Kasi Majili Stories: The Lamp Under the Banyan Tree

Told in English, Telugu.

Long ago, in a small village near the Godavari, there lived a cowherd boy named Gopa. Every morning he took the cows out to graze, and every evening he sat on the village wall and watched the travellers walking along the dusty road. Some carried bundles on their heads. Some leaned on walking sticks. And many of them, when Gopa asked where they were going, smiled and said just one word. Kasi.

Gopa had never been farther than the next village. But that word stayed in his heart like a seed waiting for rain.

One evening, an old sage came and rested under the big tamarind tree by the village well. His beard was white, his feet were dusty, and his eyes were calm and kind. His name was Manisiddhudu. Gopa brought him a pot of fresh milk, and as the old man drank, Gopa asked, almost in a whisper, whether he too was going to Kasi.

The sage nodded. Gopa took a deep breath and asked the biggest question of his life. Could he come along?

Manisiddhudu looked at him for a long time. Then he said, the road is very long, child. Many months of walking. Your feet will ache. You will miss your mother's cooking and your own warm mat at night. Some days it will rain, and some days the sun will feel like fire. Are you sure?

Gopa said he was sure. So the sage made him an offer. At every halt along the way, he said, if you see something strange or something you do not understand, you may ask me about it, and I will tell you its story. But you must promise me one thing. Once we begin, you will not turn back.

Gopa promised. His parents, after much worry and many tears, gave him their blessing. His mother packed sesame laddus and jaggery in a cloth bundle and tied it tightly, as if she were tying her love inside it. And the next morning, the old sage and the young boy set off together down the long road.

Those first days were hard. Gopa's feet blistered. Once, lying awake under the stars, he thought about home and felt his eyes grow wet. But he remembered his promise, and he remembered the stories. Because at every stop, there really was something curious to see.

One evening they came to a quiet village beside a wide river. At the edge of the village stood an enormous banyan tree, its roots hanging down like the long hair of a grandmother. And under that tree, on a small stone platform, someone had lit a clay lamp. Next to the lamp was a little carving of a parrot, worn smooth with age. As Gopa watched, an old woman came and added oil to the lamp, folded her hands, and went quietly home.

Gopa turned to his teacher at once. Why would anyone light a lamp for a stone parrot?

Manisiddhudu smiled, sat down on the roots of the banyan, and began.

Many years ago, he said, a rich merchant lived in this very village. He had one son, a gentle young man named Somadatta. When Somadatta grew old enough, his father gave him a pouch of gold coins and said, go to the market town across the river. Buy something wise. Show me that you can make this money grow.

Somadatta set off, proud and a little nervous. But right here, under this banyan tree, he saw a hunter holding a cage. Inside was a green parrot, beating its wings against the bars, crying in a way that sounded almost like a child. Somadatta stopped. He knew his father would not be pleased. But he could not walk away. He paid the hunter a handful of coins, opened the cage, and let the parrot fly free. The bird circled above him three times before disappearing into the trees.

A little farther on, he met an old woman sitting by the road, too weak with hunger to walk. She told him she knew every healing herb in the forest, but no one in her village needed her anymore, and she had nothing to eat. Somadatta bought her rice and dal and a warm blanket, and gave her some coins for the days ahead.

At the river, he found a boatman sitting beside a broken boat, his head in his hands. Without his boat, he said, his family would go hungry. Somadatta looked into his pouch. Only a few coins were left. He gave them all for the boatman to mend his boat.

Then he walked home with an empty pouch and a heavy heart.

His father was angry, Gopa. Not cruel, but deeply disappointed. You were meant to be wise, he said, and you have thrown away everything. Somadatta did not argue. He felt the shame burning in his cheeks. And yet, when he lay awake that night, he found that he did not truly wish he had done anything differently. That is a strange feeling, isn't it? To be sorry that you upset someone you love, but not sorry for what you did.

A few weeks later, a great worry came to the kingdom. The king's favourite elephant had broken loose during a storm and vanished into the thick forest across the river. The king promised a rich reward to anyone who could bring it back safely. Hunters searched for days, but the forest was dark and wide, and the river had flooded, and no one could find a trace.

Then one morning, a green parrot landed on Somadatta's windowsill. It hopped and fluttered and flew a little way, then came back, again and again, as if to say, follow me. Somadatta followed. At the river, the water was high and wild, and no boat dared to cross. But there was the boatman, in his newly mended boat. You helped me once, he said. Get in. And with strong, steady strokes, he carried Somadatta safely to the other side.

The parrot led him deep into the forest, until at last they found the great elephant, tangled in vines, frightened and trumpeting, its leg swollen from a thorn. Somadatta did not know what to do. He was afraid to go near. But just then, who should come walking along the forest path but the old woman, a basket of herbs on her arm. She hummed softly to the elephant, pulled out the thorn, and pressed cool leaves on the wound. Slowly, the huge animal grew calm.

Together they led the elephant home. The king was overjoyed. He offered Somadatta a mountain of gold. But Somadatta told the king the whole story, of the parrot and the old woman and the boatman, and asked that the reward be shared with all three of his friends. And his father, standing in the crowd, listened with tears in his eyes. My son, he said afterwards, I asked you to make the money grow. Instead, you made friends. I think that was the wiser choice.

Somadatta never forgot. Every evening for the rest of his life, he lit a lamp under this banyan tree, where his kindness had first begun. When he grew old, his children lit it. And now, so many years later, the people of this village still do.

Gopa sat very quietly for a long time, watching the little flame dance. Then he said, Guruji, Somadatta did not know the parrot would come back. He just helped because it was right.

Manisiddhudu nodded. That, my child, is the only kind of kindness that truly counts.

That night, Gopa's feet still ached, and he still missed his mother. But he fell asleep with a warm heart, wondering what wonder tomorrow's road would bring. And tomorrow, at the next halt, there would be another strange sight, and another question, and another story. But that one, dear one, is for another night.