Long, long ago, a boy named Amang lived with his sister in a small village in the hills. Their parents had died when they were young, and the two children had very little. A few villagers showed them kindness and brought them food from time to time. Most people, however, left them to manage as best they could.
When the villagers went to clear new jhums, Amang went with them. Each person carried a dao for cutting through the thick growth. Amang had no dao, so he knelt down and pulled at the weeds and creepers with his hands. Before long, scratches covered his fingers and palms. A few villagers saw him struggling and helped him clear the rest of the field.
For Amang, overcoming obstacles was part of nearly every day’s work. Once the land was ready, he still needed paddy to sow. He went from house to house and asked whether anyone could spare a handful. Someone gave him cooked rice, but cooked rice would never grow. He carried it home for his sister to eat and wondered what he was going to do with the empty jhum.
One day, while his sister was preparing thread, a dove flew down and settled on a tree near their house. It sat there cooing until Amang took some thread, made a slingshot and shot it.
As he cleaned the bird for cooking, he found several grains of paddy in its crop.
“Look!” he called to his sister. “There is enough here to begin.”
He gathered the grains carefully. Then he plucked the feathers from the dove’s wings and placed them under his bed.
The next morning, the feathers were gone. In their place lay spears, daos and kodalis. Amang stared at the tools for a long while before calling his sister. She fetched some water, and together they cleaned and sharpened everything.
At last, Amang could prepare his field properly. He worked the soil and planted the grains he had found inside the dove. For several days, he visited the jhum to look for new shoots. Shoots did appear, but they were not paddy. They grew into long vines bearing enormous gourds called nraolu.
“I planted dhan and got gourds,” he grumbled. “What am I supposed to do with all these?”
Amang left the field in a foul mood. Yet the next morning, he returned with his dao and began clearing the weeds from around the vines. Perhaps, he thought, the gourds could at least serve as vessels for carrying water.
While cutting through a clump of leaves, his dao struck one of the larger gourds. The blade split it open, and a heap of dhan spilled onto the ground.
Amang dropped to his knees and picked up the grains. Then he opened another gourd. It too was full of dhan. So were all the others.
He built a granary beside his house and carried the gourds there one by one. When he had emptied the last of them, the granary was full.
“Where did you find so much dhan?” asked one of the astonished villagers who came to see it.
Amang pointed towards the empty gourds. The villager peered inside one, then another, as if expecting the grain to reappear.
That year, the other jhums did not fare well. The crops withered, the granaries emptied and hunger spread through the village. Before long, the same people who had once sent Amang away came to his house asking for food.
Amang remembered those days. He also remembered the hands that had helped him clear his field. He opened the granary and gave the villagers dhan. Nobody who came to his door returned with an empty basket, and people spoke of his generosity for years afterwards.
One night, Amang saw his father in a dream.
“Look in the cane tray above the fire,” his father told him. “You will find the old rope we used for tying our mithun. Cut it into small pieces and throw them into the pool near the village. Go back after five days.”
When Amang awoke, he found the rope exactly where his father had said it would be. He chopped it into pieces, walked to the pool and threw them into the water.
Five days later, he returned and found tiny mithun in the pool, each no larger than a beetle. The following day, they had grown as large as rats. A day after that, they were the size of goats. Soon, a whole herd of fully grown mithun stood there, their great horns rising above the reeds.
Amang built a stone fence to keep them together. He then went to the village priest and announced that he would bring the herd into the village. Everyone was told to remain indoors until the animals had passed, for such a large herd might trample anyone standing in its way.
After that, the mithun went into the forest each day to graze. It is said that all the wild mithun in the region descended from Amang’s herd.
In time, Amang became a rich man. He married, built a large house and invited the whole village to a feast. There was food for everyone, including those who had once turned him away. Perhaps Amang remembered what an empty stomach felt like. Perhaps he simply believed that a full granary was of little use when his neighbors were hungry.
Years later, whenever the village elders wished to teach children about overcoming obstacles, they told them the story of Amang. Some said it showed that hard work pays off. Yet what people remembered most was not the size of his granary, his house or even his herd. They remembered that, after knowing hunger himself, Amang laid out a feast and welcomed everyone inside.
If You Liked This Folk Tale…
Amang’s journey shows that overcoming obstacles can change a person’s fortunes, but what they do with that good fortune matters just as much. If this tale left you thinking about how our choices eventually return to shape our lives, travel next from the green hills of Nagaland to the mountain villages of Himachal Pradesh. In The Dacoit Who Sowed Honey Seeds, another traditional tale explores the workings of karma and reminds us that every choice plants a seed. What eventually grows from it may be a blessing, a lesson or a consequence we never expected.
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.