Author: Taarini Kasbekar, Class VIII B
When the lord of the sky finally sets,
His kingdom splits into two large clefts,
Comes the princess, with her train of blue,
Ready to set the stars anew,
An ember of dawn, her brother resists,
And with a spark of yellow, her throat he slits,
A fight for dominance, a game till the end,
As with a manner of colours, the sky is painted,
Mother moon sits and does lament,
Forever they argue, a message of disharmony is sent!
Ah, mother moon, how would you know,
Of the feelings within us as we gaze upon the show,
The beauty and radiance of how the colours go and grow,
Bold and bright or smooth and mellow!
Finally the brother abandons his glow,
Hides behind the clouds, with his father he goes,
Mother and daughter for now rule the night,
But with the next sunset, we shall begin the fight!
Warm, crispy pastries simmered on a burner at the back of Paramita’s courtyard. She was a young woman who lived amongst the mountains in the small village of Sampat, and she was never free at midday. The devout lady had taken it upon herself to visit the Buddhist monastery every day, and offer her food to the monks.
Being orphaned as a young girl, at any rate, making a good life for herself was challenging, but the village people had taken pity on her. She was raised in the small temple, and allowed to sleep in the local inn, which was run by someone who knew her late mother. Every night, when the village adults and children would gather at the temple to stare at the stars, she would ask the other children, “I don’t have two parents like yours, do I?”, with a sad expression on her face. The monks would overhear and always tell her, “Daughter Paramita, that is because the entire village is your family.”
Paramita covered her face with a shawl, as now that she had attained womanhood, the monks were forbidden from looking at her. Gathering up her plate of egg buns and vegetables, she walked through the village, smiling at the children and greeting the adults. Almost everyone knew her, and the entire community gave her affection and a sense of belonging.
Having reached the monastery, Paramita took off her shoes and entered. The monks were waiting for food to be offered, and as always, she was the first to arrive. She placed her plate before the monks, and said, “Father and brothers, please accept this food.”
Father Hanh, an aging monk who had been middle-aged during Paramita’s childhood, smiled. “My dear daughter, you bring us our meals almost every day. I can sense your sincerity and your pure heart. I assure you, someday, all of the goodwill and prayers mixed into your egg buns shall come back to bless you.”
Paramita’s mind felt at peace after hearing the words of the old monk, but she didn’t really believe in his words. After all, she was an orphan whose parents had left her nothing. She’d never had a stroke of good luck. She had a good heart and tried to be the best version of herself she could be, but she never expected any reward for it. Bowing before the statue of the Buddha, she left the monastery, her mind on the subject of whether she had locked the goat pen or not.
Years passed after this incident. Paramita entered the middle-age of her life, and Father Hanh died a blessed, peaceful death, surrounded by the brother monks. Life went on as usual in her little cottage, until the officials came.
Builders, construction workers, and government officials arrived in the village and announced that Sampat was now government land, and would be used for mining purposes. People were thrown out of their houses, children were left homeless, and the entire community was ripped out by the roots. The men even went so far as to destroy the monastery and temple, and cut down the trees in the gardens that Father Hanh had deeply loved.
The peaceful people of Sampat weren’t even provided homes and money as compensation. They were forced down the mountain and made to work in factories that poisoned the earth and created a thin haze across the once-clear sky. Paramita fled her own factory, and was now living on the streets, tired and hungry.
One evening, she leaned against a street light and groaned, her body almost succumbing to pain, when she felt something warm against her foot. It was…a basket of egg buns? She reached down and bit into one, relishing the warmth and comfort of the food. She took another, and another, from the seemingly endless basket, until the fire of her stomach was extinguished. Her heart filled with a strange kind of warmth, the kind that she hadn’t felt since she lost Sampat. The kind that touches your soul when someone is watching over you.
She gazed up at the sky, smiling, when she saw the face of a monk in the stars. A monk who had once told her that her goodwill would come back to her. A monk who was watching her from above, his hands raised in blessing.
