The Beggar and the Crown

In a quiet valley nestled between green hills and flowing rivers lay a village called Amarkot. Though small in size, Amarkot was ruled by a man who bore the title of king—a self-styled monarch named Rajan, who lived in a grand house overlooking the huts and farmlands of his people.

King Rajan was not a cruel man, but he was blind to suffering. Born into wealth and surrounded by luxury, he believed that hard work alone determined one's fate. So when a poor beggar named Nandu arrived in the village, Rajan barely took notice.

Nandu had wandered for days, dusty and exhausted, carrying little more than a cloth bag and a wooden walking stick. His eyes, however, still held a strange sparkle—one of hope, wisdom, or perhaps a quiet challenge. Villagers offered him scraps, but some looked away. To them, he was just another burden.

One morning, as Rajan strolled through the village inspecting farms and shops, he spotted Nandu sitting under a banyan tree, carving birds out of dry wood. The craftsmanship was striking.

“You beg for food, yet waste time making toys?” Rajan asked.

Nandu looked up and smiled. “They are not toys, my king. They are stories carved in silence.”

Rajan frowned. “What use are stories to an empty stomach?”

“Sometimes,” Nandu said, “stories feed more than rice can.”

Intrigued by the beggar’s words, Rajan invited him to the palace. That evening, Nandu was given food, a bath, and a clean bed—perhaps the first comfort he'd known in years. Still, he remained humble and quiet, spending his time carving, observing, and listening.

The days passed, and the king began to seek Nandu’s company. His riddles and tales, his quiet understanding of people, his odd questions about life—all made Rajan feel strangely awake. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Nandu told him a story.

“There was once a king,” he said, “who believed power made him wise. He built high walls and filled them with gold, but outside those walls, his people starved. One day, a poor man knocked on his gate, asking for a crumb. The king laughed and sent him away. That night, he dreamed the gods came and took away all his wealth, leaving only the poor man’s bowl behind. He woke up—alone and forgotten.”

Rajan stared at Nandu, unsettled. “Are you warning me?”

“I’m telling a story,” Nandu replied. “But only those who see themselves in it are changed by it.”

Later that week, Rajan disguised himself and walked the village without guards. For the first time, he noticed the thinness of the farmers, the tears in children’s clothes, the weary eyes of mothers. He felt ashamed. “Why did no one tell me?” he asked Nandu.

“You were not listening,” the beggar replied. “But now, perhaps, you are.”

Rajan began to change. He opened the granaries to feed the poor. He reduced taxes. He encouraged trade and education. People spoke of a new age, and at the heart of it was the beggar who asked for nothing yet gave everything.

But not everyone was pleased. Rajan's advisors grew wary. They whispered that Nandu was casting spells, poisoning the king’s mind. One day, they demanded he be banished.

“You trust a vagabond more than men who served your father?” they protested.

Rajan was torn. He asked Nandu what he should do.

Nandu smiled sadly. “A crown is heavy. Every head that wears it must bear the weight of truth. If your court cannot bear honesty, then their loyalty is hollow.”

Rajan chose to stand by Nandu, and in doing so, lost half his council. But the village stood with him. For the first time, they felt seen.

One morning, Nandu told the king he must leave.

“Why?” Rajan asked, heart heavy.

“My journey is not over,” he replied. “There are other kings, other hearts still locked in silence.”

Rajan tried to offer him gold, land, a home—but Nandu refused. He took only a small wooden bird he had carved, saying, “Keep this. When pride returns, let it remind you that greatness begins with humility.”

Nandu left the village as quietly as he had arrived. Some said he was a saint. Others believed he was a god in disguise. But Rajan believed only this: Nandu was a man who owned nothing, yet gave him everything.

Years passed. Under Rajan’s rule, Amarkot flourished. And in the grand palace, beside the throne, sat a small wooden bird—worn smooth by time, untouched by dust.

And when children asked who carved it, the king would smile and say, “A poor man with nothing to his name—but everything in his soul.”