Long ago, in a small village in Odisha, a boy named Ananta lived with his mother. His sister had married into a rich family, and after their father died, the two worlds drifted apart. She had comfort and plenty. He had dust, hunger, and long days of work. Still, he didn’t complain. Poverty couldn’t take away his quiet pride.
One afternoon, he heard there was a wedding at his sister’s home. He asked his mother if he could go. She agreed, hoping the visit might mend what distance had broken. So he left that evening, walking quickly, a little nervous but hopeful.
When he arrived, his welcome was brief. His brother-in-law handed him a pile of dibojha leaves and told him to make plates for the guests. Ananta didn’t argue. He sat under a dim lamp and worked, while laughter and drums filled the air. By the time he finished, the guests had eaten. Only the smell of food remained.
Later that night, his sister suddenly remembered him. She went to the kitchen. Nothing was left except a bowl of watery rice gruel. She offered it to him with a small smile.
“Eat this,” she said.
Ananta looked at the bowl and answered quietly, “I’ll eat in the morning.”
He smiled, but his eyes said more than his words.
Next morning, his brother-in-law told him to cut grass for the horse. Ananta lifted the sickle and started out. After a few steps, he stopped. The truth hit him—he was being treated like a servant, not a brother. He dropped the sickle by the path and turned back.
On the way home, he saw a dead snake lying on the road. Hunger gnawed at him. Shame followed close behind. Without thinking, he picked up the snake and carried it home. “Cook this,” he told his mother. “I’ll eat it.”
She hesitated but did as he asked. When she lifted the lid later, she froze. The snake had vanished. In its place were bright pieces of gold, glowing against the pot.
Ananta returned from his bath and stood staring at them. Then he took one piece to the market, sold it, and came back with rice, vegetables, and oil. After that, everything began to change. They rebuilt the house, bought clothes, and for the first time in years, ate until they were full. Soon, he even bought an elephant. He also bought gold and silver rings for his sister—and two small bells.
A few days later, Ananta tied the bells to the elephant and rode through the village. The bells rang out like voices. One called, “Come have some rice gruel.” The other answered, “No sister, I’ll have it in the morning.” People stopped and listened. They understood.
When he reached his sister’s home, everyone hurried outside. Someone offered water to wash his feet. Another helped him down from the elephant. His sister smiled too widely and placed before him a plate full of sweets and rice.
Ananta looked at the food, then placed the gold and silver rings on the plate. “Let these eat,” he said softly. “I won’t.”
He stood, turned, and left. No anger. No pride. Just calm truth.
At home, he lived quietly. He didn’t boast or complain. What he carried instead was the lesson that had changed his life—the importance of respect.
He realized that respect isn’t something wealth can buy. The importance of respect rests in small gestures—a kind tone, a shared meal, a word spoken with warmth. His silence that day said everything.
Years went by, but villagers still spoke of him. They said his dignity had more weight than any gold. The weight of dignity lived on in that memory because Ananta hadn’t demanded it; he’d simply shown it.
Even today, people remember the story. It reminds them that the respect shapes every bond, every home, every heart. When it fades, even love grows hollow. When it’s present, even the poorest man stands tall.
That’s why it endures among Indian moral stories. It doesn’t preach; it reveals. It shows the value of self respect. Gold can fill a house, but only respect can fill a heart.
In the end, when the bells stopped ringing and the road grew still, what remained wasn’t the shine of gold. It was the echo that travels farther than sound—the whisper that never dies: nothing lasts longer than the importance of respect.
True to its heart, Ananta’s story reminds us that kindness and dignity carry more weight than wealth or power. Every culture has its way of teaching this truth — through stories passed down from elders, through lessons hidden in everyday life. If you enjoyed this tale from Odisha, you might also like the previous one from Nagaland, which traces how identity and heritage found expression through ink and courage. Read it here: The Girl Who Spoke Through Her Skin.
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.
Folk tale adopted and abridged from Odisha Tales.