Anand's bag of stories

Chapter 1

Anand was twelve, quiet but curious, with glasses that made him look older. Each afternoon, he sat under the banyan tree with his brown bag of books, surrounded by younger children eager for stories. One day, he pulled out a book with a faded blue stripe and began reading about a tiger that had forgotten how to roar. The tiger’s journey through the forest taught him kindness, courage, and a sense of humour. The children listened, wide-eyed and smiling. When the story ended, Meena asked, “Will you read tomorrow?” Anand smiled and said, “Only if you promise to bring your own roar.” The next afternoon, Anand returned to the banyan tree, his red shirt freshly washed, his brown bag a little heavier. The children were already waiting, each carrying something small — a drawing, a feather, a pebble — their “roars,” as promised.

Anand smiled. “Today’s story is about a cloud that forgot how to rain.”

They leaned in.

The cloud wandered the sky, meeting a thirsty tree, a lonely bird, and a dancing river. With each encounter, it remembered its gift.

When Anand closed the book, the children clapped.

Meena whispered, “We remembered our roars.”

Anand nodded. “And I remembered mine.”

Chapter 2

The banyan tree had become a ritual. Every afternoon, Anand arrived with a new book and a quiet smile. The children came too — not just for stories, but for each other.

One day, Anand didn’t bring a book. Instead, he handed each child a blank page.

“Today,” he said, “you write the story.”

They hesitated, then scribbled. Meena drew a tiger with wings. Raju wrote about a talking mango. Anand watched, proud.

When they finished, Anand collected the pages and stitched them together with thread.

“This,” he said, “is our book.”

And under the banyan tree, their stories began to grow.

Chapter 3

The stitched book of stories grew thicker each week. Anand, now twelve and a half, had started collecting the children’s tales — wild, funny, brave — and kept them safe in his brown bag.

One afternoon, Meena asked, “Can others read our book?”

Anand thought for a moment. “They should.”

So the children painted a wooden box, placed it under the banyan tree, and called it The Listening Library. Anyone could read, anyone could write.

Soon, even grown-ups stopped by.

Anand didn’t just tell stories anymore.

He built a place where every voice — even the quiet ones — could be heard.

Chapter 4

One morning, the village school teacher stopped by the banyan tree. She watched as Anand helped Meena spell “tiger” and Raju draw a cloud with a smile.

“You should read at assembly,” she said.

Anand froze. He’d never spoken in front of a crowd.

But the next day, with the stitched book in hand, he stood before the school. His voice trembled at first, then grew steady as he read the tiger’s tale.

When he finished, the room was silent — then came applause.

Anand smiled.

His stories had always spoken.

Now, so did he.

Chapter 5

The village was buzzing. The annual harvest festival had arrived, and with it, visitors from nearby towns. Stalls lined the streets, music filled the air, and under the banyan tree, Anand and the children set up The Listening Library with painted signs, and their stitched book was proudly displayed.

A woman from the city stopped by. She read Meena’s tiger with wings, Raju’s talking mango, and Anand’s cloud that forgot how to rain.

“These are beautiful,” she said. “Would you share them in our town?”

Anand looked at the children. They nodded.

And just like that, their stories began to travel.

Chapter 6

The auditorium was packed. Anand stood behind the microphone, clutching a small notebook stitched with golden thread. His heart thumped, but he remembered Meena’s whisper: “Your stories have wings.”

He began.

“Once, in a forest where trees whispered secrets, lived a squirrel who couldn’t climb.”

The crowd leaned in.

“The squirrel tried everything — jumping, swinging, even asking the wind for help. One day, it met a snail who said, ‘Slow isn’t weak. It’s wise.”

Anand’s voice grew stronger. He acted out the squirrel’s leaps, the snail’s wisdom, the forest’s laughter.

When he finished, the room erupted in applause.

Anand smiled.

He hadn’t just told a story.

He’d shared a piece of himself.

Chapter 7

Years passed. The banyan tree still stood, its roots deeper, its shade wider. Anand, now older, returned one afternoon with a satchel full of stitched books — not just his, but stories written by children from villages, towns, even cities.

He placed them gently in The Listening Library, now rebuilt with shelves and cushions, painted by many hands.

Meena, now a teacher, smiled. “You never stopped.”

Anand shook his head. “Stories don’t end. They grow.”

He sat beneath the tree, opened a fresh notebook, and waited.

Soon, a child approached, eyes wide.

“Can I tell you a story?”

Anand smiled. “Always.”

Chapter 8

The banyan tree was quiet.

No mat. No brown bag. No Anand.

The children came anyway, hoping, waiting. Meena sat cross-legged, tracing circles in the dust. Raju brought a pebble, just in case Anand returned and asked for their “roars.”

Days passed.

“I miss the tiger,” whispered Meena.

“I miss the cloud,” said Raju.

They tried telling stories themselves, but the words felt hollow without Anand’s voice.

One afternoon, they gathered and stitched a book of memories — drawings, lines they remembered, laughter they shared.

They placed it in The Listening Library, hoping Anand would see.

And return.

Chapter 9

One golden afternoon, just as the banyan leaves rustled with a familiar rhythm, Anand returned.

He was taller now, with a satchel full of stitched books — some his, many from children he’d met across towns and cities. The children gasped, then ran to him, laughter spilling like monsoon rain.

“We missed your stories,” Meena said, eyes shining.

Anand knelt, opened a new book, and smiled. “This one’s about a boy who taught a mountain to dance.”

They leaned in.

His voice was richer, his stories bolder — filled with dragons that whispered riddles, rivers that remembered names, and children who changed the world.

The banyan tree listened.

And the stories began again — stronger, wilder, and more theirs than ever.