Sumati Satakam: Your anger is your own enemy

Told in English, Telugu.

In a little village near Rajahmundry, where the Godavari river shines like silver in the morning, there lived a boy named Ravi. Ravi was eight years old, and there was one thing he loved more than anything else in the whole world. Kites!

Sankranti was coming. The front yards were full of bright rangoli, the kitchen smelled of ariselu and sweet pongal, and every afternoon the sky above the village was dotted with red, yellow and green kites dancing in the wind.

This year, the village was having a kite contest on the day of Sankranti. The child whose kite flew the highest and the steadiest would win a shiny brass lamp. Ravi wanted that lamp very, very much.

For three whole days he worked on his kite. He cut thin strips of bamboo. He glued bright orange paper over them. He even painted a big golden sun right in the middle.

"It's the most beautiful kite in the village," said his little sister Lasya, who was five. "Can I hold it, Anna? Just for one minute?"

"No," said Ravi. "You'll spoil it. Don't touch."

On the evening before the contest, Ravi left the kite on the terrace to let the glue dry, and went down to wash his hands. When he came back up, his heart jumped. Lasya was holding the kite! And there, in the corner of the orange paper, was a long tear.

"I only wanted to see the sun up close," Lasya whispered. "The wind pulled it, Anna. I'm sorry."

Ravi's face went hot. His hands curled into fists. "You ruined it!" he shouted. "I told you not to touch it!"

He grabbed the kite out of her hands so hard that there was a loud crack. Everyone on the terrace went quiet. The main bamboo stick, the one that held the whole kite together, had snapped right in two.

Lasya burst into tears and ran downstairs. Ravi stood alone, holding the broken kite. The sun painted in the middle was folded and crumpled. The contest was tomorrow morning. And now there was no kite at all.

Ravi sat down on the steps and cried too.

After a little while, he heard soft footsteps. It was Ammamma, carrying a glass of warm milk. She sat down beside him and didn't say anything for a moment. She just let him lean against her shoulder.

"Lasya broke my kite," Ravi sniffed.

"Hmm," said Ammamma gently. "I heard a crack. Was that the little tear in the paper, or something else?"

Ravi looked down at the snapped bamboo. He was quiet for a long time. "The tear was small," he said at last. "I broke the stick. When I pulled it. Because I was angry."

Ammamma nodded. "Shall I tell you a poem, kanna? It is a very old one. A wise poet called Baddena wrote it hundreds of years ago, in the Sumati Satakam."

Ravi wiped his eyes and nodded.

Ammamma said it slowly, like a song. "Tana kopame tana shatruvu, tana shantame tanaku raksha, daya chuttambau, tana santoshame swargamu, tana duhkhame narakamandru, tathyamu Sumati."

Can you say the first part with me? Tana kopame tana shatruvu. Very good!

"Do you know what it means?" asked Ammamma. "It says, your own anger is your enemy. Your own calm keeps you safe. Kindness is like your own family. Your own happiness is like heaven, and your own sadness is like the worst place of all. This is true, says the poet."

Ravi thought about it. "So my anger was my enemy," he said slowly. "Not Lasya. My anger broke my kite, not her."

"That's right," smiled Ammamma. "Anger feels like it's fighting for us, but really it fights against us. If you had taken a deep breath, what would have happened?"

"I would have had a kite with a tiny tear," said Ravi. "And we could have glued a patch on it."

"And Lasya would not be crying," said Ammamma softly.

Ravi stood up. He went downstairs and found Lasya curled up on the cot, hugging her pillow.

"Lasya," he said. "I'm sorry I shouted. I'm sorry I pulled it. That was my fault, not yours."

Lasya peeped out from behind the pillow. "Can we fix it?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Ravi. "But let's try. Together."

They carried the kite into the courtyard, under the light. Ammamma brought the glue and some leftover orange paper. But the bamboo stick was the real problem. Where would they find a new one so late in the evening?

Just then, their neighbour Kiran leaned over the wall. "What happened?" he asked. Ravi felt shy, but he told him the whole truth, even the part about getting angry.

Kiran grinned. "I have an extra bamboo stick. My father cut too many. Wait here!" He came running back with a perfect, straight piece of bamboo.

So they all worked together. Ravi tied the new stick very carefully. Kiran held the corners steady. Lasya, with her small fingers, pressed the orange patch over the tear. Ammamma smiled and said, "See? Daya chuttambau. Kindness brings friends to help you."

The next morning, the sky was bright blue. The whole village gathered in the open field by the river. Ravi held the string, and Lasya held the kite high above her head.

"Ready?" said Ravi.

"Ready!" said Lasya, and she let go.

Up, up, up went the orange kite with the golden sun. It wobbled once, and everyone gasped. Ravi took a deep, calm breath and gently pulled the string. The kite steadied, and it climbed higher and higher, until the golden sun seemed to be talking to the real one.

Did Ravi win the brass lamp? Yes, he did! But when the village elder handed it to him, Ravi turned and gave it to Lasya. "We made it together," he said.

That night, the little brass lamp glowed on the window sill. And Ravi whispered to himself, before he fell asleep, "Tana kopame tana shatruvu. Tana shantame tanaku raksha."

Now you try it too, and keep it in your heart. Good night.