him tightly. “I am so proud of you, Balu! The courage that was concealed within you all this time has finally revealed itself. That courage is your own special light. Where there is light, darkness must disappear. And where there is courage, fear has no place to hide.”

From that night on, Balu never feared the dark again. He was truly a hero, through and through.

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Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Stories

When Silence Learned to Speak

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

Charan was three years old. His mother and father both had jobs. Every morning they woke up early, hurried through all the household work, and rushed to their offices. Because of this, they hardly had any time to spend with Charan.

They would make him sit in front of the television. A maid was hired to take care of him. After finishing the household chores, she too would sit in front of the TV. Charan spent the whole day watching the programs on television along with her.

The colours on the TV kept changing. Scenes changed. Cartoon characters jumped around. Strange sounds filled the room. But not a single character on the screen ever asked Charan, “How are you?” The maid was happy just watching the TV and hardly paid attention to him.

Because of this, Charan could not open his mouth and speak. Even though he was three years old, his world stopped at gestures. It had not reached the stage of words.

One day Charan’s grandmother and grandfather came from their village. They were surprised to see that the house was filled only with the sound of the television. Charan smiled when he saw them, but he did not greet them.

With the help of the maid, they managed their work. It was already dark when their daughter and son-in-law returned home from work. As soon as they arrived, the grandparents asked about their grandson.

“He still hasn’t started speaking. That’s why he just smiles,” their daughter said.

Grandfather felt a sharp pain in his heart. How could a three-year-old child still not speak? he wondered. Right then he made a decision in his mind: “The television in this house must stop. Instead, we must spend time with our grandson.”

Grandfather began to think about how to help Charan start speaking. Soon he came up with a few ideas, and from the very next day he started putting them into action.

Every morning he took Charan to the garden. There he showed him the birds, squirrels, ants, flowers, leaves, and branches, and told him their names.

When a tiny ant was walking by, Grandfather said, “Look, Charan! This little ant is carrying a piece of laddu for her baby. Another ant is carrying a piece of jaggery. Call them and ask them to stop. Say, ‘Ant, please stop!’”

When a squirrel climbed a tree, he said slowly and clearly, moving his lips so Charan could see, “Look at the squirrel… see how fast it climbs the tree! Call it. Say ‘Squ-ir-rel… squirrel… stop!’”

Then he pointed to a parrot sitting on another tree branch and said,

“Look, Charan. Its colour is green. It blends with the leaves of the tree. And see its beak—it’s bright red!”

Charan watched the ants, the squirrel, and the parrot with great interest. For the first time, he tried to stop an ant and made a sound, “Aa… aa…”

Another time a crow was cawing. Grandfather explained, “Look, that’s a crow. See how black it is. Listen… it says ‘Caw… caw…’”

Sometimes he made Charan stand in front of a mirror. “Look, how handsome you are in the mirror! Where is Charan’s nose? Here is Grandfather’s nose. Where is your nose?”

Charan would touch his nose and laugh.

“Say it… no-se…” Grandfather would say slowly, moving his lips clearly.

Watching these movements, Charan slowly began to imitate them.

Grandmother also thought of a clever idea. She would purposely stay in the kitchen and give Charan a small task.

“Oh dear! I forgot to give Grandfather his medicine box. Can you take this to him and say, ‘Take it’ with your mouth?”

Charan carried the box to Grandfather. As he handed it over, and with Grandfather encouraging him, he said his first word: “Ta…k…” (Take it).

Days passed like this.

One evening it began to rain. Charan stood near the window watching the drops fall outside. Until then he had only seen rain on television. Now the cool breeze and the smell of wet earth felt new and exciting.

Standing beside him, Grandmother said, “Charan… it’s raining!”

Then she began to sing a playful rain song, acting it out with her hands.

Holding Grandmother’s hand, Charan pointed to the falling raindrops outside and tried to sing along, saying softly and unclearly, “Rain… rain… come…!”

A few more days passed. One day, Charan clearly called out, “Grandma!”

The moment they heard that word, everyone’s eyes in the house filled with joy. Charan’s parents finally understood something important: compared to the artificial sounds from the television, the first word from a child’s mouth is far sweeter.

Grandfather said thoughtfully, “Children who grow up in a joint family don’t need to be taught how to speak. Words come to them naturally. That’s because everyone around them becomes like a teacher, talking and chatting with them. Mobile phones and televisions may give information, but they cannot teach conversation. That is why Charan started speaking late. Now do you understand where the real problem was? From now on, we must raise Charan without such mistakes and make sure he grows well.”

Charan’s mother realised that Grandfather’s words were true.

From then on, Charan’s parents never left him alone at home. Either his paternal grandparents or maternal grandparents would stay with him while they went to work.

And slowly, Charan forgot about the television.

With his new words, he began to talk, laugh, and fill the house with happiness.

From Public Domain

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Excerpt

The House of Flowers by Aruna Chakravarti

Title: Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories

Author: Aruna Chakravarti

Publisher: Penguin India

The House of Flowers

Zihan stirred in his sleep. A chill breath passing over his limbs had awakened him. He strained his eyes, still heavy with wine fumes, and looked around. Where was he? This was not his room and this wasn’t his bed. He was lying in what seemed to be a small, confined space under an ornate gilded ceiling in a bed so soft, his limbs were sinking into its depths. The sky was paling with first light and long beams from a dying moon streamed in through the open window. The fragrance of an unknown flower, wild and sweet, filled the room. 

He turned his head towards the window. Something, like an opalescent haze, was obscuring his vision. At first, he thought it was a sheet of mist. Then, before his amazed eyes, it started to take a shape and form. It became a woman. He could see her slender limbs, smooth as white satin, shimmering through the garment that swayed and billowed around her form. Diaphanous as a film of gossamer. So light, it seemed woven out of moonbeams. Her face was swathed in mist.

The figure moved from the window and came gliding towards him. He could see her face clearly now. A perfect oval with apricot shaped eyes, brows like strung bows and hair that fell down her back like a sheet of black silk. He stared at the vision of loveliness so long and hard …his eyes began to hurt. He had never seen such beauty in a woman before.

She stood by his bed for a while gazing into his eyes, then lay down, her body light as a feather against his. Taking his face in her hands, she caressed it with a tenderness that reminded him of his mother’s touch. She drew the silky strands of her floating hair all over his naked body. Across his chest and abdomen, over his genitals, thighs and legs, down to the insteps of his feet. The wildflower scent from her limbs filled his nostrils. Her kisses fluttered on his lips, soft and cold as drifting snow…

The wine, still running in his blood, quivered in his veins. His limbs, untouched by a woman before, heaved luxuriously and his eyes closed in ecstasy. He drifted away…

How long he lay in this state of bliss, he couldn’t tell. It could be minutes. It could be hours. Gradually, an uneasy feeling came over him. Something heavy was pressing against his body. It was squashing his chest and squeezing the breath out of his lungs. He moved aside but the pressure grew in intensity, driving him further and further towards the edge of the bed. And now his heart beat rapidly with an unknown dread. What was happening? Was he still asleep and this a fearful dream? Suddenly his eyes sprang open and what he saw sent currents of ice water rippling down his spine. He felt the hot blood pulsing and pounding in his ears.  A muscle twitched and shuddered in his cheek…

The reed-slim body of the woman beside him had bloated to a colossal size. Her eyes, thin slits in the vast globe of her face, glittered with hate. Her mouth was a deep red gash through which yellow teeth, long and sharp as a panther’s fangs, hung to her chin.

The mountain of flesh was growing larger and larger every moment. It was filling the bed. He would fall over the edge any moment now. A scream gathered in his lungs but froze before it could reach his throat…

Suddenly she sprang on him; her nails sharp as claws ripping the skin off his chest and thighs. Digging her teeth into the soft flesh just below the right shoulder, she bit off a large hunk. Zihan’s eyes were glazed with pain and fear. He stared mesmerized as the monstrous creature rose from the bed and swayed and shuffled towards the opposite wall. She wore a garment of sheer white muslin that swelled and surged like waves about her form. Blood dripped from her slavering mouth and fell on the floor as her great body waddled, like a gorilla’s, from side to side. And now, for the first time, Zihan saw the coffin. It was open… 

Zihan screamed. Shriek after shriek burst from the throat that had been frozen all this while, hit the walls, and sent fearful echoes all through the house. Then, exhausted and half dead from shock and loss of blood, he lay motionless, whimpering like a child.

Kueilan was a light sleeper and the first to hear the cries. They seemed to be coming from the dead girl’s room. Her heart thudded with fear as she rushed to it and flung the door open. She stood where she was for a while, her eyes glued to the coffin. It stood in the same place but the seal was broken and its open lid rested against the wall. A lily-white hand with long tapering fingers was dangling from the edge. And now the lid began to move downwards. Slowly, soundlessly, it was falling in place. In a few moments it would reach the hand and crush it. A tremor ran through Kueilan’s frame. Her mouth opened in a scream but before she could utter a sound, the hand glided over the edge and slipped into the hollow where the rest of the dead girl lay. Then, before Kueilan’s amazed eyes, the coffin closed, the seal came together and all was as it had been.

‘Published with permission from Penguin Random House India from Creeping Shadows (2026)’.

About the Book:

The stories in Creeping Shadows are spread over a vast canvas, both in terms of time span and locale. A teahouse in ancient China. A brothel in nineteenth-century Calcutta. A forest lodge in Bankura. An old mansion in Bangladesh. A university campus in today’s Delhi. Beginning as human-interest narratives, they end with sudden, unexpected twists that raise hair ends and send trickles of ice water down the spine. Here are tales of shadows, tingles and chills…

About the Author:

Aruna Chakravarti has been principal of a prestigious women’s college of Delhi University for ten years. She is also a well-known academic, creative writer and translator with eighteen published books on record. They comprise five novels, two books of short stories, two academic works and nine volumes of translation.
Her first novel, The Inheritors (published by Penguin Random House), was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and her second, Jorasanko, received critical acclaim and became a bestseller. Daughters of Jorasanko, a sequel to Jorasanko, has sold widely and received rave reviews. Her novel Suralakshmi Villa was adjudged ‘Novel of the year (India 2020)’ by Indian Bibliography published in The Journal of Commonwealth Literature U.K. Her other well-known works include The Mendicant Prince which has been shortlisted for the Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize, and Through a Looking Glass: Stories. Her translated works include an anthology of songs from Rabindranath Tagore’s Gitabitaan, Saratchandra Chattopadhyay’s Srikanta and Sunil Gangopadhyay’s Those Days, First Light and Primal Woman: Stories. Her most recent work is titled Rising from the Dust.
Among the various awards she has received are Vaitalik Award, Sahitya Akademi Award and Sarat Puraskar. She is also a scriptwriter and producer of seven multi-media presentations based on her novels. Comprising dramatized readings, interspersed with songs and accompanied by a visual presentation by professional artists and singers, these programmes have been widely acclaimed and performed in many parts of India and abroad.

Click here to read her interview/review

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Stories

Ameya’s Victory

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

Ameya was studying in the eighth grade. She was not only good at games but also a topper in her studies. However, she had one weakness — she had a squint in her eyes. Two girls in her class, Swapna and Sarasa, used to tease her every day by calling her names like “Squinty Beauty” and “Twisted Eyes”.

One day, during the lunch break, Ameya was eating her food. Swapna came near her and said loudly, “You have squint eyes, right? When you eat, does the food go into your mouth or into your ears?” Everyone laughed at her. Feeling deeply hurt and ashamed, Ameya stopped eating, went to the washroom, and cried.

From that day onwards, she started coming to school wearing dark glasses. Whenever she removed her glasses, she covered her eyes with her hand while talking.

Seeing this, Swapna mocked her again and asked, “Did you get an operation for your squint? Is that why you are wearing dark glasses?” Ameya did not reply and simply turned her face away.

After a few days, the school organised an exhibition. All the students prepared colorful charts. Ameya also prepared a wonderful presentation on Environmental Protection.

The District Collector came to visit the exhibition. Just as he reached Ameya’s desk, Swapna deliberately pushed her from behind. Ameya lost her balance and almost fell down. Her charts got slightly damaged.

Seeing this, Swapna whispered mockingly, “Look, the squinty beauty is about to fall. She can’t see properly, you know.” The Collector heard this. He immediately helped Ameya stand up and carefully looked at her charts.

Praising her work, he said, “You have prepared this very well. Why are you speaking so fearfully? Why are you covering your eyes with your hand?”

With tears in her eyes, Ameya said, “Sir, I have a squint. Everyone makes fun of me and calls me bad names.”

The Collector then spoke to the children standing there: “Children! In nature, no two flowers are the same. A tree may be bent, but the shade it gives is cool and comforting. Ameya’s intelligence and her concern for the environment are truly great. Making fun of someone’s physical weakness only shows poor character. Calling others by insulting names does not make you great. It makes you guilty of hurting someone’s heart.”

First published in 1902

Turning towards Ameya, he said gently: “Your intelligence is your strength. A squint is only a small physical condition. Don’t feel sad about it. Have you heard of Helen Keller? She was not only blind but also deaf and unable to speak. Still, her extraordinary qualities made her an inspiration to the world. She learned to read and write using Braille, mastered many languages, and became the first deaf-blind woman to earn a university degree. Through books like The Story of My Life, she shared her thoughts with the world. She fought for the rights of the disabled, women’s rights, and social justice. People with disabilities should take her as an inspiration. Never hide your beautiful eyes for anyone.”

Inspired by the Collector’s words, the school principal immediately introduced a new rule:

“Anyone who calls others by insulting names will face strict action.”

After this incident, Swapna and Sarasa realised their mistake. They went to Ameya and said, “Please forgive us. We now understand that knowledge and values are more important than appearance.”

Ameya smiled freely at last. From then on, no one in that school teased anyone by calling bad names. Everyone lived together like one happy family.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Excerpt

The Moonlight Saga by Arupa Patangia Kalita

Title: Moonlight Saga 

Author: Arupa Patangia Kalita

Translated from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Many, many years ago, even before time could be stamped with a number, our earth was absolutely empty. The utter silence depressed Singh Buga, the Adi devata—the First God. He could not live in peace in his heavenly abode. So Singh Buga decided to use his magical power to fill up the void with living things. But there was no soil on which they could be nurtured. Water, water, that’s all he saw everywhere. Yes, there was soil under the water, but who could bring it up from such depths? If only he could get some earth, even a small amount, he would fill it with trees and flowers, animals and other living beings. He thought and thought and then he created a leech, a crab and a tortoise. The leech was sent first to get some soil, but he failed in his mission. How could he go down to such great depths under the water? So, Singh Buga sent the crab. But for him too, the soil was too down below. At last, he sent the tortoise. The tortoise followed his Lord’s command and plunged in. He swam far into the depths, reached the bottom and touched the earth’s core. He smelled the earth, took a deep breath, rubbed some of the earth on his body, dug up some more that lay almost inert for eons under the cold water and carried it back for his Lord. Singh Buga was delighted and soon created all the things he desired. The earth that had lain lifeless underwater for thousands of years was touched by sunlight. Wind blew over it. It became full of life. The fertile land became green and spread to the horizon. Plants flowered, trees bowed down with the weight of ripe fruits. The earth was now full of colour. The God decided to create living beings. The calls of birds, animals and insects broke the silence. A pair of milk-white swans laid two eggs. From them Singh Buga created a pair of humans—a man and a woman. He was elated that men would now inhabit the earth. He let them live in a cave and waited with bated breath for news of a new arrival. But where was the news? He waited and waited, finally feeling crestfallen. The pair were very happy roaming around in the beautiful land, but they were ignorant about the mystery of creating life themselves. So, he made them drink laopaani—rice wine—to make their bodies throb with desire.

See that couple sitting morosely in a corner on the ferry? They are no older than the young couple Singh Buga had created out of two swan eggs. But this young couple exudes no sense of happiness. They belong to this burdensome earth; not for them the serenity of the pristine world that God Singh Buga had created. True, they worship him, but in their lives there is only pain and sorrow. Hunger and the torment of a painful existence has chased them every moment. Lack of peace and resentment towards their lot were their constant companions. Adi devata could intoxicate the young couple he had brought to life with liquor and generate in them a desire to create. But for this couple, even if God Singh Buga offered them the best drink, he would only lull them physically from the pain; he would be unable to awaken in them the ancient hunger of the body. Their minds were as dry as the drought-affected earth. On that famished land, only hot tears trickled down drop by drop. The hungry earth sucked in those tears instantly.

The girl, at the cusp of youth, looked utterly dejected. The long arduous journey had drained her energy. Her eyes shut, she rested her head on the shoulder of the equally exhausted young man sitting next to her. If she opened her eyes, the bright sunlight playing on the river’s surface dazzled her and made her head spin. She was too weak to move much.

Her name was Durgi. Durgi Bhumij. An expert sculptor seemed to have lovingly carved her figure. Her statuesque body had thinned down somewhat, but strangely, though wreaked by hunger and thirst, her light brown face had not lost its charm. She was, after all, Durgi—Durga mai, Goddess Durga. She was born during the autumn festival of Durga puja, when the throbbing madal drum was beating frenziedly outside their house. Her grandmother cut the umbilical cord, gave the baby a bath and placed her on her mother’s breast and said, ‘Durga mai has come to our house.’ The old woman named her Durgi in the likeness of the Shakti Goddess.

But now, her granny’s beloved Durga mai was facing terrible times. A devastating famine had crippled their land of red earth. Its canopy of forests of mahua, sal and teak were now filled with only heart-rending cries from hungry mouths, and death.

Durgi was at an age when she could digest even chips of stone. But there was nothing to eat. The fields lay dry. The white sahibs had taken away everything. There was no water in the river for them, no forests to pick fruits from. There was no work: no field to till, no forest to forage for potatoes and yams. Entering the forest for their age-old practice of hunting was banned. As was fishing in the river next to their village. All these now belonged to ‘others’. The only word that echoed through the land was: NOTHING…NOTHING. Nothing was left for them. Rice became as costly as gold.

There had been floods in the past, even droughts. But like a mother whose annoyance with a child does not last long, Mother Nature’s anger also did not carry on forever. The earth became indulgent again, green shoots showed up joyfully once more. But the kind of famine Durgi and her people were now facing was like coming up against a formidable hill they could not surmount…

(Extracted from Moonlight Saga by Arupa Kalita Patangia, translated from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas. Published by Speaking Tiger Books 2026.)

ABOUT THE BOOK

In the lush yet brutal landscape of colonial Assam unfolds a haunting chapter of history—the rise of the tea plantations and the human cost that sustained them. Drawn by promises of Assam desh—a land of dignity, abundance, and fair wages—Adivasi families from central India are packed onto overcrowded steamers and sent upriver, where hunger, disease and death shadow every step of their journey. Among them is Durgi, a young woman whose resilience endures even in despair. With her, she carries a small bundle of marigold seeds, a fragile memory of the land of red earth she has left behind. At her side is her husband, Dosaru, the rebellious archer, bound to her by love and the shared hope of building a life of their own. However, what awaits them at Atharighat Tea Estate is no promised land. Labourers are stripped, disinfected, confined to barracks, and driven into relentless work, while sickness, fear, and muted defiance simmer beneath the ordered rows of tea bushes.

Durgi’s life takes a complicated turn over the years—an intimate affair with Fraser, the white manager of the tea garden, results in the birth of three mixed race children. Their unequal relationship exposes another unspoken truth about plantation life—the generations of similar children, many of whom, abandoned by their white ancestors, still live in Assam’s tea gardens today.

Rooted in lived experience, Moonlight Saga gives voice to the forgotten men and women who built the empire’s ‘green gold’, bearing witness to their suffering, endurance, and fragile hopes—as the British Raj begins to crumble in the shadows of India’s Independence struggle.

Originally written in Assamese, the novel is a celebrated and much-discussed work in Assam, recognised for its unflinching portrayal of plantation life and its place in the region’s collective memory. Its translation into English opens up an essential regional story to a wider readership, ensuring that the sacrifices and struggles embedded in the tea gardens are not forgotten.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arupa Kalita Patangia is one of the best-known Assamese writers of today. She has five novels, twelve short story collections, several novellas, books for children, and translations into Assamese to her credit. In 2014, she received the prestigious Sahitya Akademi Award for her book of short stories, Mariam Austin Othoba Hira Barua.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

Ranjita Biswas is an independent journalist, fiction and travel writer, and translator. Ranjita has won the KATHA translation awards several times. She has also to her credit eight published works in translation.

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Stories

The Value of Money

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

Mr. Williams lived in a town called Vinjamur. He owned several businesses and was well-known for being extremely careful with money. Whether at home or in his shop, he made sure that not even a single rupee was wasted.

One day, Mr. Williams had to go out on some work. Before leaving, he asked his fifteen-year-old son, Raman, to sit in the shop. While Mr. Williams was away, a group of devotees came to the shop asking for donations for the construction of a temple. Raman took Rs 100 from the cash box and gave it to them as charity.

When Mr. Williams returned and heard of Raman’s donation, he became very angry. He made his son sit in front of him and said sternly, “First learn how hard it is to earn money. Only after that should you think of charity. If you do this again, I will not tolerate it.”

Another incident happened sometime later. One day, when Mr. Williams was not at home, a beggar came asking for food. His ten-year-old daughter felt pity for the poor man. She fed him till he was full. She also gave him some rice to take home.

When Mr. Williams came to know about this, he was angry with his daughter as well. He warned her strictly never to do such a thing again.

Mr. Williams’ wife knew her husband very well. She never argued with him about money matters, but she warned the children to be careful and not to go against their father.

A few days later, an old man with an unshaven beard and torn clothes came to Mr. Williams’ shop. He asked the workers about Mr. Williams. Looking at his appearance, the workers assumed he was a beggar. Afraid that their owner would scold them if he saw the man, they asked him to leave at once.

But the old man did not go away. He waited patiently for a long time. After some time, Mr. Williams arrived at the shop. The moment he saw the old man standing there, he recognised him.

Mr. Williams immediately called him inside, made him sit on a chair, and offered him drinking water. When the old man said he was hungry, Mr. Williams arranged food for him. He sat in front of him until he finished eating. Before the old man left, Mr. Williams spoke to him privately and gave him ten thousand rupees.

The workers were stunned. They could not believe that their master—who never spent money easily—had given away such a large amount.

Just then, Raman came to the shop to deliver some things. He saw an unknown person eating in front of his father and, to his shock, saw his father give him a bundle of money. Raman could not believe his eyes.

He went to his father and asked,

“Father, you scolded me for donating just one hundred rupees, and you scolded my sister for giving rice to a beggar. Then how could you give ten thousand rupees to a stranger?”

Mr. Williams smiled and replied,

“He is not a stranger. He is someone I know very well. And he was once a very prosperous man. You don’t need to know anything more.”

Saying this, he returned to his work.

Confused by his father’s words, Raman went home and told his mother everything that had happened. Curious to know the truth, Mrs. Williams came to the shop.

“I know you never give anything away for free,” she said. “You ask for accounts even if ten rupees are spent. So, I cannot believe that you gave ten thousand rupees to a stranger. Who is he?”

Mr. Williams sighed and said,

“So, this matter has reached you as well? He is not a stranger. You know him very well. Do you remember how, soon after our marriage, our relatives cheated us and threw us out? We were on the streets with small children and not a single rupee in hand.”

“Yes, I remember,” she said softly.

“At that time,” continued Mr. Williams, “one great man gave us shelter. He fed us and even gave me some money to start a business. Do you remember him?”

“Yes,” she replied. “His name was Parandham. I can never forget his kindness.”

“The man who came today was Parandham,” Mr. Williams said. “His sons and daughters-in-law took away all his property and threw him out. He said his wife needs medical treatment and he needed money. The foundation of our success today was laid with the help he gave us back then. Today, I got the chance to repay that debt of gratitude.”

Mrs. Williams was deeply moved.

“Has he fallen into such trouble? If he comes again, please bring him home. We will look after him and feed him for as many days as he wants,” she said.

Mr. Williams agreed.

Turning to his son, who was watching everything with wonder, Mr. Williams said, “We have reached this position only after swallowing many hardships and humiliations. Every penny we earned came through hard work. That is why I know the true value of money. When we have nothing, we cannot beg anyone with an outstretched hand. So, when we have money, it must be spent carefully and thoughtfully. I scolded you earlier because you are still too young to understand charity. I did not want you to suffer the hardships we once faced.”

Raman finally understood. He realised that parents always think of their children’s welfare, and that every action of his father had a deeper meaning behind it. From that day on, he learned not to misunderstand his father’s actions, but to try to understand them.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Categories
Stories

The Rose’s Wish

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

A tiny honeybee once wished to fly on her own and see the world. She longed to gather nectar from flowers and store honey by herself. After persuading her mother, she flew out of the hive.

As she flew around, she spotted a bright red rose blooming in one place. She immediately tried to land on it. But the rose closed its petals at once.

“Oh, little honeybee! Have you come to sip my nectar so easily? Give me what I want, and then take what you want,” said the rose.

“What can I give the rose?” the honeybee wondered.

Just then, a rabbit appeared beside the bushes. The honeybee asked, “What should I give the rose to make her happy?”

“I don’t know. I have to collect roots,” said the rabbit and hopped away.

A little further, the honeybee saw a cow grazing. She asked, “What should I give the rose?”

“How would I know what a rose wants? All I know is grazing and giving milk,” said the cow.

The honeybee felt disappointed by this answer. As she flew ahead, she saw a peacock. “Peacock! Do you know what I should give the rose?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. But if you want, take one of my feathers and try giving that,” suggested the peacock.

The honeybee brightened up. She happily took the peacock feather and flew to the rose.

“Look what I brought for you!” she said, showing the feather.

But the rose said, “This is not what I want,” and closed her petals again.

This time the honeybee saw a parrot and asked for help.

“Children love my playfulness. Take this ripe guava I’ve pecked. Give it to the rose. She will surely like it,” said the parrot.

The honeybee felt hopeful and took the guava to the rose. But the rose frowned, “I’m a flower. Do you think I eat fruits?”

Discouraged, the honeybee settled sadly on a nearby bush.

“In this huge forest, doesn’t anyone know what the rose wants? How will I sup on nectar?” she cried.

A sage meditating in a nearby hermitage heard her voice. He called her close and told her what the rose truly wished for.

Immediately, the honeybee flew to a meadow where little children were playing. She played with them for a while and then asked them to come to the rose plant.

When they hesitated, she said, “There are guava, orange, and banana trees. You can eat plenty of fruits!”

Hearing this, the children followed her.

When they reached the garden, they laughed, clapped, and shouted joyfully, “This place is so beautiful!”

The honeybee went to the rose and said, “You wanted children’s laughter, didn’t you? Look over there.”

Hearing the children’s joyful laughter, the rose blossomed happily.

The honeybee gently landed on the flower and drank nectar to her heart’s content.

The children picked the fruits they liked and went home.

After a while, the honeybee too returned to her hive and shared many stories with her mother. The mother bee felt proud of the little bee’s kindness.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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