Where the Grass Grows Tall

In the heart of a quiet valley, where the wind whispered secrets through tall grass and wildflowers bloomed without asking, lived a gentle brown cow named Kamala. She had strong hooves, a warm gaze, and a heart full of quiet wisdom. For years, she had grazed the green meadow, shared stories with the breeze, and watched the sky shift from pink dawns to silver dusks.

But the day her calf was born, the world changed.

He was small, golden-coated, with eyes that sparkled like morning dew. She named him Chikki, for he was sweet, clumsy, and full of joy. He took his first steps on wobbly legs beside the creek that cut through the meadow, and his first laugh echoed like a song between the hills.

From that moment, Kamala became more than just a cow of the meadow—she became a mother.

Chikki grew fast, chasing dragonflies and butterflies, testing his voice by mooing at the clouds, and asking endless questions about the world beyond the trees. Kamala answered each one with love and patience, guiding him with stories of their ancestors, of storms survived, and grasslands discovered.

“Why is the grass taller near the fence?” Chikki once asked.

“Because no one steps there,” Kamala replied with a soft chuckle. “It grows wild and free, like dreams. That’s where the strongest roots hide.”

He remembered that.

But one morning, the valley woke to the sound of something unfamiliar—engines, shouting, and metal fences being rolled across the land. The humans had come.

They fenced off the edge of the meadow, pushing the cows closer together. Rumors spread: the land was being sold, part of it turned into something called a “road” or a “barn.” Kamala didn’t understand it fully, but she knew it meant change.

And change rarely came without loss.

Chikki, now grown into a bold young bull, had begun to feel restless. He dreamed of what lay beyond the fence—the woods, the mountains, the world he had only heard about in Kamala’s tales. He watched birds take flight and felt something stir in his chest.

One night, under a moonlit sky, he said, “Amma, I want to see the other side. I want to find where the grass grows even taller.”

Kamala’s heart ached, but she had seen it coming. She touched her nose to his gently. “Then go, my son. But promise me—wherever you are, when you see tall grass, think of me. That’s where I’ll be waiting.”

And with that, Chikki left.

The meadow felt emptier than it ever had. Kamala would often walk to the fence and stare into the woods, imagining her son beneath other skies, drinking from distant rivers. Seasons passed—rains came and went, flowers wilted and bloomed—and still, Kamala waited.

Chikki’s journey was not easy. He met others: goats who mocked him, horses who raced past him, and machines that roared louder than thunder. He found lush fields, yes, but also barren lands where no grass grew. He tasted freedom, but he also felt the ache of loneliness.

He missed the sound of his mother’s voice and the warmth of her side on cool nights.

Years went by. And one day, as the sun rose soft and golden over the hills, Chikki—now strong, scarred, and wise—found himself standing at the edge of a familiar valley. The wind smelled of wildflowers, and the grass, tall and swaying, brushed his legs like a memory.

His hooves stepped gently on the path he once knew.

At the center of the field, Kamala stood beneath the same tree where she had once told him stories. Her back was more bent, her coat grayer, but her eyes—oh, her eyes still carried the same warmth as the morning he was born.

Chikki ran to her, and she turned, heart pounding. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Kamala whispered, “The grass still grows tall, my son.”

And he bowed his head into her neck and cried.

They stood together as the sun climbed the sky, bathing the meadow in gold. Around them, the grass danced, wild and free. The meadow had changed, yes—but love had not.

And from then on, each morning, the mother and her son walked the field together—where the grass grew tall and the memories grew even deeper.