Nani-Dadi ki Kahaniyan 👵📖

One bright morning on Mount Kailash, Shiva and Parvati held up a golden mango. It glowed like a little sun, and it smelled sweeter than any mango in the world.

'This is no ordinary mango,' said Shiva. 'Whoever goes around the whole world three times and comes back first may have it.'

Kartikeya, the elder brother, did not wait even one moment. He jumped on his peacock, spread its shining tail, and zoom! — off he flew over mountains and oceans, faster than the wind.

Little Ganesha looked down at his own vehicle — a small, round mouse. A mouse cannot fly over oceans. A mouse cannot race a peacock. Ganesha's tummy wobbled as he thought and thought.

Then he smiled his big, warm smile. He stood up, walked slowly around his mother Parvati and his father Shiva — once, twice, three times — and folded his hands.

'Why are you walking around us, little one?' laughed Parvati. 'The world is out there!'

Ganesha said softly, 'My mama and papa are my whole world. So I have gone around my world three times.'

Shiva and Parvati's hearts melted like butter in the sun. They hugged their clever little son and gave him the golden mango.

When Kartikeya came racing back, tired and dusty, he saw Ganesha enjoying the mango. He was cross for a moment — but then he too had to smile. His little brother had won not with speed, but with love and a clever mind.

One evening, Ganesha went to a big feast. There were laddoos — golden, round, sweet laddoos — and Ganesha loved laddoos more than anything. He ate one, then ten, then more than anyone could count, until his tummy was round like a balloon.

When it was time to go home, he climbed onto his little mouse, and off they went through the dark night, Ganesha wobbling happily on top.

Suddenly — sssss! A big snake slid across the path. The mouse was so frightened that it jumped, and down tumbled Ganesha, right onto the ground! His full tummy burst open, and laddoos rolled everywhere, like little golden footballs.

Ganesha quickly gathered up the laddoos, put them back, and tied his tummy tight with the snake, like a belt.

Just then he heard a sound from the sky. 'Hee hee hee! Ha ha ha!' It was the moon, Chandra, shining bright and laughing at him. 'Look at the fat god falling off his mouse!' giggled the moon.

Ganesha looked up, and his eyes grew serious. 'It is not kind to laugh at someone who has fallen,' he said. 'You shine so proudly because you are round and full. For being so proud, you shall shrink and shrink until you disappear — and only slowly grow back.'

The moon stopped laughing at once. 'I am sorry, Ganesha,' it said quietly. 'I was proud and unkind. Please forgive me.'

Ganesha was never one to stay angry. 'All right,' he said gently. 'You will not vanish forever. But you will grow and shrink, grow and shrink, every month — so you remember to stay humble.'

And that is why, Nani says, the moon is fat and round on some nights and a thin little smile on others. And on Ganesha's special day, many families don't look at the moon at all — just to be safe!

Long, long ago, the wise sage Vyasa had a story in his head — the longest story ever thought of. It was the Mahabharata, with thousands and thousands of verses, about kings and queens, brave warriors, and what is right and wrong.

Vyasa wanted to write it down so it would never be forgotten. But who could write so much, so fast, without ever stopping? Only one being in the whole world: Ganesha.

Ganesha agreed, but he had one condition. 'I will write,' he said, 'but you must never stop speaking. If you pause, I will put down my pen and leave.'

Vyasa smiled. 'Agreed. But you too must promise something: never write a word you do not understand.' And so the two of them began — Vyasa speaking in a river of words, Ganesha writing like the wind.

They wrote through the day and into the night. Pages piled up like snow. And then — crack! Right in the middle of a verse, Ganesha's pen broke!

Vyasa could not stop speaking — those were the rules. What was Ganesha to do? The words were flowing and there was no time to find a new pen.

Ganesha did not hesitate. He reached up, broke off one of his own tusks, dipped it in ink, and kept on writing — without missing a single word.

That is why Ganesha has one full tusk and one broken one. Dadi says he wears it proudly, like a medal, because it reminds us that when you promise to finish something, you finish it — even when it costs you something.

In the village of Gokul, little Krishna was famous for two things: his mischievous smile, and his love of fresh, white butter — makhan.

His mother Yashoda churned the butter herself and kept it in clay pots. But every morning, somehow, the butter was gone — and there was Krishna, with white marks around his mouth, saying, 'Not me, Ma!'

Yashoda tried everything. Finally she hung the butter pot high, high up from the ceiling, where no little boy could possibly reach. 'There!' she said. 'Now my butter is safe.'

But Krishna had friends. That afternoon, he gathered all the boys of the village under the pot. 'You stand here. You climb on his shoulders. I'll climb on yours.' Up and up they built a wobbly tower of boys, giggling and wobbling, until Krishna, at the very top, could just reach the pot.

Crash! Down came the pot, and out came the butter. The boys shared it happily, and even the monkeys got some. Krishna's face was white with butter from ear to ear.

When Yashoda came home and saw the broken pot, she called, 'Krishnaaa!' Krishna looked up with his big innocent eyes, butter all over his cheeks, and said, 'Not me, Ma! The monkeys did it!'

Yashoda wanted to scold him. She really did. But when she looked at that buttery little face, she burst out laughing instead and hugged him tight.

Nani says the gopis of the village complained about Krishna stealing their butter every single day — but secretly, they were sad on the days he didn't come. Being loved by Krishna, even as a little thief, was a blessing.

One day, little Krishna was playing in the courtyard with his brother Balarama and the other children. They were digging, building, and getting gloriously muddy.

Balarama came running to Yashoda. 'Ma! Ma! Krishna is eating mud!'

Yashoda dropped everything and ran out. 'Krishna! Open your mouth this instant! Have you been eating mud?'

Krishna shook his head. 'No, Ma. Balarama is teasing. Look for yourself — open my mouth and see.'

So Yashoda looked into her little boy's open mouth. And what she saw made her knees go weak.

Inside that tiny mouth she saw the whole sky. She saw the sun and the moon and thousands of stars. She saw oceans and mountains, forests and rivers. She saw the whole earth — and on it, she saw a village called Gokul, and a house, and a mother looking into her little boy's mouth!

Yashoda trembled. For one moment, she understood that her little Krishna was not just her little Krishna — he was the whole universe, come to her home as a child.

And then, gently, the vision faded. Yashoda blinked, and there was just her muddy little boy, grinning up at her. She swept him into her arms and hugged him so tight he squeaked.

'Just don't eat mud again,' she whispered. Dadi says that is the wonder of it: the whole universe, and still her little boy.

When Krishna was a boy, his best friend at school was a gentle, kind boy named Sudama. They studied together, played together, and shared their food. Then they grew up, and life took them far apart.

Krishna became the king of Dwarka, with golden palaces by the sea. Sudama became a poor priest, with a leaky hut and often not enough food for his children.

One day Sudama's wife said softly, 'Krishna was your dearest friend. Go and see him. At least take him a gift.' But Sudama had nothing to give — nothing except a small bundle of poha, flattened rice, tied in a worn cloth. It was all they had.

Sudama walked for many days to Dwarka. At the palace gates he felt shy — his clothes were torn, his feet were dusty, and his gift was so small.

But the moment Krishna heard Sudama had come, he ran — ran! — out of his palace, barefoot, and threw his arms around his old friend. He washed Sudama's feet himself, sat him on his own seat, and they talked and laughed about school days like no time had passed at all.

Then Krishna's eyes fell on the little cloth bundle. 'What have you brought for me, my friend?' Sudama turned red with embarrassment, but Krishna happily untied it and ate the poha with such joy, you would think it was the finest feast in the world.

Sudama went home without ever asking for anything. He could not — he was too happy. But when he reached his village, he stopped in amazement. Where his leaky hut had stood, there was a lovely house, and his children ran out wearing new clothes, well fed and smiling.

Krishna had known everything, and had given everything — without being asked. Because that is what true friendship does.

When Hanuman was a baby, he was already extraordinary. He was the son of the wind god, Vayu, so he could leap and fly before he could even walk properly.

One morning, baby Hanuman woke up very, very hungry. His mother Anjana was away, and there was nothing to eat. He rubbed his eyes, looked out at the sky — and there, rising over the hills, was a big, round, glowing red thing.

'A mango!' thought baby Hanuman. 'The biggest, juiciest mango I have ever seen!'

Whoosh! Up he leapt, higher than the birds, higher than the clouds, straight toward the rising sun, mouth open wide.

Now, the sun is not a mango, and eating it would have left the whole world dark and cold. Indra, the king of the gods, saw the little one flying up and hurled his thunderbolt to stop him.

The thunderbolt struck Hanuman on the chin, and down he tumbled to the earth. His father Vayu, the wind, was so upset that he held his breath — and all the wind in the world stopped. Nothing moved. Nobody could breathe!

The gods all came running. 'Forgive the little one,' they begged. And one by one, they gave baby Hanuman gifts: strength, wisdom, speed, and protection from every weapon, so that no one could ever hurt him again.

Because of the little bump on his chin — hanu means chin — he was named Hanuman. And Nani says that is why Hanuman grew up to be the strongest and wisest of all: because every single god gave him a blessing.

After the great war in Lanka was won, Sita wanted to thank Hanuman for everything he had done. He had leapt across the ocean, found her, and carried Rama's message of hope.

Sita took off her own necklace — a string of shining pearls, the most precious thing she had — and placed it around Hanuman's neck. 'Thank you, dear Hanuman,' she said.

Everyone smiled. But then Hanuman did something very strange. He took one pearl off the necklace, bit it, looked inside it, and threw it away. Then another. Bite, look, throw. Bite, look, throw.

The courtiers whispered, 'Has the monkey gone mad? He is destroying Sita's gift!'

Finally someone asked, 'Hanuman! Why are you breaking the pearls?'

Hanuman answered simply, 'I am looking for Rama and Sita. I keep only what has Rama and Sita inside it. These pearls are beautiful, but they are not inside them — so what use are they to me?'

The courtiers laughed. 'Rama and Sita inside a pearl? Then are they inside you too?'

Hanuman stood up, placed his hands on his chest, and gently pulled it open. And there, inside his heart, sat Rama and Sita, smiling, shining like lamps.

The whole court fell silent. Sita's eyes filled with tears of love. Dadi says that is what devotion means — the people we truly love don't hang around our necks. They live in our hearts.

When Rama's army of monkeys and bears reached the sea, they had a huge problem: Lanka was across the water, and nobody could swim that far. So they began to build a bridge.

The monkeys uprooted whole trees and carried boulders bigger than houses. Splash! Crash! Into the sea they went, and slowly, a bridge of stone began to grow across the waves.

A little squirrel watched from the beach. It wanted to help too. So it rolled in the sand until its fur was full, scampered to the edge of the bridge, and shook itself — pfft! — sprinkling a little dust of sand into the gaps between the stones. Then it ran back for more. Roll, scamper, shake. Roll, scamper, shake.

A big monkey nearly stepped on it. 'Out of the way, little one!' he laughed. 'Can't you see we are doing important work? What can a tiny thing like you possibly add to a bridge like this?'

The little squirrel's whiskers drooped. But just then, a gentle hand lifted it up. It was Rama himself.

Rama stroked the squirrel's back softly with three fingers and said, 'This bridge will stand because of every stone and every grain of sand. No help is too small when it is given with love.'

And where Rama's three fingers had stroked its back, three pale stripes appeared. Dadi says that is why every squirrel in India still carries three stripes down its back — the touch of Rama's fingers, a thank-you that never faded.

In a small hut deep in the forest lived an old woman named Shabari. Long ago, her teacher had told her, 'One day, Rama will come to this forest. Wait for him.' So Shabari waited.

She waited for years and years. Every single day, she swept the path to her hut, so it would be clean if Rama came that day. And every single day, she went into the forest and picked berries for him.

But Shabari wanted to be sure the berries were sweet. So she tasted each one — just a tiny bite — and kept only the sweetest ones in her basket. The sour ones she left behind.

Years passed. Shabari grew old and bent. Still she swept. Still she picked. Still she waited.

Then one day, while searching for Sita, Rama came walking through the forest — and there was Shabari's little hut, and there was Shabari, her eyes shining, her hands trembling, holding out her basket of berries.

Rama's brother Lakshmana was worried. 'Brother, these berries have been tasted. They are not fit to offer a prince.'

But Rama smiled, sat down beside old Shabari, and ate the berries one by one. 'These,' he said, 'are the sweetest berries I have ever eaten.' Because they were not just berries — every single one was full of years of waiting and love.

Nani says God does not look at whether our gift is fancy or follows all the rules. God tastes the love inside it.

Long ago, the gods and the demons decided to work together — just this once — to churn the great ocean of milk, because deep inside it lay amrita, the nectar that makes one live forever.

They used a mountain as the churning rod and the great serpent Vasuki as the rope, and they pulled and pulled, round and round, and the ocean swirled like a giant pot of soup.

Wonderful things rose out of the waves — a wish-giving cow, a flying horse, the goddess Lakshmi herself. But before any of the good things, something terrible came up first: halahala, a poison so strong that its fumes could burn the whole world.

The poison spread like black smoke. The gods ran. The demons ran. Nobody knew what to do. If the poison spread, everything — every person, every animal, every tree — would be destroyed.

Then everyone thought of one name: Shiva. Shiva, who fears nothing. Shiva, who sits calmly in the mountains while the whole world rushes about.

Shiva came, looked at the burning poison, and simply scooped it up and drank it — to save the world.

But Parvati, his wife, was quick. She caught his throat and held it, so the poison could go no further. And there it stayed, in Shiva's throat, burning blue. From that day, Shiva is called Neelkanth — the blue-throated one.

Dadi says Shiva could do it because he is perfectly calm inside. When you are calm, you can hold even the poisonous things — anger, fear, unkind words — without letting them hurt anyone.

High in heaven flowed the river Ganga, and a good king named Bhagiratha prayed for years and years to bring her down to earth, so her holy water could wash away sadness and give peace to his ancestors.

At last Ganga agreed to come down. But there was a problem — a very big problem. Ganga did not trickle. Ganga did not flow gently. Ganga fell from heaven like a million waterfalls at once.

'If she lands on the earth like that,' everyone worried, 'she will smash everything flat! The earth cannot catch her.'

So Bhagiratha prayed to Shiva, the only one strong enough to help. Shiva came and stood on the Himalayan mountains, looked up at the sky, and waited.

Down came Ganga — roaring, foaming, falling like the sky itself was pouring out. And Shiva simply bowed his head, and caught her in his long, tangled hair.

Ganga raged and rushed through the maze of Shiva's locks, but she could not get out. The wild, world-smashing river was lost in his hair, wandering this way and that, growing gentler and gentler.

Then Shiva loosened one little strand of hair, and out flowed Ganga — soft, calm and silvery — down the mountainside, across the plains, giving life to everything she touched.

That is why, in every picture of Shiva, there is a little river flowing from his hair, and the crescent moon above it. Nani says it teaches us: when something wild comes rushing at you, don't fight it — catch it gently, and let it out slowly.

Once there was a demon king named Hiranyakashipu who was so powerful, and so proud, that he ordered everyone in his kingdom: 'Pray to no one but me!'

But his own little son, Prahlad, would not obey. Prahlad loved Vishnu. At school, at play, at dinner — 'Vishnu is everywhere,' he would say, 'in you, in me, in everything.'

The king was furious. He tried everything to make his son stop. He scolded him. He threatened him. He even did terrible, frightening things to him. But Prahlad just closed his eyes, thought of Vishnu, and was not afraid.

One evening the king pointed at a great stone pillar in his palace and shouted, 'You say your Vishnu is everywhere! Is he in THIS pillar?'

Little Prahlad looked at the pillar and said quietly, 'Yes, father. He is in the pillar. He is in the tiniest twig. He is everywhere.'

The king smashed the pillar with his mace — and CRACK! The pillar split open, and out leapt Narasimha, half lion, half man, with a roar that shook the palace.

Now, the king had a magic boon: he could not be killed by man or animal, inside or outside, at day or night, on earth or in sky, by any weapon. But Narasimha was neither man nor animal. He placed the king on his lap — neither earth nor sky — at the doorway — neither inside nor outside — at twilight — neither day nor night — and ended the cruel king's rule with his claws, which are no weapon.

And little Prahlad? Narasimha lifted him gently onto his lap and licked his head like a lioness licking her cub. The fiercest form of God was soft as a mother with the child who had trusted him.

King Bali was a demon king, but he was a good and generous one. Everyone in his kingdom was happy, and he kept a famous promise: whoever came to his door asking for something would never leave empty-handed.

One day, during a great ceremony, a small boy came to the door. He was a little dwarf named Vamana, carrying a tiny umbrella, with gentle, shining eyes. It was Vishnu himself, come in disguise.

'Welcome, little one,' said King Bali warmly. 'Ask for anything — gold, land, elephants, a kingdom!'

The little boy smiled. 'I need very little. Just as much land as I can cover in three steps.'

The king's teacher, Shukracharya, gasped. 'Stop! That is no ordinary boy — that is Vishnu!' But Bali had given his word, and a promise is a promise. 'Granted,' he said.

Then the little boy began to grow. He grew and grew until he was bigger than the mountains, bigger than the sky. With his first step, he covered the whole earth. With his second step, he covered all of heaven. There was nowhere left for a third step.

King Bali understood everything. He bowed low before the great Vishnu and said, 'You promised three steps. Place the third one on my head.'

Vishnu was so moved by Bali's humility — a king who kept his word even when it cost him everything — that he blessed him and made him king of a beautiful world below the earth. And in Kerala, they say Bali comes to visit his people once a year, and that visit is the festival of Onam.

Princess Savitri married a good and gentle prince named Satyavan, even though the wise men said he had only one year to live. She loved him, and that was that.

When the year ended, Satyavan went to the forest to cut wood, with Savitri beside him. Under a great tree, he suddenly grew tired, laid his head in her lap — and breathed his last.

Then Savitri saw a dark and shining figure standing before her: Yama, the god of death himself, come to take Satyavan's soul. Yama tied the soul with his noose and began to walk away.

But Savitri followed him. Yama walked and walked, and still she followed. 'Go back, Savitri,' said Yama. 'No one follows me.'

'Where my husband goes, I go,' said Savitri. And she spoke so wisely — about goodness, about duty, about love — that Yama was amazed. 'You are remarkable,' he said. 'Ask for anything — except his life.'

Savitri asked that her blind father-in-law see again. Granted. She walked on, still talking wisely. 'Ask again,' said Yama. She asked that her father have many sons. Granted. And still she followed, and Yama, pleased, said, 'Ask once more — anything but his life.'

Then Savitri smiled and said, 'Grant that I may have many children — with Satyavan as their father.'

Yama stopped. He had promised. And a god's promise cannot be broken — even by the god of death. He laughed at her cleverness, and gave Satyavan back his life. Savitri walked home with her husband, and they lived long and happily.

Goddess Saraswati, who gives us learning, music and wisdom, rides upon a beautiful white swan — a hamsa. Have you ever wondered why a swan?

Nani says the swan has a very special gift. If you put before it a bowl of milk mixed with water, the swan can drink only the milk and leave the water behind. Sip by sip, it separates the good from the not-good.

That is why Saraswati chose it. Because learning is not just about knowing many things — it is about knowing which things are worth keeping.

Every day we hear so much: kind words and unkind ones, true things and made-up ones, good ideas and silly ones. The world is one big bowl of milk and water, all mixed together.

Saraswati's swan reminds us: be like the hamsa. Take in the milk — the true, the kind, the useful — and leave the water behind.

That is also why children pray to Saraswati before they start school, and why on Vasant Panchami, little ones write their very first letters before her. She is the mother of all learning, and her swan is the very first lesson.

On Diwali night, when all the lamps are lit, Nani leans close and whispers: 'Tonight, Goddess Lakshmi walks through the world, from house to house.'

Lakshmi is the goddess of wealth and good fortune — not just money, but everything that makes a home rich: food, health, laughter, and love.

But Lakshmi is particular about where she stays. She peeks into every doorway, and she asks herself three questions. Is this home clean? Is it bright? And most importantly — are the people in it kind to one another?

If the floor is swept, the lamps are glowing, and the family speaks gently and shares what they have, Lakshmi smiles and steps inside — and she stays the whole year through.

But if a home is messy and dark, and the people inside quarrel and hoard and are unkind, Lakshmi walks quietly past.

That is why, before Diwali, the whole family cleans the house together — sweeping corners, washing curtains, throwing out broken things. That is why we light diyas in every window and draw rangoli at the door, like a welcome mat made of colours.

And that is why, Nani says, the real cleaning is of the heart. A tidy house with angry voices will not keep Lakshmi. But even a small, simple home, full of love, is her favourite place in the world.

Long ago there lived a little prince named Dhruv, just five years old. His father, the king, had two queens — and the second queen did not love Dhruv at all.

One day, Dhruv saw his little brother sitting on their father's lap, and he ran to climb up too. But the second queen stopped him sharply. 'You cannot sit on the king's lap. If you want such a place, go pray to God and be born worthy of it.'

Dhruv's eyes filled with tears. He ran to his own mother, who held him close and said softly, 'My child, there is one lap that is open to everyone. Go to the forest and pray to Vishnu.'

So little five-year-old Dhruv walked into the deep forest, all alone. He sat down under a tree, closed his eyes, and thought of Vishnu with his whole heart. He forgot food. He forgot sleep. He forgot everything except his prayer.

The forest was full of dangers — wild animals, storms, darkness. But Dhruv was not afraid. His love was bigger than his fear.

Vishnu saw the little boy's heart shining in the dark forest like a lamp, and he came to him. 'Dear Dhruv,' he said, 'your love is so steady that you shall have the steadiest place in all creation.'

And Vishnu placed Dhruv in the sky as the Pole Star — Dhruv Tara — the one star that never moves, while all the other stars wheel around it. Sailors and travellers have used it to find their way home for thousands of years.

Dadi says whenever you feel small or pushed away, look for the one still star in the night sky, and remember the five-year-old who never gave up.