Vemana: Don't give up what you start

Told in English, Telugu.

In a small village near Guntur, where the summer sun shines hot and bright, there lived a boy named Ravi. He was eight years old, he loved cricket, and he loved his Tatayya more than anyone in the world.

One morning after Ugadi, Tatayya came home from the market with something tiny wrapped in a wet cloth. He opened it carefully. Inside was a little mango plant, no taller than Ravi's hand, with just four soft green leaves.

"A mango tree!" said Ravi. "Tatayya, can I plant it? Please?"

Tatayya looked at him with a gentle smile. "You may. But listen, Ravi. A young sapling is like a baby. In this summer heat it needs water every single day until the rains come. Every day. Can you do that?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" said Ravi, already running for the spade.

Tatayya laughed and shook his head. "Wait, wait. Sit with me first."

Ravi sat down on the verandah, wriggling a little.

"Our great poet Vemana once said something about this," said Tatayya. "Listen. Pattu pattaradu, patti viduvaradu, pattenEni bigiya pattavalayu, pattu viduta kante padi chacchute melu, Viswadabhirama vinura Vema."

"What does it mean, Tatayya?"

"It means this. Do not take up a task carelessly. Think first. But once you have taken it up, do not let it go. If you hold something, hold it tight. Vemana used very strong words at the end. He said that letting go of what you started is worse than falling down and getting hurt. He wanted us to understand how much a promise matters."

Ravi was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly this time, "I have thought about it, Tatayya. I promise. I will water it every day."

"Then let us plant it," said Tatayya.

They chose a spot near the back wall, where the morning sun was kind. Ravi dug the hole, Tatayya placed the plant, and together they pressed the soil down. Ravi poured water from a little brass chembu, and the soil drank it up with a soft, happy sound.

For the first week, Ravi was wonderful. Every morning he carried water from the well to his mango plant. He talked to it. He counted its leaves. "Still four," he would say. "Grow faster, little one!"

But summer in Andhra does not stay gentle for long. By May, the sun was blazing. The ground cracked. The well water sank low, and Ravi had to pull the rope a long, long way to bring up one bucket.

And his friends kept calling. "Ravi! Come and play cricket! We need a bowler!"

One morning Ravi stood by the well, sweating, with the heavy bucket in his hands. He could hear the crack of the bat and his friends shouting in the lane.

"Just one day," he whispered to himself. "The plant will be fine for one day."

He put the bucket down and ran to play.

The next day it was the same. "Just one more day," he said. And off he went again.

On the third day, the sun was the hottest it had been all summer. The dogs lay flat in the shade. Even the crows were quiet. Ravi was playing in the lane when suddenly he remembered his promise. His heart gave a little jump.

He dropped the ball and ran home.

When he reached the back wall, he stopped. His mango plant was drooping. Its four leaves hung down, limp and pale, like tired little hands. The soil around it was dry and hard as stone.

"Oh no," Ravi said softly. "Oh no, oh no."

Tears came to his eyes. He wanted to call Tatayya. He wanted to say, it is too late, let us plant a new one. But then he remembered the words. Patti viduvaradu. Once you hold, do not let go.

Ravi wiped his eyes. He ran to the well. He pulled the rope with all his strength, hand over hand, until the bucket came up full. He carried it back, spilling a little on his feet, and poured the water slowly, slowly, around the plant so the dry ground could drink.

Then he took his old school slate and leaned it against two sticks, to make a little shade.

And then he sat down beside it and waited.

Tatayya came out and saw him sitting there. He did not scold. He sat down next to Ravi on the warm ground.

"I let go, Tatayya," said Ravi in a small voice. "For two days. I am sorry."

"You let go," said Tatayya gently. "But look. You came back, and now you are holding tight. That is what matters most."

They sat together as the sun went lower and the air grew a little cooler. Can you guess what happened?

Just before the evening lamps were lit, one leaf lifted. Then another. By the time Ammamma called them for dinner, all four leaves were standing up again, green and fresh.

"It is alive!" shouted Ravi. "Tatayya, it is alive!"

From that day on, Ravi never missed a single morning. When his friends called, he said, "Wait for me! Water first, then cricket." And soon, his friends started coming to the well to help him pull the rope, so they could all play sooner.

In June, the first rain came. Big drops fell on the dusty yard, and Ravi danced in it beside his mango plant. It had six leaves now. Six!

"You kept your promise," said Tatayya, his eyes shining.

"Bigiya pattavalayu," said Ravi proudly. "Hold it tight."

That little plant is a tall tree now, and every summer it gives the sweetest mangoes in the whole village. And whenever Ravi eats one, he remembers Vemana's words.

Shall we say the first line together? Pattu pattaradu, patti viduvaradu. Think before you start, and once you start, never give up. Good night, little one.