Experiencing the Ramayana: A Blind Man’s Perspective

 First Prize : Avichal Bhatnagar

It was the final day of my penance and my heart was throbbing with excitement. For the past three years, I had maintained strict spiritual discipline — cooking my own food and eating one meal a day, sleeping on the floor in my room, focusing on chanting mantras on a rosary.

It was during a pilgrimage to Varanasi three years ago that I had come in contact with a highly learned ascetic by sheer luck. Helater became my Guru. On that first encounter, I had expressed to him my desire to meet Lord Rama, and he had explained to me the procedure and rules of the penance I would have to undergo to fulfil my desire. Now, as I completed the final round on the rosary, I ffelt both trepidation and joy in equal measure. Would my dream of meeting the Lord come true, or would a slight mistake, perhaps committed unknowingly under the influence of Kaliyuga, ruin the hard work of the past years?

However, as soon as I touched the meru of the rosary to my forehead, I started experiencing an ecstasy I had never felt before. The entire room was filled with the enchanting smell of sandalwood and flowers, and the sounds of a conch shell and various musical instruments created a symphony I had never heard before. Amidst all this, “I am happy with your penance, tell me, what boon do you wish to seek?” it said.

For a moment, I was rendered speechless. I did not know how to react. More than anything else, I was not certain whether the Lord had actually come to meet me or my mind was playing tricks on me.

“O Bhagwan, ” I said in a shaky voice.

“Yes, my dear devotee, I have come all the way from Saket Loka to meet you. You have won my heart with your infinite devotion, a devotion that is becoming a rarity in today’s day and age, a devotion filled with innocence, and totally untouched by materialism, ” Rama said in a tender voice.

His words brought tears to my eyes, and I asked him, “Lord, if you permit me, may I feel you by touch?”

“Of course, why not?” He replied in the same soothing voice, then asked after a pause, “But, my dear, don’t you feel me in each and every cell of your body? Are you and I really different?”

“I understand, my Lord, that at the level of consciousness you and I belong to the same source, but still, just so I can treasure this moment, may I touch you physically?”

“Here we go,” Lord Rama said and helped me up to my feet by holding my hands. He guided me as I felt his entire body, from head to toe. His hair was long and soft to the touch. His crown felt heavy, with different gems covering it in entirety. 

His face felt soft and supple. His ears had earrings that were so heavy they had to be made of solid gold. His nose pin was similarly solid, and his lips were soft, as if someone regularly nourished them with butter or ghee.

His hands were tender, and once I touched his feet I realized that when various saints and sages described them as lotus feet they were not indulging in hyperbole at all. His dhoti and uttariya felt silky and smelled of sandalwood. It struck me then that his hands were empty. “My Lord, aren’t you carrying a bow?”

“No, my dear devotee, I came to meet you bound by your infinite love, not as a warrior. Hence, you will experience me in my ordinary form,” he replied in the same melodious voice.

My eyes started brimming again with tears, and I lost myself completely in contemplating what the Holy Lord had just said.

“Tell me, dear, what boon do you want?” the Lord’s voice brought me back to the present moment.

“My Lord, having experienced you, I have no more materialistic desires remaining. However, I will consider myself really blessed if you could help me, a blind person, experience through your Yog Maya some glimpses of the Ramayana,” I replied.

“Tatha Astu,” the Lord said.

Suddenly, I felt my entire body vibrating and being transported through the air. In a short while,

my feet touched solid ground, and beneath my slippers I could feel the softness of grass. The surroundings were filled with sounds of different birds, insects and animals. Yet, the place exuded a distinct feeling of peace and tranquility. I breathed in the scent of wet earth and forest flowers.

“We are now in the Dandakaranya forest, where I will be spending my exile with Sita and Laxmana.” The Lord’s voice reached me from my left. “Now, you can touch the bow that I am carrying in my hands,” the Lord continued. I eagerly turned towards my left and touched the heavy metallic bow. I sensed Him lifting the bow – and thwang – He fired an arrow, whichbrushed past me, causing a rustling sound in the grass.

Before I could ask about it, the Lord asked, “Shall we proceed now?”.

“Sure, my Lord,” I replied.

“Hold this, and start walking ahead. I shall walk beside you,” He said. Then he placed something in my hands, which I realized from touching it was something like my white cane, though made of many metallic pieces.

“This is your white cane, made from the arrows of my bow,” the Lord said.

“Lord, may I hold your hand as I walk?” I asked.

“Walk straight, my dear, and I shall walk with you,” He replied in the same tender voice. Not really sure how to walk on an unknown path without any guidance, I gripped the cane and took a few tentative steps forward. To my utter surprise, I found a clear pathway laid out between the trees, wide enough for two people to walk along. I realized what the Lord had done a few moments before. He had fired the arrow to create a path for me, his devotee, so that I could walk independently and yet enjoy the company of the Lord of the three worlds. His kindness and compassion moistened my eyes once again.

After walking for approximately five to ten minutes, during which time the Lord explained the different flora and fauna of the forest, we reached a place that felt like a clearing, with no trees on either side, and my cane brushed against what seemed to be a wooden structure. “Welcome to Rama’s hut.” The Lord said in a hospitable voice. “Sita, Laxmana,’ he called out, ‘come and meet our guest.”

Soon, I heard the footsteps of a person walking in wooden slippers and the jingling of metallic ornaments, indicating the arrival of Mother Sita and Laxmana.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Sita and Laxmana said in unison. Following their voices, I bowed down and touched their feet.

Soon, I was sitting comfortably on a grass mat on the mud floor, which had the pleasant odour of cow dung, indicating its recent application.

While Rama and Laxmana had gone out to collect ingredients for a meal, I had the good fortune of having a conversation with Mother Sita. I recited for her couplets from the Ram CharitaManas, which I remembered by heart. She sounded pleased and blessed me with attainment of infinite spiritual treasures.

Once Rama and Laxmana returned, Sita rustled up a quick dish on the chulha outside the hut, and we sat down to eat. Laxmana led me by the hand to a grass mat on the floor. As I sat, I sensedRama and Laxmana settle down on either side of me. I reached out to adjust the banana leaf kept before my seat so I could reach it easily. The food was wild berries and fruits, and the wild herbs and roots that Mother Sita had cooked with love and affection.The aroma of the food was tantalizing, and when I took the first bite I felt a heavenly joy.

I asked for more, and Mother Sita served me a large portion with a lot of love.

Satiated, I lay down on the floor and soon fell asleep. When I awoke for a few moments from sleep, I heard Rama, Laxmana and Mother Sita conversing softly.

“O Lord, the food was very less for you, why did you not bring more?” Sita asked.

“My beloved, if the food was less for me, it was lesser for you and Laxmana, as you ate last, and Laxmana pretended not to be too hungry. He gave a portion of his meal to me.” Then he continued, “But it doesn’t matter; I am fully satiated and satisfied, if my devotee is satiated and satisfied.”

This made me feel ashamed of myself. I was so occupied in gobbling down the heavenly food that I had not bothered to think about the portions for the other three.

The next morning, Mother Sita held my hand and brought me outside the hut, whispering in my ear that she wanted to reveal a miracle that one had to experience to believe. ‘Here is Rama, comfortably taking a nap under the sun,’ she said. ‘Reach out and you will feel how gently the snakes cover his body withtheir hoods and how the scorpions caress it with their stings.’ I was astounded at the thought of this, but Mother Sita described the scene to me as though it was something that occurred every day. At first, I was too scared to touch the creatures, but when the all-loving mother assured me that no harm would come to me, I gingerly extended my hands and touched both creatures for the first time. These beings had been a source of constant fear for me, throughout my life, and it gave me goosebumps to feel them beneath my fingers.

Even as I turned to Mother Sita to express my gratitude for this extraordinary experience. I felt my body vibrate again, and this time the place I was transported to was covered with sand. I staggered forward as the sand shifted beneath my feet. Then thesound of the sea reached my ears. I was standing on a beach. The crashing of waves was soon joined by a medley of other sounds, including the calls of monkeys and growls of bears.

“Who is he, and what is he doing here?” a voice sounding half human and half bear-like asked.

“He is our guest, o Jambawanta,” I heard the Lord reply.

“How kind you are, my Lord. You are enabling a visually impaired person to experience scenes from your life. Only you, you alone, can do it,” said another voice, heavy with emotion.

“I am always bound by the love of my devotees, O Hanuman. I can do anything for them,” said Rama.

The Lord introduced me to all the commanders in His army – from the mighty bear Jambawanta to Hanuman, and from Nal and Neel to Sugreev and Angad. They greeted me like I was one of their own. It was a delight to ride on Jambawanta’s back, and to be air-lifted from one part of the beach to another by Hanuman on his shoulders.

From their conversation I gathered that they were busy in constructing the Rama Setu, a bridge over the sea to travel to Lanka. I requested them to allow me to contribute to their labour. “When a squirrel can contribute, why can’t I?” I said.

Soon, I was counting the stones that each monkey in Sugreev’s army had to take from the beach to the sea. When the bridge wasready, Rama, greatly pleased with my service, fired another arrow and then took my hand to make me touch something.

My joy knew no bounds when I felt the metallic plate at the entrance the bridge as it had “Sri Rama Setu” embossed on it in Braille.

The judges said they could imagine the story in their minds as they read.

A Talking Sandesh

Second Prize : Aryaman Singh 

Kolkata is many things—the one Indian city where trams still groan like tired elephants, where hand-pulled rickshaws creak like old harmoniums, and where markets sound like family quarrels that never cease to stop. But, above all, it is a city where sweets are not just food but a religion. Rasgullas bob in syrupy silence, jalebis hiss in hot oil and laddoos thump like dignified elders settling into chairs. Yet, in this sugary kingdom, one sweet rules all the hearts: the sandesh.

And, in this tale, a certain sandesh did more than melt on tongues—it talked.

Sneha Chakraborti was born in 1999, on a humid July evening. The ceiling fan rattled as if it too had laboured through the delivery. Nurses bustled about, relatives muttered, and someone loudly demanded tea. Her parents, however, sat in silence. Their daughter was blind. For them, joy came wrapped with fear.

“Society is cruel,” whispered her mother, recalling how a neighbour’s blind daughter had once been mocked so mercilessly that she stopped stepping outside the house.

But, even as a baby, Sneha, had a way of rebelling. When relatives cooed sadly at her—“Oh, what a tragedy!”—Sneha responded with a giggle so loud it rattled spoons in cups. It was as if the child was declaring: “I can’t hear your pity without laughing at it!”

Sneha explored her world through sound, touch and taste. She knew her father’s return by the squeak of his shoes, the neighbourhood gossip by the sizzling of pakoras drifting from balconies, and her textbooks through the raised bumps of Braille or the robotic voice of NVDA.

At playschool, other children cried on their first day. Sneha didn’t. She marched toward the clang of the bell, sat down, and demanded her teacher hand her biscuits.

By the time she was seven, her laughter was legend. If someone tripped and banged into a desk, you laughed because Sneha had laughed first. If the teacher scolded you, you cried later—because Sneha’s giggle had turned it into a comedy show. She may not have been fearless, but she was stubbornly herself. And that made all the difference.

One Saturday, Sneha and her friends headed to the market. Kolkata markets are less “shops” and more “battlegrounds”.Vendors bellowed out prices as if they were hurling insults. Chickens flapped about, overloaded vans honked, and a goat chewed noisily on a newspaper. Sneha’s friends guided her hands along rough walls, jangling trinkets, and cool brass pots. That was until they reached Subodh Dutta’s Sweet Shop.

The air was thick with cardamom, caramelized sugar, and smugness. Subodh Babu, a man whose belly jiggled like a drum, thundered in flawless Bengali: “My sandesh is the best in the entire city!”

Sneha reached out and touched a piece. It was slightly sticky, faintly warm, and soft against her fingers. She raised it to her lips when suddenly she heard a tiny voice squeak, “Wait! Don’t eat me!”

Sneha immediately relayed this to her friends.  They gasped, then burst into laughter. “What are you saying, Sneha? Are you alright? How would a sweet talk?”

But Sneha knew the truth: the sandesh had spoken. She asked Subodh Dutta to pack it for her and told her still-giggling friends she would eat it later.

Back home that night, Sneha tucked the sweet box in her cupboard, tracing the wooden edges carefully to find a safe corner. At midnight, when the city grew quiet, she heard a gentle rustle and found her way to her cupboard. As she opened the box, the sweet whispered again: “Good evening, Miss Chakraborti. I am a Sandesh of ancient lineage. My ancestors were tasted by Tagore, they debated with Vivekananda and were nearly smuggled away by the British. I can share riddles, stories, jokes—if you don’t eat me first.”

Laughing with delight, Sneha fell back on her bed, making her pillow bounce. She had found not just a delicious food item, but a friend. Each night, the sandesh filled her ears with tales as sweet as honey and quips as sharp as ginger. In the sandesh’s company, she grew sharper, wittier, more confident.The girl and the sweet became a team—one blind, the otheredible.

Soon, Sneha’s teachers noticed the change. She answered quickly, argued persuasively, and sometimes made puns so sugary they all got headaches.

One day, just about two months after she had brought the sandesh home, Ms. Neha Dutta, her SST teacher, asked her:“Sneha, how do you know so much more now?”

Sneha whispered with mischief: “Ma’am, a sweet is helping me.”

The class exploded in laughter—until Sneha placed the sandesh on her desk. Its wrapper rustled, releasing a burst of caramel-cardamom aroma. Then, in a cheerful sugary tone, it chirped: “Hello, everyone!”

Silence. Chalk clattered onto the floor. Someone dropped their pencil box with a bang.

The Sandesh continued: “Ask me anything—history, math, or cricket scores. But don’t ask for dieting tips. please, I earnestly request you all.”

The sweet had answered with clarity sharper than tamarind. The students leaned forward, desks squeaking under their elbows, breath held as if tasting each word. Even Ms. Dutta was too stunned to scold anyone. From that day, lessons in the class were never the same.

But children are children. Soon, jealousy bubbled among them.

One morning, Kanchan, the cleverest (and nosiest) girl in the class, and good friend of Sneha, cornered her. “Tell me where you got that sweet from… I’ll carry your bag, do your homework just say the shop’s name!”

Sneha smirked. “Tell her yourself,” she said to the sandesh.

The sandesh coughed dramatically, then declared: “I was born in a forest, baked on Mars, tested on Saturn, and delivered by a flying elephant. If you want me, Kanchan, bring a horse that swims and sugar enough to drown the Howrah Bridge. Do you have all that?”

The classroom erupted in squeals and desk-banging laughter. Kanchan sulked, muttering revenge.

Meanwhile, in Subodh Babu’s shop, trouble brewed. His trays of sweets had started humming, giggling, and chanting slogans.

“Come quick! My sweets are unionizing!” he said to the boys who worked at the sweet shop with him and helped him deliver his orders to the customers.

Soon enough, magical desserts flooded Sneha’s school.Jalebis crooned lullabies. Laddoos thundered out Rabindranath’s poems, off-key but passionate. Gulab jamuns posed math riddles between slurps of rosewater. Pedas clung to palms of the students and the teachers, refusing to let go like clingy cousins. The whole building reeked of sugar and ghee. Students howled with laughter, licking their sticky fingers. Even Principal Narendra Bose couldn’t resist sneaking a peda into his pocket during the assembly each morning. “Education has never been so … delicious,” he murmured.

The news of the talking sweets spread through the entire cityfaster than jalebis frying in oil. Parents crowded outside the school campus, demanding talking sweets for their children to improve their academic scores. Journalists arrived, mikes and cameras ready and switched on, only to get distracted by a rasgulla giving live cricket commentary.

The Education Minister himself visited the school and the sweet shop. After one laddoo recited the Preamble flawlessly, he announced: “From today, sweets will be a part of the syllabus!”

Chaos followed. Sweet shops became shrines. Subodh Babu was hailed as “Bengal’s Willy Wonka”, though he insisted: “I’m more of a Rosogolla Rishi.” Prices soared—one laddoonow cost more than a gold chain.

Sneha remained calm. After all, she had been the first to hear the sandesh’s voice.

But one morning, the sweets turned restless.

“We’re tired of being eaten!” bellowed a jalebi in a bass so deep the windows rattled.

“Yes!” squeaked a rasgulla. “We demand rights! A Sweet Constitution!”

They stomped across desks with syrupy thuds, leaving trails of stickiness like banners of rebellion. Students cheered, teachers shrieked, and the principal fainted when a pedaplopped into his chair.

Only Sneha stayed calm. She cupped her sandesh gently, feeling its soft form. “Friends,” she announced, “sweets are meant to be eaten. But in being eaten, you live on in us. You give us delight, energy, memory. Isn’t that better than going stale in a tin?”

The sweets fell silent. Even the laddoo stopped itself in the middle of quoting Shakespeare. Finally, the sandesh sighed:“She’s right. Our destiny is to sweeten life, not to sour it.”

The rebellion melted away into applause. Children ate carefully, teachers chuckled nervously, and the sweets accepted their fate with pride.

Years later, people still whispered about the time Kolkata’s sweets spoke. Some said it was magic, others thought it was a well-thought-out prank. But everyone agreed: learning had never been sweeter.

For Sneha, though, the memory was much more. The sandeshhad been her first friend in the classroom, the one that had given her courage to answer without fear and the confidence to lead without hesitation. Because of that little sweet, she had discovered her voice.

As she grew into a confident young woman, classmates who once pitied her now respected her. Teachers who once doubted her abilities came to trust her leadership. And whenever she spoke to children with the same challenges she had once faced, she would smile and say: “Sometimes, sweetness itself can teach you that you are stronger than bitterness ever claimed.”

And if you ever go to Subodh Dutta’s shop at night, between the hum of the refrigerator and the rustle of wrappers, you might just hear a tiny voice whisper: “Hello… ready to learn and grow into a confident version of yourself? Let me show you how!”

The Judges loved the idea of a talking mithai [dessert]. 

HaperCollins has published the contest and winning stories here: https://l1nq.com/dVu7e 

Both stories have been edited by Poulomi Chatterjee from HarperCollins India. [Thank you]. She says she enjoyed reading and editing the winning stories. 

We are grateful to all participants, Team - HarperCollins India, Judges Dr. Nikita Raut & Sameer Latey, and those who helped us share the idea. 

THANK YOU!

Note from Anita Iyer Narayan:

It is heartening to see the enthusiasm to participate in the contest and I congratulate all participants,  especially the winners! 

We must encourage imaginative /creative writing for childrfen in schools, and allow them the freedom to share their flights of fantasy, wihtout influencing their imagination with our own inputs. Readiscovery is an attempt to understand the world as experienced by people who cannot see, using other senses to their advantage, and weaving stories which are engaging and crisp. 

We are not looking only for biographies where the journey of a person with blindness is documented. While these are welcome too, they must be presented  with all the elements of a creative/imaginative story. 

Thank you all once again for your support and validation of my idea of Readiscovery. We look forward to Raadiscovery '26. 

Stories worthy of Special Mention [unedited]

The Only True Essay by Geethika Modeti

The year was 2088. Vizag,now called Nonas Vizag, had become a city of speed and technology. Roads moved like conveyor belts, drones delivered breakfast and books, and even stray dogs had smart collars translating barks into Telugu and English. Schools were no different. Children carried no heavy bags, wrote with styluses, and completed homework in minutes with AI tutors. Life was convenient, predictable, and fast.

But in this city, at Vizag International School, something was about to happen that

Reminded everyone – students, parents, and teacher alike – that some things no machine could ever create.

The Announcement

One Monday morning, the principal, a tall man with sharp grey eyes, stood in the assembly hall. His voice boomed across robotic speakers.

“Attention, students of sixth to tenth grade! This Friday, we will conduct an Essay Writing  Competition. Topic: Friend. Parents will be invited. Prizes will be announced in the conference hall. I expect honesty, emotion, and originality!”

Children cheered – but most were already thinking shortcuts.

“Alexa, write my essay.”

“ChatGPT, make it emotional.”

“Siri, add humor and 500 words.”

Within seconds, tablets glowed with perfect paragraphs. Smiles spread. Victory felt Certain.

All- except one boy

Adhitya and Harsha

Adhitya, in seventh grade, sat quietly, staring at the rain outside. He didn’t have parents. His mother had died when he was very small. His father remarried, and the new family never welcomed him fully.

One evening, after school, adhitya knocked on his best friend Harsha’s door.

“Harsha… can I stay with you? I don’t feel at home anymore,” he whispered.

Harsha didn’t hesitate. “Of course! You’re already my brother. Come in.”

He led Adhitya to his parents. “Amma, Nanna, this is my brother now. He will stay

with us.”

Harsha’s mother hugged him tightly. “From today, I have two sons.”

His father nodded. “ Our house is big enough. And so are our hearts.”

From that day, Adhitya became part of Harsha’s family. They ate together, studied together, and played together. They argued about the cricket, swapped lunch boxes, and laughed at silly things. Others teased them, “Are you twins?” But Adhitya knew the truth: Harsha was more than a friend-he was family.

Seventh Standard Life

At school, the boys were inseparable. They shared books, pens, and jokes. During

Lunch, Adhitya loved tamarind rice from harsha’s mother, while Harsha loved lemon rice from Adhitya’s aunt. They argued, “Mine is better!” and then ate both.

During games, Harsha ran faster, while Adhitya excelled in kabaddi. They fought during cricket, only to laugh the next day. Their friendship was simple, pure, and real.

The Essay

When the competition was announced, Harsha immediately tapped his tablet. “Write my essay. Make it perfect.”

Three seconds later, ten polished paragraphs appeared. Harsha smiled

confidently.

Adhitya, however, pulled out an old notebook.

“Why not use AI?” Harsha asked.

“ I want to be mine,” Adhitya replied.

“But AI writes better English than us.”

“ Maybe, But AI doesn’t know my heart.”

 Harsha shook his head. “Mad-but the good kind of mad.”

That night, Adhitya wrote his essay by hand:

“What is a Best Friend?”

“A best friend is not just someone who plays with you. A best friend becomes your family when you have none.

A friend may laugh with you, but a best friend will cry with you. A friend may share notes, but a best friend shares parents, love, and memories.

When my mother left, I thought I was alone. When my father remarried, I thought my story was over. But then Harsha came. He gave his room, his food, his mother’s love and his father’s care.

AI can write essays, but it cannot feel a child’s loneliness. AI cannot laugh with you on a broken cricket bat. AI cannot comfort you on a rainy night.

B.E.S.T.F.R.I.E.N.D-this is what my best friend means to me:

B – Brave enough to stand by you

E – Empathy in every action

S – Sharing not just things, but feelings

T – Trust you with your heart

F – Forgives mistakes

R – Remembers every small thing

I – Inspires you to be better

E – Encourages you when afraid

N – Never abandons you

D – Does not judge, only supports

So when I say Harsha is my best friend, I don’t mean a classmate. I mean the reason I am still standing in this world.”

Conference Hall

Friday arrived. The conference hall was dazzling. Walls of interactive LED shimmered with calming ocean waves. The ceiling projected a moving sky. Chairs adjusted automatically. Robotic servers floated, offering lemonade and samosas. Parents arrived, holding AI glasses, watches, and phones whispering reminders.

The principal addressed the hall. “Parents, place all AI devices on the stage. Students, no gadgets allowed.”

The hall froze. Slowly, devices were placed.

 Parents’ Ai Comedy

To break tension, the principal asked, “Parents, how much do you depend on AI?”

Mrs. Sharma laughed. “AI writes my son’s essays, reminds me to cook, even tells my husband what to wear. Yesterday, AI told him to wear shorts to a wedding!”

Everyone laughed.

Mr. Rao added, “AI is my second brain. It writes office mails, birthday poems… Once it sent a poem to my boss instead of my wife!”

Another mother said, “I ask AI for gossip. Once, It sent motivational quotes to my neighbor. She thought I was inspiring her!”

Grandfather said, “AI reminds me to take BP tablets. It even says ‘good night.’ Honestly, it feels like my second wife!”

Grandmother shyly added, “I asked AI for a bedtime story… it played rock music instead. My grandson danced instead of sleeping!”

Children laughed uncontrollably, parents blushed.

 Suspense and Adhitya’s Speech

Finally, essays were read. AI-generated essays were neat, perfect-but lifeless.

Then came Adhitya’s. The principal read aloud the line:

“…he gave me his room, his food, his parents’love, and his heart.”

The hall was silent. Mothers dabbed tears. Fathers shifted uneasily.

One teacher whispered, “This is too emotional… maybe AI wrote it?”

The principal looked at Adhitya. “Prove it. Speak your essay aloud. Without reading. Every word.”

Adhitya closed his eyes. His lips trembled. Then he spoke:

“A best friend is someone who becomes your family when you have none…           A friend laughs, but a best friend cries with you… AI cannot comfort you on a rainy night… AI cannot hug… only humans can…”

He spoke of his mother, loss, Harsha, and the difference between a friend and a best friend.

The hall was silent, heavy with emotion. Parents cried openly. Students stared. Harsha’s mother hugged him. The principal’s eyes glistened.

 The True Test

The principal then said, “Others students, if you wrote your essay, speak it now-without reading.”

Silence.

One boy fiddled with his smart watch, A girl peeked at her AI glasses-but they had been confiscated. No one spoke. AI could give perfect words but only humans can give heart.

The principal’s voice rang clear: “see? AI can give words, but only humans can give meaning. Adhitya’s essay lives in him. Not in a machine.”

 Parent’s Confessions and Comedy

Parents laughed, admitting dependence:

“I ask AI how to scold my children. Yesterday, it told me to shout in Shakespearean English. My son laughed instead!”

“I asked AI to pray for me… it played cricket commentary!”

“I asked AI to sing a lullaby… it played rock music!”

Children clapped, laughed at parents’AI dependency.

 Prize and Realization

 The principal handed Adhitya the golden trophy. “Child, you did not just win. You reminded everyone what it means to be human.”

Adhitya placed the trophy in Harsha’s hands. “This is ours, without you my essay means nothing.” Harsha hugged him. “You showed everyone friendship is written by heart, not machine.”

 Moral

AI can write words, but only humans can live them.

AI can copy emotions, but only humans can feel them.

AI can say ‘good night,’ but inly humans can hug.

Friendship, honesty, and love are essays written in the heart. Technology may assist, but it cannot replace human emotion.   

*****

The Whispers of Mannmaani: A Song Beyond Sight: Poornima Thoutam 

Mannmaani was a little girl who loved to laugh, run, and dream. She was born just like other children, but when she reached second class, something strange began to happen. The letters on the blackboard blurred. The sun looked             dull. Colors faded away like someone was slowly erasing them from her eyes. One morning, she woke up and realized — the world she knew had gone dark. She had lost her sight.

At first, she thought it was a nightmare. She touched her mother’s face but could only feel the warmth, not the smile. She went to school, but the books looked like closed doors. Children played, but she sat alone, silent. At night, she whispered into her pillow, “Why me? Am I broken? Will I ever live again?” The room was quiet, but she thought she heard something faint… like a whisper: “You are not broken. You are chosen.”

Her parents gave her a cane to walk. She hated it in the beginning. It made her feel different, weak. But slowly, she noticed something strange. When she tapped it on the ground — tak… tak… tak — it sounded like a rhythm. One day she giggled and whispered, “Are you alive, little stick?” And the cane seemed to reply, “Not a stick… your friend. I’ll take you to places even eyes can’t go.” From then, her cane became her best friend. She began to imagine it as a magician, tapping open doors of mystery. Soon the sound tak-tak-tak was no longer shameful. It was music.

One rainy evening, Mannmaani went to the library. She loved it there because, even if she couldn’t see, she could touch Braille books or listen to audiobooks. That day, as she tapped inside, she heard something unusual. The shelves creaked, the wind whispered, and suddenly, a book fell down on its own. “Who’s there?” she asked nervously. A faint voice answered, “We are. The stories. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Her heart raced. She bent, picked up the book, and touched the Braille dots. Strangely, they felt warm, like they were alive. “Read me,” the book whispered. As she traced the dots, visions filled her soul. She saw Benny Prasad, the man with damaged lungs, playing guitar around the world. She heard Nick Vujicic, born without arms and legs, encouraging millions with his smile. She walked with Abraham Lincoln, who failed many times but still became president. She stood beside Edison, who failed a thousand times before the bulb shone. She felt Sundar Singh’s bare feet in the snow, and listened to Bakht Singh’s bold truth. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m not alone,” she whispered. The book replied softly, “No, Mannmaani. You are part of us. Your story too will shine.”

The next day, Mannmaani walked with her cane in the street. People stared, but she smiled. A little boy asked, “Why do you always carry that stick?” She laughed, “This is not a stick, silly. It’s my magic wand. It whispers secrets of the world.” The boy’s eyes went wide. Soon, children followed her, listening to her cane’s “whispers.” What once felt like her weakness had now become her wonder.

But at night, doubts still haunted her. “What if I fail? What if I never matter?” That’s when the whispers came again, louder now. “If Benny can, you can. If Nick can, you can. If Lincoln can, you can. If Edison can, you can. If Sundar Singh can, you can. If Bakht Singh can, you can.” Her tears dried. She whispered back, “Yes… if they can, I can too.”

Mannmaani started writing. She couldn’t see the paper, but she used Braille, voice recorders, and her heart. Her words were simple, but they carried fire. When she spoke in class, people listened. When she told her stories, children clapped. When she sang softly, even elders wiped tears. Her cane was no longer just wood. It was a pen. Her whispers were no longer silence. They were songs. Her imagination was no longer locked. It was wings. Slowly, people began calling her “the girl with the whispering cane.”

One night, under the stars, she prayed, “My story… will it matter after me?” The wind answered gently, “Your whispers will not end. They will become a song.” And so it happened. Her cane’s rhythm, her library’s whispers, her tears, her laughter — all melted into a melody. It was not an ordinary song. It was made of courage, hope, and faith. She sang, and the world listened. Children in villages sang it. Blind kids found strength. Lonely men smiled. Broken women stood tall. The song flew across countries, without radio, without mic — only through hearts.

They called it “The Song of Mannmaani.” A song born not of sight, but of vision. A song born not of strength, but of soul.

Years later, when people sit quietly, feeling hopeless, they sometimes hear it… a faint whisper: “Don’t give up. Live by your heart. Be Mannmaani.” And suddenly, courage rises again. Because Mannmaani did what no one ever thought possible: she turned her whispers into a song that inspires generations forever.

“Sight may end where darkness starts,

but vision lives in fearless hearts.

Whispers grow, they take their flight…

and turn to songs that light the night.”

Vision starts where sight ends,

Hope knocks when storm locks,

Light talks when night hits,

Fear stucks when faith walks.

Everything shifts when might lifts,

When people think knowledge links,

Finally clock ticks and my life rocks.

Babies cry and birds fly,

But my story of whispers will never die.”\\

-Mannmaani--

Please feel free to use Google Translate, but not ChatGpt/A I. All entries will be put through online detectors. Plagiarised and A.I./Chatgpt generated stories will be eliminated. This contest is meant to encourage better imaginative writing. 

Read about our earlier contests here: https://www.ekansh.org/our-work/readiscovery-ii-stories/readiscovery-the-contest

Prizes

First Prize Rupees 10,000

Second Prize: Rupees 7500/-

Winning entries will be published on EKansh Trust and HarperCollins websites and SM pages.

*In the unlikely event that no story makes the mark, no award will be given.

Kindly send in your own work in order to maintain the purpose and credibility of this contest. 

We are informed that this is a one of its kind contest in the world. We hope that you will all continue to make this effort an impactful success! Thank you. 

BEST OF LUCK!