Sumati Satakam: Do good even to those who do harm

Told in English, Telugu.

In a little village near Rajahmundry, where the paddy fields shine green and the Godavari flows wide and slow, there lived a boy named Ravi. He was eight years old, and he loved Sankranti more than any other festival.

On the morning of Bhogi, Ravi woke up before the sun. He swept the front yard with his amma, sprinkled water on the ground, and then, very carefully, he drew a big muggu. It had a pot of pongal in the middle, two sugarcanes on the sides, and tiny dots all around like stars. He filled it with red, yellow and green colours. It took him a whole hour.

"Ammamma, come and see!" he called.

His grandmother came out with her steel tumbler of coffee and smiled. "Chala bagundi, Ravi. This is the prettiest muggu on our street."

Just then, Kittu from the next house came running down the lane with his new kite. He was looking up at the sky, not at the ground, and his feet went right through the middle of the muggu. The red colour smudged into the yellow. The pongal pot was gone.

Kittu stopped. He looked down. Then, instead of saying sorry, he laughed. "Oho, it was only powder anyway!" And off he ran.

Ravi's eyes filled with tears. "Ammamma, he did it on purpose! I will never, ever talk to him again. And when his kite gets stuck in a tree, I will not help him. Never!"

Ammamma put her coffee down and sat on the front step. She patted the spot beside her. "Come, kanna. Sit. Let me tell you a padyam that my own grandmother taught me."

Ravi sat down, still sniffing.

Ammamma closed her eyes and sang softly, in that old sing-song way:

Upakaariki nupakaaramu, vipareetamu gaadu seya vivarimpangaa, apakaariki nupakaaramu, nepamennaka seyuvaade nerpari Sumathee.

"What does it mean?" asked Ravi.

"It is from the Sumati Satakam, a very old book of poems," said Ammamma. "The poet says, if someone does good to you, and you do good back to them, that is nothing so special. Everybody does that. But if someone does harm to you, and you still do good to them, without counting up their mistakes, then you are a truly wise person."

Ravi frowned. "But that is so hard, Ammamma."

Ammamma laughed gently. "Yes. That is why the poet calls such a person wise. Easy things don't need wisdom."

Ravi did not say anything. He went inside and helped Amma make ariselu, but all day he kept thinking about his spoiled muggu and Kittu's laugh.

That evening, as the sky turned orange and then purple, there was a loud cry from next door.

"Lakshmi! Lakshmi! Where are you?"

Ravi ran to the wall. Kittu was standing in his yard, his face wet with tears. Lakshmi was Kittu's little calf, white with one brown ear. The gate had been left open, and she had wandered away.

"My father has gone to the market in town," Kittu sobbed. "He won't be back till night. And it's getting dark!"

Ravi felt a little voice inside him say, Serves him right. He spoiled your muggu. But then he remembered Ammamma's padyam. Apakaariki nupakaaramu. Do good even to the one who did you harm.

Ravi took a deep breath. "Kittu," he said, "I know where calves like to go. They go to the canal, where the soft grass grows. Come, I'll show you."

Kittu stared at him. "You will help me? Even after this morning?"

"Come on, quickly," said Ravi. "Before it is fully dark."

Ravi called to Ammamma, and she came with a torch and walked behind the two boys. They went past the temple, past the neem tree, along the narrow path between the fields. The frogs were starting to sing. The wind was cool. The torch made a small round circle of light on the path.

"Lakshmi!" called Kittu. "Lakshmi!"

Nothing.

They walked a little farther. Kittu's voice was getting shaky. "What if we can't find her?"

"Shh," said Ravi. "Listen."

They all stood very still. Can you be very still too, just like them? Listen...

From somewhere near the canal came a tiny sound. "Mmmaaa."

"There!" shouted Ravi.

Ammamma shone the torch, and there she was. Lakshmi was standing in the tall grass at the edge of the canal, munching happily, her brown ear flicking, not worried at all.

Kittu ran and threw his arms around her neck. "Lakshmi, you naughty girl! You scared me so much!"

Ravi held the calf's rope while Kittu stroked her nose, and together they led her slowly home, with Ammamma's torch showing the way.

At the gate, Kittu stopped. He looked at his feet. "Ravi," he said quietly, "I'm sorry I stepped on your muggu. And I'm sorry I laughed. That was mean."

Ravi smiled. "It's okay. Tomorrow is Sankranti. Shall we draw a new muggu together? An even bigger one?"

Kittu's face lit up like a diya. "Yes! And I'll bring my colours too!"

The next morning, the whole street came to see the muggu in front of Ravi's house. It had a pongal pot, two sugarcanes, a flying kite, and in one corner, a little white calf with one brown ear.

Ammamma stood at the door with her coffee and winked at Ravi. "Nerpari," she whispered. "My wise boy."

And Ravi felt warmer inside than any Bhogi fire.