Easy Little Verses for Kids

Told in English, Telugu.

In the village of Kothapeta, near the wide Godavari river, there lived a seven-year-old girl named Sirisha. She had two long plaits, one missing front tooth, and a small green notebook that she carried everywhere she went.

Inside that notebook were her verses. Little poems, short and sweet, that she made with her Ammamma.

Every evening, after the cows came home and the lamps were lit, Ammamma sat on the thinnai with a plate of roasted groundnuts, and Sirisha sat close beside her.

"A padyam is like a little laddu," Ammamma would say. "Small enough to hold in your hand, and sweet enough to remember for a long, long time."

So together they made little laddus out of words. One morning, when the rooster woke up the whole street, Sirisha wrote this one.

The rooster calls, the sun is red, Wake up, wake up, sleepy head! Amma's dosa on the pan, Eat it quickly if you can!

Ammamma laughed so hard that her glasses slipped right down her nose.

Another day, Sirisha sat in the cowshed and watched their white cow, Gowri, swishing her tail. She wrote this one.

Our Gowri's white, her bell goes ding, She gives us milk, she hears me sing.

Can you say it with me? Our Gowri's white, her bell goes ding. Lovely!

One week before Sankranti, Padma teacher clapped her hands in class. "Children, on festival day we will have a special programme. Anyone who wishes may come up and recite something."

Sirisha's heart went thump, thump. She raised her hand. "Teacher, may I say my own verses?"

Padma teacher smiled. "Your very own? That would be wonderful."

All week, Sirisha practised. She read her verses to Gowri. She read them to the tulasi plant. She even read them to her big brother Ravi, who pretended to snore, but secretly listened to every word.

At last, Sankranti morning came. The whole street was bright with colourful muggulu. Kites danced in the sky. Sirisha wore her new yellow langa, and she held her green notebook tightly against her chest.

She walked to school with Ravi and Ammamma. On the way, they had to cross the little bridge over the canal.

"Let me read my verses one more time," said Sirisha, and she opened the notebook.

Just then, whoosh! A big gust of wind came rushing across the paddy fields. It tugged at Sirisha's plaits. It flapped the pages of her notebook. And before she could hold on, the notebook flew out of her hands, over the railing, and landed with a soft splash in the water below.

"My book!" cried Sirisha.

Ravi ran down to the bank and grabbed a long stick. He reached and stretched, stretched and reached. The green notebook bobbed closer, closer... and then the water carried it away, under the bridge and out of sight.

Ravi came back slowly, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, chelli. I couldn't reach it."

Sirisha's eyes filled with tears. "All my verses are gone. Now I have nothing to say."

Ammamma knelt down and wiped her cheeks with the end of her saree. "Tell me something, kanna. Who made the rooster verse?"

"I did," sniffed Sirisha.

"And who made the verse about Gowri?"

"I did."

"Then where do your verses really live? In the paper, or in you?"

Sirisha thought for a moment. Then she put her small hand on her heart.

"That's right," said Ammamma softly. "The paper was only a basket. You are the garden where the verses grow."

At school, the children sat in rows on mats. One boy sang a song. Two girls did a little dance. Then Padma teacher called out, "Sirisha!"

Sirisha stood up. Her knees wobbled. She walked to the front and looked at all the faces. And suddenly, her mind went empty, like a clean slate. Not one word would come.

The room was very quiet. Someone coughed. Sirisha's cheeks grew hot.

Then she saw Ammamma in the back row. Ammamma did not say anything. She only smiled and placed her hand on her heart.

Sirisha took a deep breath. And there it was, waiting for her, just like the rooster every morning.

"The rooster calls, the sun is red," she began, and soon the whole room was giggling at the sleepy head and the dosa on the pan. Then she said Gowri's verse, and some of the little ones even went "ding" with her.

Then Sirisha did something she had not planned at all. She made a brand-new verse, right there.

My book flew off into the breeze, Across the canal, beneath the trees, But what I love, I still can see, My verses live inside of me.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then everyone clapped and clapped. Padma teacher's eyes were shining. "That last one was the best of all," she said, "because it was born just now."

That evening, there was a knock at the door. It was Chinna, the boy from the next street. In his hands was a soggy, crumpled, green notebook.

"I found it stuck in the reeds near the fields," he said shyly. "Is it yours?"

The ink had run into blue clouds, and most of the words were blurry. But Sirisha hugged it anyway. "Thank you, Chinna! You are so kind."

She laid the notebook in the last of the evening sun to dry. Then she sat on the thinnai with Ammamma, picked up a pencil, and wrote on a fresh new page.

A helping hand, a friendly smile, Can make the whole day worth the while.

Ammamma popped a groundnut into her mouth and nodded. "Another little laddu," she said.

And now, my dear, it is your turn. Look around your room. What do you see? A pillow, a star, a sleepy moon? Can you make a little laddu of words, just for you? Remember, your verses live inside of you, too.