Vemana: Empty vessels make the most noise

Told in English, Telugu.

In a green village near the Godavari river, where coconut trees sway and the evenings smell of jasmine, there lived a little girl named Sita. She was seven years old, and she lived with her Thatha, her Ammamma, and a sweet brown calf called Gowri. Gowri wore a tiny brass bell around her neck, and it went ting, ting, ting whenever she walked.

One Sankranti, Sita's cousin Ravi came to stay from the big town. Ravi was nine, and Ravi loved to talk. Oh, how he loved to talk!

"I can climb any tree in this village," Ravi said on the very first day. "I can swim faster than a fish. And I know every single path in every single field. I am the cleverest boy you will ever meet!"

Sita only smiled and kept drawing her muggu in front of the house, dot by careful dot.

Thatha, who sat on the thinnai with his walking stick, raised one bushy eyebrow. But he said nothing. Not yet.

That evening, as the sun turned orange and began to slip behind the paddy fields, Ammamma came hurrying out of the cowshed.

"Gowri is gone!" she said. "The gate was open. Our little calf has wandered away, and soon it will be dark."

Sita's heart gave a jump. Gowri was so small. What if she was lost and scared?

"Don't worry, Ammamma!" Ravi said loudly, puffing out his chest. "I will find her. I know every path, remember? Come, Sita, follow me!"

So off they went, past the well, past the haystacks, toward the edge of the fields. Ravi marched in front, shouting at the top of his voice.

"GOWRI! GOWRI! Come here at once! GOWRI!"

He shouted so loudly that the crows flew up from the trees, cawing. He shouted so loudly that a dog began to bark. He shouted so loudly that Sita had to cover her ears.

"Which way now, Ravi Anna?" Sita asked.

Ravi stopped. He looked left. He looked right. All the paths looked the same in the fading light. "Er... this way!" he said, and marched off again. Then he stopped. "No, no. That way!"

The sky grew darker. The first star came out. A cool wind rustled the paddy, and somewhere far away, a frog began to croak. Ravi's voice became a little smaller.

"Sita," he whispered, "I think... I think I don't really know these paths at all."

Sita took his hand. "It's all right," she said softly. "Let's stop shouting for a moment. Let's just be very, very quiet."

Ravi wanted to say something, but he closed his mouth. The two children stood still in the dusk. Can you be very quiet too, just like them? Listen...

At first there was only the wind. Then the frog. Then, very faintly, from the direction of the old banyan tree, came a tiny sound.

Ting. Ting, ting.

"Gowri's bell!" Sita whispered.

She bent down and looked at the soft mud by the path. There were little hoof prints, small as Sita's thumb, leading toward the banyan tree. Quietly, carefully, the children followed them.

And there, under the big banyan, nibbling on sweet grass as if nothing was wrong, stood Gowri! She had been frightened by all the shouting and had hidden behind the thick roots. But when Sita came near and stroked her ears gently, Gowri gave a happy little moo and nuzzled Sita's hand.

They led her home, ting, ting, ting, all the way.

Ammamma hugged Gowri, then hugged Sita, then hugged Ravi too. That night, after a warm dinner of rice and pappu and a spoonful of ghee, everyone sat together on the thinnai under the stars.

"Ravi," said Thatha kindly, "tell me. Who found Gowri?"

Ravi looked down at his toes. "Sita did, Thatha. I shouted and shouted, but I didn't know the way. Sita stayed calm and listened."

Thatha nodded. Then he did something strange. He picked up an old bronze plate from the kitchen and tapped it with a spoon.

CLANG! The sound rang out loud and long.

Then he slid the gold bangle from Ammamma's wrist, with her permission of course, and tapped it with the same spoon.

Tink. Just a soft, gentle sound.

"Which one is more precious?" asked Thatha.

"The gold, of course," said Ravi.

"Yes," said Thatha. "And yet the bronze makes far more noise. Long ago, a wise poet named Vemana wrote a verse about this. Listen."

And Thatha said slowly, in his deep, gentle voice:

Alpudepudu palku aadambaramugaanu, sajjanundu palku challagaanu, kanchu moginatlu kanakambu moguna, Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema.

"What does it mean, Thatha?" asked Sita.

"It means this," said Thatha. "A small-minded person always speaks with big show and loud noise. But a good and wise person speaks calmly and coolly. Does gold ring out loudly like bronze? No, it does not. The most precious things are often the quietest."

Ravi was silent for a long while. Then he said, "Thatha, I talked so much about being clever. But Sita didn't talk at all. She just did the clever thing."

Thatha laughed softly and patted Ravi's head. "That you understand this now makes you wiser than you were this morning. That is a fine thing."

From that day on, Ravi still talked, because Ravi loved to talk. But he talked a little less about himself, and he listened a little more. And when he and Sita climbed the guava tree the next afternoon, he didn't say he was the best climber in the village. He just helped Sita up to the branch where the sweetest guavas grew.

In the cowshed, Gowri's bell went ting, ting, ting, soft and happy, like a small golden sound in the night.

Now, can you remember the last line with me? Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema. Good night, little one.