Every Penny Counts: A Story of Friendship Across Oceans

Sham gazed out his living room window, the sun glinting off the snow-covered peaks in the distance. It was the winter of 2015, yet the phone call he had just received made time dissolve into memory. After more than two decades of silence, his childhood friend Abdul had resurfaced. A surge of excitement and anticipation coursed through Sham’s veins as he waited for the phone to ring again, desperately wanting to hear Abdul’s voice. In that moment, the memories of their youth came rolling back in vivid, colourful waves.

A Meeting of Minds

The story truly began back in the 1960s, in the verdant and green valley of Kashmir. Sham, a young man from a Kashmiri Pandit family, was pursuing a Master of Science degree at the main university in the city. There, he met Abdul, a bright, quick-witted fellow who shared the same program. Their friendship had been almost instantaneous. Both of them came from modest families that emphasized hard work and education. They teased each other about everything from the dryness of their professors’ lectures to the political undercurrents swirling through the region. Yet no difference—religion, background, or personal circumstance—could cloud their natural camaraderie, their companionship.

Sham often recalled how the two would stroll along the Dal Lake banks after lectures, comparing notes and sharing small pakoras bought from local street vendors.

One evening, they sat in a cramped teahouse reviewing complex biology concepts when Abdul confessed he was struggling in one area. Sham patted his friend’s shoulder with an almost brotherly warmth and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll top that subject.”

Abdul later did pass that course with flying colours, eventually ranking among the top in their class.

Their bond extended well beyond classroom walls. Their friendship blossomed far beyond the boundaries of the classroom, weaving itself into the rhythm of their daily lives. Abdul’s family always received Sham as a guest of honour. He would be offered cups of fragrant kehwa, delicately infused with saffron and sprinkled with slivers of almonds, as if each sip carried a gesture of affection. In return, Sham’s mother welcomed Abdul with equal warmth, insisting he stay for dinner whenever he visited. She would lovingly heap his plate with generous servings of traditional Kashmiri dishes, the air rich with the aroma of simmering spices and the gentle music of shared laughter.

Abdul often found himself observing Sham’s father, Pandit Janki Nath Misri, a man deeply absorbed in his writing. Surrounded by manuscripts in various stages of completion, he seemed to live in a world of words and ideas. Drawn by curiosity, Abdul would occasionally glance through those unfinished pages—sometimes discovering lessons in English grammar and translation, at other times pages filled with science or mathematics. With quiet admiration, he would remark, “You Kashmiri Pandits are truly devoted scholars, writing on every subject with such dedication.”

Sham and Abdul shared a bond rooted in genuine affection and deep respect. Sham, known for his tireless dedication to tutoring, had already begun to mirror his father's scholarly spirit, who was widely respected and fondly regarded as a pioneer of private tutoring in their community. Learning seemed to flow naturally in their household, as though knowledge itself was a cherished tradition.

This spirit extended even to Abdul’s younger brother, who, though a few years behind, was fortunate enough to be guided by Sham. With a playful smile, he would often say that he had not one, but two elder brothers watching over him. Abdul’s younger brother later became a doctor.

New Beginnings

Shortly after completing their master’s degrees, Sham and Abdul found themselves at a crossroads. Both had job offers—Sham at a renowned private college on the outskirts of the city, and Abdul at a government-run institution. At that time, the government job offered

a salary of 300 rupees a month, nearly double Sham’s 150 rupees. Yet Sham never once allowed envy to creep into his heart. He was grateful to be employed and felt excited for Abdul’s success. “We’ll both get where we want to be someday,” Sham insisted optimistically, sharing hot tea from a roadside stall with his friend.

In those days, economic opportunities were limited, and many people looked abroad for better prospects. Abdul’s younger brother, then a young doctor, had travelled to the

United States for higher studies and managed to secure a respectable position in a hospital there. Through letters, he would urge Abdul to consider joining him. “If you ever

want to build a life beyond the horizon of our valley, come,” he wrote. “You have the degree, and I have some connections.”

Abdul deliberated for a few weeks before confiding in Sham. “My brother believes there are better opportunities for me in the States,” he explained one evening as they lingered in the college courtyard after a faculty meeting. Sham was unsurprised. Opportunities in Kashmir, especially for someone with Abdul’s big dreams, often felt constrained. And though Abdul’s heart belonged to the valley, the promise of a brighter future pulled him across the ocean.

It was a bittersweet moment. They stood by a column draped in ivy, each reflecting on the uncertain road ahead. Sham, newly married and building a life in the only place he’d ever known, embraced Abdul. “We’ll keep writing letters,” Sham said confidently. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”

Across the Seas

Abdul’s move to the United States went smoothly at first, thanks to his brother’s help.

However, once the initial thrill of arrival wore off, challenges loomed. Housing was expensive, and the culture was entirely new. Navigating the hustle and bustle of a foreign city required nearly all his energy, and though his English was quite good, he found himself tongue-tied in unfamiliar situations. News from back home dropped in sporadically, and with time, exchanging letters with Sham became difficult. Life’s busyness took hold, and their once-regular correspondence faded.

One piece of advice from Sham kept echoing in Abdul’s mind. It was an adage, a maxim, Sham had told Abdul’s younger brother back when he was tutoring him in the valley: “Do not slumber in your father’s bed; get up and build a house for yourself.” It served as a mantra whenever Abdul found himself exhausted by side jobs and new routines.

Eventually, the younger brother used his network to land Abdul a job at a car dealership owned by a local businessman—an imposing yet benevolent man known for his wealth and keen instincts. “Your brother is well-qualified. He is M.Sc.,” the owner had said, flashing a confident smile. “But experience in sales is about more than just a degree.”

Abdul’s early days at the dealership tested his patience and his ability to handle rejection. He knew nothing about marketing cars, but he threw himself into the task with

the same enthusiasm he once had for his studies. Early each morning, he would arrive to polish the vehicles, study the brochures, and memorise every feature. He learned how to greet potential buyers and handle negotiations with calm respect.

The Value of Every Penny

One bright day, a tall, jovial man strolled onto the lot wearing jogging clothes. He admired a gleaming new sedan—a top model with a price tag that could easily daunt most buyers. Abdul spent nearly half an hour explaining every detail: engine capacity, safety features, special financing. The man seemed impressed but admitted he had only 50 cents on him; he was out for his morning walk, he said, and had left his wallet at home. Smiling, he thanked Abdul for the information and began to walk away.

Not long after, the dealership owner, who was watching from his office window, called Abdul over. “That man is interested,” the owner insisted. “Go after him, tell him we’ll hold the car for him.”

Abdul felt puzzled. The man had only 50 cents, and it seemed fruitless to chase after someone who wasn’t carrying money. Yet he did as he was told and raced down the street, wind tugging at his sleeves. He caught up to the man in a nearby park and repeated the owner’s offer. The man broke into a broad laugh. “I appreciate that,” he said.

“I’ll be back tomorrow with my chequebook.”

Returning to the dealership, Abdul still didn’t understand the rationale.

“I almost felt silly running after him,” Abdul admitted. “He was only carrying spare change.”

The owner, known for his directness, clasped Abdul’s shoulder in a friendly gesture.

“In this country, every penny counts,” he said. “If you start disregarding the small amounts, you’ll disregard the people behind those amounts.” It was a lesson that stuck with Abdul forever. From that day on, he paid careful attention to every transaction and every person, realising that it was usually the subtlest gestures which opened the biggest doors.

Silence and Searching

Back in Kashmir, Sham built his career teaching at a private college. The political climate grew turbulent over time, and in 1990, events escalated to the point where thousands of Kashmiri Pandits, including Sham’s family, had to flee their homes.

Overnight, Sham and his loved ones scattered, seeking safety wherever they could find it. Unable to leave his new responsibilities, he lost direct contact with Abdul.

Abdul, too, felt pangs of worry. He tried writing letters and making calls to old numbers, but none reached Sham’s new address. Years turned into decades. Many nights, while sipping his tea in a small apartment he eventually purchased, Abdul’s mind drifted to the silhouette of mountains in his homeland and the warmth of Sham’s family dinners.

The Reconnection

In 2015, however, a sliver of hope appeared. Through a mutual acquaintance—someone who had randomly bumped into Sham’s elder son during a trip—Abdul received a phone number that might lead him to his long-lost friend.

Dialing with trembling fingers, Abdul was surprised to hear a young man pick up. It was Sham’s son, now an adult, but he hadn’t even been born when Abdul first left for America. The son explained that the entire family, including Sham, was on a short vacation in Las Vegas. He sounded puzzled at first, unsure why someone named Abdul was so eager to speak with his father. Nonetheless, he jotted down Abdul’s details, promising to pass the information to Sham once they were back in Seattle.

For Abdul, the wait felt excruciating. He spent the next few days alternating between hope and dread. Then came the moment he had yearned for—a call from Sham himself, ringing through late one evening after the family had finally returned home from their trip. When Sham spoke, his voice carried the same warmth and kindness Abdul remembered from decades before.

They ended up talking for hours, reminiscing about old stories, the canteens where they once traded exam notes, and long afternoons spent on each other’s verandahs. Sham laughed, recalling how Abdul’s younger brother would doze off in class until Sham sternly prodded him to pay attention. It was as though no time had passed at all.

Finally, Sham asked the question that had simmered in his heart for years: “How have you been, dear friend? What did you do all these years in America?”

Abdul exhaled, thinking of the day he had chased after the man with only 50 cents in his pocket. “I learned, Sham,” he replied softly. “I learned that in life, no effort, no relationship, and no act of kindness is ever too small. Every penny counts.”

In that quietly electric moment, the distance of continents and decades vanished. They were just two old friends remembering their shared past, realising the unbreakable threads that tied them together, threads woven from memories, mutual respect, and a friendship that had outlasted separation, upheaval, and the relentless march of time.

…

 

To Agni — The Flame That Carries Prayers

 To Agni — The Flame That Carries Prayers

In a quiet village at the edge of a forest, young Arin sat beside his grandfather as dusk slowly wrapped the sky in shades of amber and blue. In the centre of their courtyard, a small sacred fire flickered, alive and breathing like a gentle spirit.

“Grandfather,” Parum asked, “why do we speak to the fire as if it listens?”

The old man smiled, placing a hand over his heart. “Because it does. This is Agni—the chosen priest, the messenger, the one who carries our prayers to the heavens.”

The flames danced higher, as if they heard their name.

Grandfather began softly:

“I laud Agni, the sacred flame,
Priest of offerings, bearer of name,
Rich in blessings, bright and wise,
A bridge between earth and skies.”

Parum watched closely. The fire seemed no longer ordinary. It crackled like a voice, alive with stories of ages long past.

“Long ago,” Grandfather continued, “ancient seers praised Agni just as we do now. Through him, humans receive strength, courage, and abundance.”

The boy leaned closer as sparks rose like tiny stars.

“Through Agni, wealth and hope increase,
Day by day, they never cease,
Glorious gifts and heroes brave,
From sacred fire, the blessings gave.”

“Does Agni really bring the gods here?” Parum whispered.

“Yes,” said Grandfather, his eyes glowing with reflection of the flames. “Every offering placed in Agni’s care reaches them.”

The fire grew steady and calm.

“Perfect is the sacred rite,
Encircled by Agni’s light,
What we offer, pure and true,
Finds its path the heavens through.”

A gentle breeze passed, but the flame did not falter.

“Agni is wise,” Grandfather said. “He knows truth. He protects those who honour him.”

Parum folded his hands, feeling a quiet warmth within.

“O radiant flame, so bright, so near,
Dispel the darkness, calm our fear,
Each day we come with hearts sincere,
In reverence, we draw you near.”

The night deepened, but the fire shone brighter, like a guardian of light.

“Think of Agni,” Grandfather said, “as a father—kind, guiding, always near.”

Parum smiled softly.

“Be with us, Agni, gentle and mild,
As a father stands with his child,
Guide our path, our hopes renew,
In every flame, we find you.”

The fire flickered once more, steady and warm, as if blessing them both.

And from that evening on, whenever Parum saw a flame—whether in a lamp, a hearth, or the rising sun—he remembered:

Agni was not just fire.

He was a friend, a guide, and a bridge between human hearts and the divine.

Agni is generally described as male in the Rigveda and later Hindu tradition, where he is the fire god and divine priest.

 

 

Himal and Nagrai

Love is not always quiet and gentle. Sometimes, it is a force that dares, struggles, and refuses to give up. It gives people the courage to fight against fear and the strength to hold on, even when everything seems lost.

And sometimes, such love is not just a feeling, but a story waiting to be lived—hidden in quiet places, carried by ordinary hearts, and tested by extraordinary trials.

Such love is born in silence, like a whisper in the wind,
It chooses simple hearts and draws them into destiny.

Here is one story of Himal and Nagrai

In the valley of Kashmir, where rivers whisper and mountains stand like silent guardians, lived a girl named Himal. She was gentle yet strong, with eyes that held quiet dreams and a heart which was braver than it seemed.

In her small village by the shining river, people knew her for her kindness and calm grace, but few understood the quiet courage that lived within her.

One evening, as the fading light turned the waters gold, Himal wandered to the riverbank. There, she saw a stranger—tall, mysterious, and unlike anyone she had ever met. His name was Nagrai. There was something unusual about him, something hidden beneath his calm smile, as though he carried a secret as deep as the river itself.

One evening, as the sky turned golden, Himal noticed a young man standing by the river.

“Who are you?” she asked, stepping closer.

The stranger smiled softly. “My name is Nagrai.”

There was something unusual about his eyes that seemed deep, like hidden waters.

Days passed, and they met often by the river.

“You always come here,” Himal said one day. “Why?”

Nagrai looked at the flowing water. “Because this is where I feel closest to… who I truly am.”

Himal did not fully understand, but she trusted him.

Soon, their friendship turned into love.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Himal whispered one evening.

“You never will,” Nagrai replied, though a shadow crossed his face.

…

Love is a river, silent and deep,
It guards its secrets; it does not sleep.
Through storm and night, through fear and pain,
It finds its way again and again.

…

They married, and for a time, their home was filled with laughter and peace.

But one night, everything changed.

Himal’s brother had been watching.

“There is something wrong with him,” he told the family. “We must find out the truth.”

They followed Nagrai to the river. What they saw filled them with terror.

As moonlight touched the water, Nagrai’s form began to change—his human shape fading into that of a great serpent.

“A monster!” someone shouted.

Himal cried out, “No! He is not a monster—he is my husband!”

But fear had already taken over.

“Leave this place!” her family shouted at Nagrai. “Never return!”

With a heavy heart, Nagrai looked at Himal.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said softly. “But this is who I am.”

And then, he disappeared into the dark waters.

…

When truth appears in a fearful guise,
The heart must choose; the spirit decides.
Is love a flame that fades in fright,
Or one that burns through the darkest night?

…

“Himal!” her mother cried. “Forget him!”

But Himal fell to her knees by the river.

“I will find you,” she whispered. “No matter where you are.”

Days later, she left her home.

Through thick forests, she walked alone.

“Turn back!” travellers warned her. “No one returns from that path!”

“I must go,” she replied. “My heart is already there.”

She crossed icy rivers, climbed steep mountains, and faced storms that nearly broke her spirit.

At last, she reached the edge of a deep, silent lake.

“This is where he belongs,” she said.

Taking a deep breath, she called out, “Nagrai! I am here!”

The water stirred.

From the depths, Nagrai appeared.

“Himal… why did you come?” he asked, his voice filled with both hope and fear.

“Because I love you,” she said firmly. “Not just your human form—but all that you are.”

There was a long silence.

Then Nagrai stepped closer.

“You were never afraid?” he asked.

“I was,” she admitted. “But my love is stronger than my fear.”

At that moment, something changed. The barrier between their worlds began to fade.

Nagrai reached out his hand.

“And my love will never leave you again.”

Himal took his hand.

….

Love that walks through fire and sea,
Breaks every chain, sets spirits free.
No wall, no world can stand above,
The quiet strength of faithful love.

Two Loves, Two Fates: The Tale of Laila-Majnun and the Pune Fort Murder

Two Loves, Two Fates: The Tale of Laila-Majnun and the Pune Fort Murder

For the last few days, I have been watching the Pune Fort trekking murder case that the Indian media has been reporting on. In that case, police allege a bride-to-be and her lover conspired to kill her fiancé, Ketan Agarwal, by pushing him into a gorge at Lohagad Fort; what first looked like an accident was later treated as a planned murder. According to reports, Agarwal went trekking with his fiancée, Siya Goyal, and police later said her alleged lover, Chetan Chaudhary, was also involved. Investigators believe Goyal did not want the marriage to go ahead because of her relationship with Chaudhary, and the pair allegedly plotted to eliminate the would-be groom.

As I read this chilling tale of betrayal, my mind wandered to another story from the ancient sands of Arabia, where love was not a weapon but a wound, where hearts broke not from treachery but from fate's cruel hand. The contrast struck me like a thunderbolt. In one story, we see love twisted into murder; in the other, we see love transformed into madness and martyrdom. Both tales speak of lovers and unwanted marriages, but where one woman used treachery to avoid marriage, another would offer her life for it. Let me take you now to that timeless desert legend—a story that will make your heart ache and your eyes overflow with tears.

---

The Legend of Laila and Majnu: A Love Written in the Stars

In the heart of the vast, unforgiving Arabian desert, under a sky full of a million glittering stars, there lived a young man named Qais. He was the son of a respected chieftain, a boy with a gentle heart and a head full of poetry. His world was simple, full of the scent of date palms and the warmth of the desert sun. But his life was forever changed the day he met Laila.

It was at a school for the children of the tribe. Laila was like a mirage made real, a girl with eyes as dark as the desert night and a smile that could rival the morning sun. Her laughter was like the tinkling of silver bells, the most beautiful sound Qais had ever heard. He was mesmerised.

From that day on, Qais was a changed man. He spent his days stealing glances at Laila, his heart beating an agitated rhythm against his ribs. His only wish was to hear her voice, to see her smile. He began to write poems, not about the desert or his tribe, but about her. He filled his notebooks with verses praising her beauty and his devotion.

 

"I have lost my heart to Laila,"* he would whisper to the wind.

"She is not a girl; she is a moon, and I am but a moth drawn to her light."

Laila, in turn, felt a deep affection for Qais. She saw the sincere poetry in his eyes and the gentleness in his soul. In a world where women were often seen and not heard, Qais saw her. He saw her spirit, her intelligence, her very soul. They would exchange secret glances, their hearts speaking a language that needed no words. He would leave her small gifts—a desert flower, a perfectly smooth stone—and she would blush and hide them in the folds of her dress. Their love was an innocent, all-consuming fire that grew stronger with each passing day.

But their love was not meant to be a simple one. Their families belonged to rival tribes, and such a union was unthinkable. The elders, bound by old traditions and pride, would never allow it. When Qais's father, seeing his son's mad devotion, went to Laila's father to ask for her hand, he was met with a stern refusal.

 

"Laila is promised to another, a wealthy merchant from a powerful tribe,” Laila’s father declared, his voice cold as steel. "Your son is a dreamer, a poet. He is not worthy of my daughter."*

The news shattered Qais. It was as if the desert sun had been extinguished out, leaving him in eternal darkness. The world that had once been so full of colour and light turned grey. He could not eat, could not sleep. His poetry, once filled with beauty, became filled with sorrow. He roamed the desert, talking to the stars, his cries echoing into the empty night.

 

It was then that the people started calling him "Majnun," which means "The Mad One." He had gone mad with love. His eyes, once full of life, now held a vacant, haunted look. He wore tattered clothes and let his hair grow long. He was no longer Qais, the chieftain's son. He was Majnun, the wandering lover, the mad poet of the desert.

Laila, meanwhile, was forced into a marriage she did not want. She was taken to her husband's tent, a prisoner in a gilded cage. Her heart, however, remained in the desert with her Majnun. She would hear stories of his madness, of how he wandered the dunes crying her name, and her tears would flow like rivers. She was trapped, a beautiful bird in a cage, forced to sing for a master she did not love. The news of his suffering was a slow poison, killing her spirit day by day.

 

One day, Majnun learned that Laila was ailing. He rushed to the outskirts of her tribe's village, but he was not allowed to see her. He stood on the edge of the dunes, screaming her name into the wind. He composed a final, heartbreaking poem for her, sending it on the wings of a pigeon.

"My Laila," he wrote in his most passionate verse.  "If you are to leave this world, let me be the one to carry you. Let my soul be your vessel. If you must perish, then take my heart with you, for it has always, and will always, belong to you."

Laila received the message. With tears streaming down her face, she read his beautiful, sorrowful words. The pain of their separation was too much for her fragile heart to bear. That night, under the same stars that had witnessed their love, Laila breathed her last.

She did not push anyone off a fort. She did not conspire. She simply died—because a heart that loves so purely cannot survive without its other half.

When Majnun heard the news, the world stopped. A silence deeper than the desert night fell upon him. He fell to his knees, and a wail of such pure agony erupted from his soul that the very sand seemed to tremble.

He had lost his Laila, the moon that had guided him through his darkness. There was nothing left for him in this world. He made his way to her grave, a simple mound of sand. He collapsed upon it; his body wracked with cries and tears. He didn't speak, didn't weep. He just lay there, his cheek pressed against the cold, rough sand that held his beloved. The sun rose and set. The desert wind screamed and shrieked, but Majnun did not move. He had found his peace. He had rejoined his Laila.

Many years later, the people of the desert who found their bodies were amazed. When they lifted Majnun's lifeless form from Laila's grave, they saw that the sand had been stained a deep crimson. The legend says that it was not from his blood, but from the tears of the heavens, crying for the two lovers who had defied fate itself.

They say that if you listen closely on a quiet desert night, you can still hear the echo of Majnun's poetry in the wind and see the spirit of Laila in the most beautiful of desert flowers, forever intertwined, an eternal love story written in the sands of time. Theirs was a love so strong, so pure, that it could not be contained in one life. It was madness, yes, but it was the most beautiful madness the world had ever known.

---

As I close this tale and return to the grim news of Pune Fort, I cannot help but wonder—what makes one heart choose murder and another choose martyrdom? Siya and Chetan chose violence to escape a marriage. Laila and Majnun chose to suffer, to pine, and ultimately to die—but they never chose to harm another soul. In their tragedy, there was nobility. In their madness, there was purity. And perhaps that is why, centuries later, we still weep for Laila and Majnun, while the names from Pune will fade into forgotten newsprint.

Love, when pure, is a flame that burns only lovers themselves. Love, when poisoned, becomes a fire that consumes everyone in its path. Choose your story wisely.

Sham Misri from Washington

7-4-2026

 

A kettle cannot balance itself on one stone; on three, however, it does.

A kettle cannot balance itself on one stone; on three, however, it does.

In a small village at the foot of a hill lived a boy named Sameer. One day, his mother asked him to cook rice while she went to visit a neighbour.

Sameer was excited. “I can do this easily,” he said.

He brought a metal kettle, filled it with water and rice, and went outside to make a fire. He found one large stone and placed the kettle on top of it.

“Perfect,” he said proudly.

He lit the fire underneath and waited. But soon, the kettle began to wobble. The water inside shook, and suddenly—clang!—the kettle fell over, spilling everything into the fire.

“Oh no!” Sameer cried.

Just then, his grandfather, who had been watching quietly, walked over. “What happened?” he asked.

“The kettle won’t stay still,” Sameer said. “Maybe the stone is not strong enough.”

His grandfather smiled. “The problem is not strength, but balance.”

He picked up two more stones and placed them carefully in a triangle. Then he set the kettle on top.

“Try again,” he said.

Sameer lit the fire once more. This time, the kettle stood steady. The water boiled calmly, and the rice cooked perfectly.

Sameer’s eyes widened. “It works! But why?”

His grandfather said, “A kettle cannot balance itself on one stone. On three, however, it does. Three points give it support.”

Sameer thought for a moment. “So… more support makes things stable?”

“Yes,” his grandfather replied. “And this is not just about kettles.”

He continued, “In life, you also need more than one support. A person who depends on only one thing—like strength, money, or luck—can easily fall. But with three supports, like hard work, wisdom, and patience, life becomes steady.”

Sameer nodded slowly, understanding the lesson.

That evening, when his mother returned, she was pleased to see the perfectly cooked rice.

And Sameer never forgot what he had learned—not just how to balance a kettle, but how to balance life itself.

 

 

THE BAT SUPPORTING THE HEAVENS, Space.

One evening in a quiet forest, the animals gathered under a large banyan tree. The sky was glowing red as the sun began to set, and a strange wind rustled the leaves.

“I heard something frightening,” said a rabbit, trembling nervously. “What if the heavens fall one day?”

The animals inhaled and gasped. A deer looked up at the sky. “The sky is so big! If it falls, we will all be crushed.”

A monkey clung tightly to a branch. “We must do something! We need a plan!”

Just then, a small bat hanging upside down from a branch cleared its throat. “Why are you all so worried?” he said calmly.

The animals turned to him.

“If the heavens fall,” the bat continued proudly, “I may be able to support them.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then the animals began whispering among themselves.

“You?” said the fox, raising an eyebrow. “You are so small!”

The bat flapped its wings and puffed up its chest. “Do not judge by size. I have strong wings and great courage. When the sky falls, I will hold it up.”

The animals were not fully convinced, but some felt comforted. “At least someone is brave,” said the rabbit.

Night fell, and soon a loud thunder echoed across the forest. Lightning flashed, and the sky seemed to roar.

“The heavens are falling!” cried the deer.

In a panic, all the animals ran in different directions. The bat quickly flew under a tree branch and clung tightly to it—with his feet pointing upward.

“See!” he shouted. “I am ready to hold up the sky!”

But nothing fell except rain. The storm passed after a while, and the sky became calm again.

Slowly, the animals returned. They saw the bat still hanging upside down, looking very serious.

“The sky didn’t fall,” said the monkey.

“Yes,” the fox added with a smile, “and it seems it didn’t need your help either.”

The bat quietly folded his wings, a little embarrassed. He had spoken big words, but nothing had really happened.

The wise old owl, who had watched everything from above, finally spoke. “It is easy to boast about strength when there is no real danger. True courage is shown in action, not in words.”

The bat said nothing. From that day on, he spoke less and thought more.

And the animals learned an important lesson: those who claim they can carry the weight of the sky often cannot even hold their own pride.

…

Poetic Stanzas

Here are two poetic stanzas shaped from the idea, with a reflective, allegorical tone:

Beneath a sky too vast to hold, the anxious creatures cried,
“What if the heavens split and fall, and nowhere left to hide?”
A bat, half-shadow, half-pride, from twilight’s edge declared,
“I dwell where earth meets trembling sky—I alone have dared.”

The storm then roared, the heavens flashed, yet nothing truly broke,
The bat clung tight to borrowed heights, a promise left unproved.
For those who boast of holding worlds that never ask their hand,
Are often safest in their claims—where none can test their stand.

Never walk behind a horse or before a king, as you will get kicked in either case.

 Never walk behind a horse or before a king, as you will get kicked in either case.

In the lively village of Awantipur lived a boy named Arif, known for two things: his curiosity and his talent for getting into trouble.

One morning, his father handed him a sack of grain to take to the mill. “And listen carefully,” his father said, raising a finger. “Never walk behind a horse or before a king.”

Arif grinned. “I’m not afraid of horses or kings,” he said boldly, and off he went.

On the way, he spotted a strong black horse tied under a tree. “What a fine animal!” Arif said. “Let me show I’m not afraid.” He tiptoed behind the horse, making funny faces as if to impress an invisible audience.

The horse, however, was not impressed.

With a sudden thud, it kicked backwards. Arif flew into a pile of hay like a tossed sack of potatoes. His turban slipped over his eyes, and he lay there groaning.

A farmer nearby laughed. “That’s what comes from making friends from the wrong end of a horse!”

Arif stood up, embarrassed but still stubborn. “Just bad luck,” he muttered, dusting himself off.

By the time he reached the mill, a royal procession was passing through. Trumpets boomed, soldiers marched, and the king rode proudly in the centre.

Arif’s eyes sparkled. “Today I’ll see the king up close!”

Ignoring the crowd stepping aside, he walked right into the path of the procession. He even waved.

The soldiers did not wave back.

Two guards grabbed him and pushed him aside so fast that he spun around and landed flat on the ground—again. The sack of grain burst open, and flour puffed into the air, covering him from head to toe.

Now he looked less like a brave boy and more like a walking cloud.

The crowd burst into laughter.

When Arif returned home, limping and powdered white, his father raised an eyebrow. “You look like you fought a storm and lost.”

Arif sighed. “First the horse kicked me, then the king’s guards threw me. I think I understand now.”

“And what is that?” his father asked.

Arif wiped flour from his face and said, “Never stand where danger kicks… and never stand where power pushes.”

His father nodded with a smile. “Exactly. Wisdom is knowing where not to stand.”

From that day on, Arif kept a safe distance—from hooves, crowns, and his own foolish bravery.

And the village? It never forgets the day a boy tried to challenge both a horse and a king—and lost twice.