A Tale of Hope and Hard Work
It was a calm morning in a quiet village. The chirping of birds filled the air as sunlight gently bathed a small, mud-brick house. Outside the house sat Ramlal, an elderly farmer, with his son Mohan. Their faces reflected worry and uncertainty. Their small field was the sole means of their livelihood, but this year the rains had failed them.
“Son,” Ramlal sighed, “the field is dry. Without rain, how will we grow crops?”
Mohan placed a reassuring hand on his father’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Babuji. We’ll work hard. God will help us.”
Ramlal shook his head. “We’ve tried every year, but nothing changes. We lack good seeds, and the land is barren.”
Mohan straightened up with determination. “Maybe we can ask the village head for help. He might lend us some seeds or money.”
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Reluctantly, Ramlal agreed, and they made their way to the headman’s large house. The headman, a wealthy and arrogant man, greeted them coldly.
“What brings you here, Ramlal?” he asked, eyeing them disdainfully.
“Sahib,” Ramlal began humbly, “we need some help with our field. If you could lend us seeds or a small loan…”
The headman interrupted, “Loan? You people always ask for loans and never repay them. I won’t waste my money on you.”
“But Sahib,” Ramlal pleaded, “if we don’t get help, we’ll starve.”
“That’s not my problem. Work harder and leave it to God,” the headman said dismissively.
Ramlal and Mohan walked back home, disheartened. Ramlal wiped his tears as he said, “Son, see how a poor man has no one to turn to. Even asking for help brings only humiliation.”
Mohan clenched his fists. “This time, we won’t depend on anyone, Babuji. I’ll find a way, no matter how hard I have to work.” His resolve brought a glimmer of hope to his father’s tired eyes.
The next morning, Mohan stood in their dry, cracked field, deep in thought. A neighbor, Raghu, passed by and stopped.
“Mohan, what are you thinking? Look at the field—it’s barren. How will you farm?”
“We have to try, Raghu bhaiya. Giving up isn’t an option,” Mohan replied firmly.
Raghu sighed. “We poor folks have no resources. Sitting idle seems to be our fate.”
“No, bhaiya. I’ll find a way. There has to be a solution.”
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Determined, Mohan went to the village market and met Hariya, the blacksmith.
“Hariya Kaka, can you make me a good spade?”
Hariya chuckled. “Do you have money for it, Mohan?”
“No, Kaka,” Mohan admitted, “but I’ll work for you. I’ll chop wood or help however I can.”
Hariya nodded. “Alright, bring me firewood for two days, and I’ll make you a spade.”
“Thank you, Kaka. I’ll start right away.”
Mohan went into the forest and began chopping wood. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he didn’t stop. As he worked, an old sage appeared.
“Why are you working so hard, son?” the sage asked kindly.
Mohan explained, “I don’t have money to buy a spade. I’m chopping wood for the blacksmith so he’ll make one for me. My father and I need it for our field.”
The sage smiled. “Hard work is good, but wisdom is just as important. Accept help when it’s offered.”
The sage handed Mohan a small pouch. “These are magical seeds. Plant them in your field, and they will bring you fortune.”
“Thank you, Baba,” Mohan said, his hope renewed.
Mohan returned home and showed the seeds to his father.
“Where did you get these, son?” Ramlal asked.
“A sage gave them to me. He said they’re magical and can change our fate.”
Ramlal frowned. “We’ve heard such stories before, Mohan. Magic isn’t real.”
“Babuji, what do we have to lose by trying?” Mohan replied.
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Ramlal didn’t argue further. Together, they prepared the field, sowed the seeds, and watered them.
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight touched their field, Mohan and Ramlal were amazed to see a tall, radiant plant standing where the seeds had been sown.
“Son, what miracle is this? How did this plant grow so fast?”
“Babuji, I told you we should never give up hope!”
The plant bore shiny, golden fruits. When they plucked one, gold coins spilled from it.
“Babuji, we’ll use this wealth wisely. First, we’ll pay off our debts. Then, we’ll buy good seeds and tools for farming.”
News of the magical plant spread quickly through the village. The headman, consumed by greed, sent his men to spy on Mohan. That night, he led them to the field, intending to steal the plant.
As they tried to uproot it, Mohan, who had been guarding the field, shouted, “Stop! This is our field. What are you doing here?”
“We were just looking,” the headman lied.
“Don’t lie! You were trying to steal it!” Mohan retorted.
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The headman and his men fled in shame. The next day, Mohan reported the incident to the village council. The council fined the headman and warned him.
“Babuji,” Mohan said later, “this plant is creating greed among people. We can’t keep it here.”
“Then what will you do, son?”
“I’ll use its wealth for the welfare of the entire village. We’ll ensure no farmer ever goes hungry again.”
Mohan’s decision brought hope to the villagers. At a gathering, he announced, “Brothers and sisters, this magical plant isn’t just for me. It can change the fate of our entire village. We’ll use the gold coins to buy seeds and tools for everyone.”
The villagers cheered for Mohan, whose selflessness and hard work had turned despair into hope. Together, they rebuilt their fields and created a brighter future for all.
