There once lived a farmer in Bardez who simply couldn’t help himself. He had to boast. It didn’t matter what he had actually done—what came out of his mouth was always bigger, louder, and far more impressive.
If he had seen a goat, he would talk about an elephant. If he had dug a small pit, he would describe a well so deep that no one could see its bottom. People had heard him so often that most of them just smiled and let him speak, though it wasn’t hard to notice the usual signs of an arrogant person in the way he carried himself.
Every morning, he went to work in a coconut grove. He would dig around the trees, wiping sweat from his forehead, doing what any other farmer did. But evenings were different. The moment he reached home, he would step into the kitchen and begin his little performance. He jumped, stamped his feet, and made sure everyone noticed. The ground would dent slightly under him, and that was enough for him to prove his strength.
“No one is stronger than me,” he would say, as always, before sitting down to eat.
His wife listened quietly for many days. She didn’t interrupt. But she understood something he didn’t—the thin line, the quiet but important difference between confidence and arrogance.
One evening, she had had enough.
“You keep saying that,” she told him, “but there is someone stronger than you. In Kunkolim. In Salcete.”
He stopped mid-bite. The words did not sit well with him. In fact, they stayed with him all night.
“I will go and see him tomorrow,” he said, as if there was no other choice.
The next morning, his wife packed his food—rice, a little chutney, and two large pickled mangoes, all wrapped in a plantain leaf. He left early, walking with the same confidence he always had.
The road was long. He crossed rivers, small streams, patches of uneven land. By the time he reached Salcete, the sun had climbed high. And yet, what caught him off guard wasn’t the distance—it was the people. They were bigger than he expected. Broader. Stronger.
For the first time, he felt something unfamiliar.
He asked around and soon found the house. It wasn’t hard to spot. It stood taller than the rest, almost like it had grown out of the earth itself. Even the door looked heavy enough to resist being opened. The iron knocker, shaped like a lion’s head, took both his hands to lift.
When the door opened, he didn’t step in right away. Inside, everything was large. Too large. Chairs, tables, strange trophies made from shells and animal heads—it all felt overwhelming.
He cleared his throat and asked for the man.
“He’s at the river,” the woman said.
At the riverbank, he finally saw him. The man stood still, holding a fishing rod that looked more like a bamboo pole than anything else. His body reminded the farmer of an old tree—thick, steady, unmoving.
The farmer walked closer, suddenly aware of his own steps.
When the man spoke, the force of his voice almost made the farmer lose his balance. It wasn’t just loud—it carried weight. Something about that moment made the farmer uneasy. Perhaps this was what people meant when they spoke of the effects of arrogance—how it quietly disappears when faced with something greater.
The man told him to fetch the bait. It was heavy. Far heavier than it looked. The farmer struggled with it, adjusting his grip again and again before finally managing. When the bait hit the water, it didn’t take long. A massive fish caught it, thrashing so hard that the water itself seemed to shake.
The farmer stared.
He followed the man back home, but now he wasn’t walking with the same pride. Something had already begun to shift. At mealtime, the difference became clearer. The man ate without effort, large mouthfuls disappearing as if it were nothing. The farmer tried to keep up, but he couldn’t. Even the drink burned his throat.
He said nothing.
After the meal, the man asked him to bring a snuff box. The farmer went inside and came back dragging what looked like a wooden trunk. Then came another request—a nose-tickler made of coconut fronds tied together. Even lifting it took effort.
The man opened the box and took in a deep breath through one nostril, then the other.
The farmer watched.
Then suddenly, he felt himself being pulled.
Before he could react, his feet left the ground. He was dragged forward, closer and closer, as if he weighed nothing at all.
The man picked up the nose-tickler.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The sneeze that followed was like thunder breaking loose. It roared through the air, through the walls, through everything.
And just like that, the farmer was gone—thrown into the sky, carried across distance, until he landed hard outside his own house.
His wife heard the sound and rushed out. There he was. Covered in snuff. Quiet.
No stories this time.
No exaggeration.
She helped him up, cleaned him, and said nothing.
From that day on, he changed. Not suddenly, not loudly—but in small, steady ways. He spoke less. He listened more. Somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, he began to understand how to be humble in life.
It wasn’t something he had learned from words.
It had taken a fall.
Maybe that is why humility stays longer than pride. It doesn’t need to be announced. It simply shows.
And if anyone ever wonders how to stop boasting, the answer is not always in advice. Sometimes, it arrives uninvited, in a moment that quietly reminds you where you truly stand.
That is why humility matters.
If You Liked This Folk Tale…
If this story made you pause and reflect on ego, pride, and what it truly means to grow, you might enjoy another tale that explores a different side of human nature. Our previous post dives into the quiet consequences of anger and how it shapes lives in ways we don’t always see coming. Give it a read here — it’s a powerful reminder that just like arrogance, unchecked emotions can lead us down unexpected paths.
Kalai is passionate about reading and reinterpreting folk tales from all over the country. Write to her at kalai.muse@gmail.com to know more about her.