"The Weight of a Stone"

"The Weight of a Stone"

In a small village nestled between rolling hills and dense forests lived a boy named Arjun. He was known for being clever, but he was also quick to anger. A single word could spark his fury, and once angry, he often said things he didn’t mean—sharp words that left wounds deeper than cuts.

One day, after a heated argument with his younger brother over something trivial, Arjun stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He sat beneath an old banyan tree outside the village, kicking rocks and muttering under his breath.

The village elder, a quiet man named Datu, happened to pass by.

“You look troubled,” Datu said gently.

“It’s my brother,” Arjun replied. “He’s so annoying. I lost my temper.”

“And what did you say to him?” the old man asked.

Arjun hesitated. “I told him he was useless. That I wished he wasn’t my brother.”

Datu nodded, then sat beside the boy. He picked up a small stone from the ground and handed it to him.

“Carry this with you,” Datu said. “Every time you say something in anger, pick up another stone. Put them all in a bag. Carry that bag with you everywhere—for a week.”

Arjun was confused, but he respected Datu, so he agreed.

That night, as his father asked about his day, Arjun snapped again—annoyed at the question. He picked up another stone. Then another the next morning, after scolding a neighbor’s dog for barking. By the third day, the bag was half full. His shoulders ached. The weight was constant. Relentless.

By the seventh day, Arjun was exhausted. Every step felt harder. Even his voice softened—he didn’t want to say anything that might earn him another stone.

Datu met him again by the banyan tree.

“You look tired,” the elder said.

“I am,” Arjun replied. “This bag is so heavy.”

“Let’s sit.” Datu took the bag and opened it. “Each stone,” he said, “is a word spoken in anger. Small on their own, but together? A burden. Now tell me—can you take them back?”

“No,” Arjun admitted. “They’ve already been said.”

Datu nodded. “That’s the lesson. Words may be small, but their weight lingers. You can’t un-say them. And often, others carry them long after you’ve forgotten.”

Arjun lowered his head. “I didn’t mean the things I said. Especially to my brother.”

“Then tell him that,” Datu said. “And choose better words next time. Your voice can wound, or it can heal. The choice is always yours.”

That evening, Arjun returned home. He found his brother sitting quietly, playing with a toy they once shared. Arjun sat beside him, awkward and unsure.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”

His brother looked up. “You were really mean.”

“I know,” Arjun said. “I’ve been carrying it around all week.” He pointed to the bag of stones. “It was heavier than I thought.”

His brother smiled, a little. “You don’t need to carry it anymore.”

Arjun smiled back and tossed the bag into the river behind their house.

From that day on, Arjun still got angry sometimes—he was only human—but he chose his words more carefully. When upset, he paused, breathed, and remembered the weight of the stones.

And in time, people noticed.

His father, once cautious around him, now shared more stories.

His brother followed him around, smiling wider than before.

And Datu, watching from his usual spot under the banyan tree, simply nodded.

Because the greatest strength, he believed, wasn’t in holding anger—but in letting it go, before it turned to stone.

Moral of the Story:

Words are powerful. Once spoken, they can’t be taken back. Anger may fade, but the impact of hurtful words can linger. Choose kindness, and you’ll carry less—and lift others more.