Sumati Satakam: A parent's real joy

Told in English, Telugu.

In a green village in Konaseema, where coconut trees sway beside the canals, there lived a boy named Kittu. He was seven years old, and he had the fastest legs in the whole lane. His father, Ramayya, was a farmer who worked in the paddy fields from sunrise. His mother made the softest pesarattu in the village, and his Nanamma knew more old poems than anyone else.

Every Sankranti, the village held a running race for children on the road in front of the temple. The winner got a shining brass cup, and the whole village clapped and cheered.

This year, Kittu had a big wish.

"Nanamma," he whispered one night, lying on the cool floor of the verandah, "if I win the cup, Nanna will be so proud of me. He will tell everyone in the fields."

Nanamma smiled and stroked his hair. "Your Nanna already loves you, kanna."

"I know," said Kittu. "But I want to make him really, really happy."

So every morning, before school, Kittu ran. He ran along the canal bank. He ran past the banyan tree. He ran so fast that the chickens flapped out of his way, squawking.

At last, Sankranti morning came. The front yards were covered with bright muggulu. Gobbemmalu sat in the middle of every pattern, decorated with marigold flowers. The air smelled of fresh ariselu and sweet pongali.

All the children lined up on the temple road. Kittu stood in the middle, his heart going thump, thump, thump. He looked into the crowd and saw his father standing at the side, smiling and waving his towel.

The village elder raised his hand. "Ready... steady... go!"

Off they ran! Kittu shot ahead like an arrow. One boy, two boys, three boys, he passed them all. Only one more boy, Sreenu, was ahead of him, and Kittu was catching up. The finish line, a rope tied between two posts, was getting closer and closer.

Then Kittu heard a cry.

He turned his head. At the edge of the road, a tiny girl named Lakshmi, only four years old, had wandered out to watch. She had tripped on a stone and fallen. Her knee was scraped, and she was sobbing, "Amma! Amma!" The bigger children were rushing past, and she was too frightened to move.

Kittu looked at the finish line. He looked at Lakshmi. The finish line. Lakshmi.

What do you think he did?

Kittu stopped. He ran back to the little girl and knelt beside her.

"Don't cry, Lakshmi," he said gently. "I'm here. Can you hold my hand?"

She sniffed and nodded. Kittu helped her up, brushed the dust off her frock, and carefully walked her through the crowd until they found her mother, who hugged her tight.

By the time Kittu turned around, the race was over. Sreenu was holding the shining brass cup high, and everyone was cheering for him.

Kittu's eyes filled with tears. He walked home slowly, kicking little stones. "Now Nanna will not be proud of me," he thought. "I lost."

That afternoon, he sat quietly in the corner and did not even want his ariselu. His father came in from the fields, but Kittu could not look at him.

Then, there was a knock at the gate.

It was Lakshmi's mother, holding a plate of sweets. Behind her came the village elder, and behind him came Kittu's school teacher, and behind her came two neighbours too.

"Ramayya garu," said Lakshmi's mother, "I had to come. Your son left the race to help my little girl. Everyone ran past her, but Kittu stopped. What a good boy you have!"

"I saw it all," said the village elder, nodding. "Many children can run fast. Very few have a heart like that."

"He is like this in school also," said the teacher with a smile. "Always helping the little ones."

Kittu peeped up at his father. Ramayya's eyes were shining. His smile was so big that it filled his whole face. He picked Kittu up and held him close.

"Nanna," whispered Kittu, "but I didn't win the cup."

"Kanna," said his father, his voice soft and full, "today you gave me something better than any cup."

That night, on the verandah, Nanamma pulled Kittu onto her lap. "Shall I tell you a poem, kanna? It is from the Sumati Satakam, a very old book of poems that many say was written by a poet named Baddena. Listen."

And she sang, slowly and sweetly:

Putrotsahamu tandriki, putrudu janminchinapude puttadu, janulaa putruni ganugoni pogadaga, putrotsahambu naadu pondura Sumati.

"What does it mean, Nanamma?" asked Kittu.

"It means this," said Nanamma. "A father's real joy in his child does not come just on the day the child is born. It comes on the day when people see that child and praise him. That is the day the father feels true joy. Today, the whole village came to praise you, Kittu. Not for running fast, but for being kind. That is why your Nanna was the happiest man in Konaseema."

Kittu smiled a sleepy smile. "So being good makes Nanna and Amma happy, even more than winning?"

"Even more," said Nanamma, and kissed his forehead.

And from his doorway, Kittu's father, still smiling, quietly agreed.

Now, little one, can you say the first line with me? Putrotsahamu tandriki. Very good! And remember, every time you are kind, somewhere a parent's heart is shining with joy. Good night.