The Tortoise Who Could Not Keep Quiet

A Chatterbox Evening

The next evening, Arjun arrived at the banyan tree talking. He was still talking when he sat down. He talked about his cricket bat, his new pencil box, the crow who stole his roti, and the exact number of steps from his house to the tree, which was four hundred and twelve.

“Arjun,” said Meena at last, “please breathe.”

The Old Banyan’s leaves shook with laughter. “Ah, Arjun. You remind me of an old friend of mine. Would you like to hear about him?”

Arjun opened his mouth to say yes, then shut it and nodded instead. Everyone giggled.

The Lake That Was Drying Up

Once there was a lovely lake full of lotus flowers, and in it lived a tortoise named Kambugriva. He was a kind tortoise and a loyal friend, but he had one great weakness: he could not stop talking. He talked to the frogs in the morning, the fish at noon and the moon at night. If nobody was listening, he talked to his own shell.

His two best friends were a pair of geese named Sankata and Vikata. Every year they flew in from faraway places, and every year Kambugriva talked their ears off. They did not mind. They loved him.

But one year the rains did not come. Day by day the lake shrank. The lotus flowers drooped. The mud at the edges cracked into squares like a chessboard.

“We must leave,” said Sankata. “There is a big lake beyond the hills that never dries up. We can fly there in a day.”

“Lucky you,” said Kambugriva sadly. “Tortoises can’t fly. By the time I walk there, I’ll be a tortoise-shaped biscuit.”

Vikata thought hard. Then she flapped her wings with excitement. “I have an idea! We will find a strong stick. You will bite the middle of it, and we will each hold one end in our beaks. Then we can carry you through the sky!”

“Wonderful!” cried the tortoise. “Brilliant! Marvellous! I shall be the first flying tortoise in history! I must tell the frogs, and the fish, and—”

“Kambugriva,” said Sankata very seriously. “There is one rule. Once you bite that stick, you must not open your mouth. Not once. Not for a word. Not for a squeak. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” said the tortoise. Then he added, “I really, truly, completely promise,” just to be sure.

High Above the Village

Early the next morning, the tortoise clamped his jaws on the middle of a strong stick. The geese took the ends, ran along the cracked mud, flapped hard, and up they rose. Higher and higher they went, over the fields, over the trees, until the world below looked like a painted cloth.

Kambugriva was thrilled. He wanted to shout, “Look how small the cows are!” But he kept his mouth shut. He wanted to say, “That cloud looks like a laddoo!” But he kept his mouth shut.

Then they flew over a village. The children looked up and pointed. “Look! Look! Two geese are carrying a tortoise! What a silly sight! The tortoise looks like a flying cooking pot!”

The tortoise’s cheeks burned. A cooking pot? Him? He held on for three seconds. Four. Five. Then he could not bear it any longer.

“I am NOT a cooking pot, I am a—”

And of course, the moment he opened his mouth, he let go of the stick.

Down, down, down he tumbled, spinning like a coin. Luckily for him, he fell straight into a large haystack behind a farmer’s cowshed. He bounced twice, rolled out, and lay on his back with his legs waving in the air, very dizzy and very embarrassed.

The geese swooped down. “Are you hurt?” cried Vikata.

“Only my pride,” groaned Kambugriva. Then, for the first time in his life, he said nothing else for a whole hour. The geese carried him the rest of the way, and this time he did not open his mouth even when a crow called him a flying frying pan.

Words are like birds: once they fly out, you cannot call them back. Know when to speak, and know when to keep quiet.

— The lesson of the flying tortoise

Back Under the Banyan

“In the old, old telling,” said the Banyan softly, “the tortoise was not so lucky. But I like to think a haystack was waiting for him. Every chatterbox deserves a second chance.”

Arjun looked at his toes. “I would have said something too,” he admitted.

“Then you will practise,” said the tree. “Tomorrow, try keeping one clever remark to yourself. Just one. See how it feels.”

Arjun walked home without saying a single word. It took him four hundred and twelve steps. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.