The Father and His Quarrelling Sons

In a peaceful village surrounded by fields and forests, there lived an old farmer named Haran. He was known not just for his hard work, but also for the wisdom he had gathered over a long and humble life. Haran had three sons—Ravi, Ajay, and Deepan—each strong and capable in his own way. But where their father had found peace in unity and simplicity, the sons constantly found reasons to argue.

They argued about everything—who worked the hardest, who deserved more land, who would inherit the family house. At first, their disagreements were small. But over time, they turned into daily shouting matches. Their once harmonious home was filled with tension and bitterness.

Haran watched this with a heavy heart. He had spent his life building a small but thriving farm, hoping his sons would care for it together after he was gone. But as the arguments grew louder, his hope faded.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the hills, Haran sat outside on a wooden stool, watching the orange sky. He coughed softly, a reminder of his weakening body, and called his sons to gather.

The three men arrived reluctantly. Their faces were tired, not from work, but from constant bickering.

“I have something important to share,” Haran said, his voice raspy but steady. “Sit down.”

They obeyed, more out of habit than willingness.

Haran reached behind him and picked up a bundle of sticks, tightly tied with rope. “Each of you is strong,” he said, looking at them one by one. “But strength alone means nothing without unity. Let me show you something.”

He handed the bundle to Ravi, the eldest. “Try to break it.”

Ravi raised an eyebrow but accepted the challenge. He gripped the bundle tightly, bracing it against his knee. He twisted and pressed—but the sticks wouldn’t break.

“Pass it to Ajay,” Haran said.

Ajay was the most competitive. He took the bundle and tried harder. He bent, twisted, and grunted. Still, the sticks held firm.

Now it was Deepan’s turn. He tried with all his might, but the result was the same. The bundle refused to break.

Haran then untied the rope and handed each son a single stick.

“Now, break them.”

Each son snapped his stick with ease.

Haran looked into their eyes. “Do you understand now?” he asked gently.

The sons sat quietly, realization dawning slowly.

“When you are united—like the bundle—you are strong. No one can break you. But if you continue to quarrel, holding only to your pride and ego, you’ll be as weak as a single stick. Easy to break. Easy to scatter.”

He paused, coughing again.

“I may not be with you much longer. And this farm, this land, this home—they will all mean nothing if you fight over them. Work together. Share the burdens and the blessings. That is the only way to honor what your mother and I built for you.”

For a moment, silence settled over the porch. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the neem tree nearby. The setting sun bathed the family in warm, golden light.

Ravi cleared his throat. “I’ve been stubborn,” he admitted. “Always trying to be the leader instead of a brother.”

Ajay nodded slowly. “And I’ve been competitive. I wanted more than my share. I didn’t think of what that meant for all of us.”

Deepan looked down at the snapped stick in his hand. “I thought I didn’t need either of you. But I do.”

Haran smiled, a faint, peaceful smile. For the first time in years, he felt the warmth of family—not from firewood or food, but from understanding.

In the weeks that followed, things began to change. The brothers started working the fields together, planning as a team. They repaired the barn as one, shared meals without arguing, and listened when one of them had an idea or concern.

The villagers noticed too. “Haran’s sons have finally become one,” they would say. “Just like their father always wanted.”

One cold morning, Haran passed away quietly in his sleep. Though grief weighed heavily on their hearts, the brothers didn’t fall into conflict. Instead, they stood side by side, laying their father to rest under the very tree where he had taught them the greatest lesson of their lives.

Years passed. The farm grew even more prosperous under the brothers’ united efforts. When people from other villages visited, they marveled at how well the three men worked together.

And whenever someone asked how they had built such a strong foundation, Ravi would lead them to the old porch, pick up a bundle of sticks, and say with a smile, “It started with this.”

Moral of the Story:

Unity is strength. When we stand together, we can overcome anything—but divided, we are weak and vulnerable.