A Gumpy Kid Who Fusses to Take Any Meal

Once upon a time, in a cozy little house nestled in a green valley, lived a boy named Timmy. Timmy was a sweet boy in every way, except for one thing: he was the gumpiest eater in the entire world. When it came to food, Timmy’s smile would vanish faster than a rabbit down a hole.

His mother, a kind and patient woman, would spend hours preparing delicious meals. One day, she made him a vibrant salad with crisp lettuce, juicy tomatoes, and crunchy cucumbers. "Look, Timmy," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "it's a garden on your plate!"

Timmy scrunched up his nose. "I don't like gardens," he muttered, pushing the plate away.

The next day, his father, a cheerful and inventive man, cooked a hearty stew filled with tender chicken and colorful vegetables. "This stew will make you strong like a lion!" he roared playfully.

Timmy’s bottom lip quivered. "I don't want to be a lion," he whined, refusing to take a single bite.

This went on day after day. Timmy refused his mother's magical meatballs, his father's magnificent mashed potatoes, and his grandmother's fantastic fish cakes. His parents tried everything—turning his food into funny shapes, telling stories about each ingredient, and even singing silly songs—but nothing worked. Timmy would just sit there, gumpy and glum, his plate untouched.

One evening, after another uneaten meal, Timmy went to bed with a grumbling tummy. That night, he had a strange dream. He found himself in a magical land made entirely of food. There were rivers of chocolate, mountains of cheese, and trees with lollipops for leaves. But Timmy was hungry, and every time he reached for a treat, it would disappear. The chocolate river dried up, the cheese mountains crumbled, and the lollipop leaves fell off their branches.

A tiny, glowing fairy appeared before him. "Why are you so sad, little boy?" she asked in a voice like tinkling bells.

"I'm so hungry," Timmy sniffled, "but all the food is gone!"

"That's because you never appreciated the food you had," the fairy said gently. "The wonderful meals your parents made for you were full of love and care, but you turned them away. Now, in this land of wishes, your ungratefulness has made all the food vanish."

Timmy’s eyes welled up with tears. He suddenly remembered his mother's garden salad and his father's lion stew, and how much effort they had put into making him happy and healthy. He felt a pang of regret far sharper than the hunger in his stomach.

When he woke up the next morning, the smell of pancakes and bacon filled the air. Timmy hurried to the kitchen, a new light in his eyes. He saw his mother placing a plate on the table, her face a little tired from another night of worry.

"Good morning, honey," she said with a small sigh. "Pancakes today."

Without a word, Timmy sat down, picked up his fork, and took a big bite. His mother's eyes widened in surprise and then filled with joy. From that day on, Timmy never fussed about food again. He realized that every meal was a gift, not just of nourishment, but of love. And in the cozy little house in the green valley, every meal was a happy one.

Moral of the fable: Appreciate the love and effort put into the things you are given, especially food. A grumbling tummy is a good reminder to be grateful.

Cycle of bicycle

 Cycle of Bicycles 

Blog by 

Vijay Kant Diksit 

vkdiksit@gmail.com 

As a child, one of my most cherished achievements was learning to ride a bicycle. I still remember the exhilaration I felt when I first mastered the art of balancing and pedaling. My Dad owned a bicycle, and during my primary school years, I eagerly seized the opportunity to try it out whenever he returned from work. Due to my small stature at the time, I had to adopt a scissors-style method of riding since my feet couldn't reach the pedals and the seat properly. The next stage was a variation called danda cycling, where I would sit on the crossbar of the bicycle and propel myself forward with my feet. Even though I couldn't reach the bicycle seat, this mode of transportation earned me respect from my peers.

As I progressed through life, my cycling skills improved significantly. I can still recall the profound sense of satisfaction I experienced when I could effortlessly ride and maneuver the bicycle without even touching the handlebars. It became my primary mode of transportation, faithfully carrying me to all my destinations, from school to friends' houses to errands.

As the years went by and my financial circumstances improved, I eventually upgraded from a bicycle to a scooter and later to a motorcycle. During that era, a 350 cc bike, particularly the iconic Bullet motorcycle, held immense allure for me. The intoxicating combination of its powerful sound and exhilarating speed was a true indulgence. I would often take long rides on my motorcycle, exploring the countryside and soaking up the wind in my hair.

During my middle age, four wheels became my preferred choice, offering a sense of safety and the capacity to accommodate my growing family. I purchased a car and used it for all my daily needs, from commuting to work to taking the kids to school and extracurricular activities. It seemed as though I had reached the pinnacle of my wheel-based journey. However, life had more surprises in store for me.

Upon reaching senior citizenship and with my daughter relocating to the USA, a new chapter began. While driving a car in India came naturally to me, navigating the roads in the USA presented a different set of challenges. Despite the similarities in machinery and technology, the driving system and controls varied significantly. The US followed the practice of driving on the right side of the road, and foot controls were reversed compared to what I was accustomed to. Shifting my instincts from driving on the left side to the right side in the USA proved to be a bit of a tricky adjustment.

For shorter distances within the USA, I found solace in a familiar companion that brought me full circle: my trusty bicycle. Once again, I rediscovered the incredible feeling of riding a bicycle. It allowed me to establish a profound connection with my surroundings and engage in meaningful interactions with friends along the way. I would often cycle to the park, the library, or the coffee shop, enjoying the leisurely pace and the opportunity to take in the sights and sounds.

So, in a sense, the wheels of my life have completed a full circle. From my humble beginnings as a child on a bicycle, to the thrill of motorcycles and the convenience of cars, and now back to a bicycle as a senior citizen, each stage of my wheel-based journey has brought its own set of joys and challenges. I am particularly appreciative of the simplicity and accessibility of cycling.ycling has been a constant source of joy for me throughout my life. It has allowed me to explore my surroundings, connect with nature, and build relationships with others.  It is a mode of transportation that is available to people of all ages and abilities. As I pedal my way through life, I find great appreciation in the simple pleasures and genuine connections that a bicycle offers.    

The Queen Ant's Castle Leakage Fable

In the bustling kingdom of Anthillia, nestled beneath the sprawling roots of an ancient oak, lay the magnificent castle of Queen Ant. The castle, a marvel of ant architecture, was a fortress of interwoven tunnels and chambers, all meticulously crafted from packed soil and the strongest resin. Its crown jewel was the royal chamber, where Queen Ant resided, a vast, domed space filled with the sweet scent of honeydew.

One day, a tiny, almost imperceptible crack appeared in the ceiling of the royal chamber. It was nothing to worry about, the Queen's attendants assured her. "It's just a little bit of moisture seeping through, Your Majesty," said the chief architect, a stern-looking ant with a single, long antenna. "We'll have it patched in no time."

But the Queen, a creature of boundless wisdom and a keen sense of observation, felt a prickle of unease. She watched as a single drop of water, no bigger than a grain of sand, fell from the crack and disappeared into the soft earth. The next day, another drop fell, and then another. Soon, a steady, rhythmic drip-drip-drip echoed through the chamber, a tiny, persistent drumbeat against the silence.

The Queen's subjects, however, were too busy to notice. The farmers were harvesting a bumper crop of aphid honeydew, the soldiers were drilling for an upcoming beetle raid, and the workers were tirelessly expanding the kingdom's granaries. Everyone had a job to do, and a tiny leak in the Queen's chamber seemed a trivial concern.

"It's just a bit of a nuisance," said the royal chamberlain, placing a fresh leaf beneath the drip to catch the water. "We're handling it."

But the Queen knew better. She saw the tiny rivulets of water begin to carve miniature canyons in the chamber floor. She felt the dampness in the air, a subtle chill that hadn't been there before. She knew that a small problem, left unaddressed, could grow into a monumental disaster.

One night, a fierce storm raged outside. The rain fell in sheets, pounding the earth above the anthill. The tiny crack in the Queen's ceiling, no longer a mere drip, became a steady stream. The royal chamber began to fill with water, the carefully crafted walls and floors turning to mud. The Queen, her throne now an island in a growing puddle, sounded the alarm.

The kingdom descended into chaos. The soldiers, their weapons useless against the rising flood, struggled to evacuate the panicked workers and their precious stores of food. The farmers' harvest was washed away, and the granaries, once a symbol of the kingdom's prosperity, collapsed into a muddy ruin.

The kingdom of Anthillia, once a bustling metropolis, was reduced to a desolate wasteland. The Queen and her subjects, huddled together on a makeshift raft of leaves and twigs, watched as their once-proud castle crumbled beneath the relentless deluge.

"We were so busy," one ant lamented, "we didn't see it coming."

The Queen, her voice heavy with sorrow, replied, "We saw it coming. We just chose to ignore it."

The moral of the fable is: A small problem, if left unaddressed, can become a catastrophic one. It is better to deal with a minor issue promptly than to let it fester until it is too late.

The Fable of the Proud Deer and the Wise Eagle

In a vast forest lived a deer renowned for

 

his speed. 

 He was the fastest of all the creatures, and he took great pride in this fact. He would often boast to the other animals, "No one can outrun me! The ground is my kingdom, and my legs are my crown."

High above, in a towering oak tree, an old eagle watched him. This eagle had seen many seasons and many creatures rise and fall. One day, the eagle swooped down and landed on a low branch near the deer.

"Tell me, deer," said the eagle, his voice calm and deep. "You are indeed fast on the ground, but what do you know of the world beyond the forest floor? What do you know of the river that bends far in the distance, or the mountains that touch the sky?"

The deer scoffed, "What need have I for such knowledge? My world is here, and my speed ensures my safety and prosperity. Your vision may be great, but it cannot save you from the lion on the ground."

The eagle nodded slowly. "My vision does not just show me dangers, it shows me opportunities. It shows me the path of the river, which means I know where to find fish. It shows me the storm gathering miles away, so I can find shelter before the rain falls. It shows me the quickest path from one valley to another."

A few days later, a great fire broke out in the forest. The flames spread quickly, and the smoke filled the air. The deer, trusting in his speed, ran as fast as he could. But he ran blindly, following the same familiar paths, which led him deeper into the heart of the fire. The smoke disoriented him, and the flames surrounded him.

The eagle, from his perch high above, saw the fire as a small, growing patch on the landscape. He saw the path of the flames and, more importantly, he saw the safe, clear path out of the forest, leading to a wide, green meadow on the other side of a river. He called out to the other animals, guiding them with his powerful cries.

The deer, trapped and terrified, heard the eagle's distant cries but could not reach him. He was a prisoner of his own limited perspective, his prideful reliance on speed having blinded him to the bigger picture.

Moral of the Fable:

The moral of this fable is that swiftness and strength are valuable, but they are not a substitute for wisdom, foresight, and a broad perspective. A narrow focus on one's own strengths can be a great weakness in the face of a challenge that requires a wider view. The eagle's wisdom, born of a high perspective, was more valuable in a time of crisis than the deer's raw speed, which was limited by his grounded view.

 Meerkat, bug and Ant Fable.

Once, in a vast, sun-baked land, there lived a colony of meerkats. Their lives were a constant rhythm of watchful vigilance and tireless digging. But among them was a meerkat named Kip, who was different. While the others stood tall on their hind legs, scanning the horizon for eagles and jackals, Kip would often gaze down, his whiskers twitching with curiosity at the bustling world beneath his paws. He was fascinated by the intricate dance of the beetles, the determined march of the ants, and the delicate patterns left by desert flowers in the sand.

One day, while the rest of the colony was napping in the midday heat, Kip noticed a solitary scarab beetle struggling. It was upside down, its little legs kicking fruitlessly against the vast, indifferent sky. Most meerkats would have ignored it, or worse, considered it a snack. But Kip, driven by an unexplainable empathy, carefully nudged the beetle with his snout until it righted itself. The little creature, as if in thanks, wiggled its antennae before scuttling away.

The next morning, the colony awoke to a terrifying sight. A massive, spiny-shelled tortoise had wandered into their territory, and it had settled directly on top of the entrance to their main burrow. Its shell was so large and its feet so broad that no meerkat could push it away. Panic rippled through the colony. They chattered and chirped in alarm, their tails flicking in distress. They were trapped, sealed off from their safe haven.

Just as the sun began to climb higher, promising a scorching day, Kip heard a faint buzzing. It was the scarab beetle he had helped the day before. It flew to his nose, its little voice a tiny, frantic whisper. "The tortoise," it buzzed, "it is sleeping. Its feet are ticklish. Tell the ants."

Kip, remembering the countless hours he had spent observing the ants, knew exactly what to do. He found the chief of the ant colony, a magnificent creature with a gleaming black thorax, and explained their predicament. "The great one has blocked our home," Kip chittered, "but your tiny feet are mighty. A tickle, the beetle says, is what's needed."

The ant chief, intrigued and a little amused, rallied his soldiers. A great column of ants marched towards the sleeping tortoise. They swarmed over its massive, wrinkled feet, their ticklish parade a relentless, unceasing dance.

The tortoise, dreaming of juicy cacti, first twitched, then shuddered. The tickling was too much. With a great huff and a groan, it lifted its colossal shell and shuffled away, leaving the burrow entrance clear.

The colony erupted in cheers and chattering. They poured back into their cool, dark home, safe once more. They praised Kip, the meerkat who had saved them. But it was not his strength or his sharp eyes that had done it. It was his curiosity, his empathy, and his kindness towards the smallest creature.

And so the fable ends, with the moral whispered from meerkat to meerkat: A watchful eye is essential for survival, but a kind heart and a curious mind can see the world from a different perspective, and sometimes, that is what truly saves you.

 The Fable of the Ghost and the Guardians of Corbett National Park. 

In the heart of the Jim Corbett National Park, where the Ramganga River whispers secrets to the ancient sal trees, there lived a magnificent tiger. The villagers and forest rangers called him "The Ghost," for he was rarely seen but his presence was felt everywhere. His roar was a thunderclap that kept the deer vigilant and the wild pigs in check. He was the king, and his kingdom was in balance.
The Ghost's power was not just in his strength, but in the harmony he brought to the forest. The deer grazed with a healthy wariness, never staying too long in one place. This allowed the grasses to grow tall and the young saplings to flourish. The wild boar, fearing his shadow, rooted only where they must, leaving the forest floor unturned and rich. The rivers, too, flowed clear, for the trees whose roots held the banks were not disturbed. The Ghost was the heartbeat of the jungle, and all life pulsed to his rhythm.
But a new sound began to echo through the hills—the sound of steel and the smell of fear. Poachers, drawn by the lure of easy riches, crept into the forest. They were not looking for food, but for the tiger's skin and bones. They set their traps and laid their snares, their greed a poison that seeped into the ground.
One by one, the tigers began to disappear. The Ghost’s kin were taken, and a silence, colder than any winter mist, fell over the forest. The deer, sensing the absence of their great predator, grew bold. They grazed without fear, stripping the land bare. The wild boars tore up the earth with abandon. The delicate balance was shattered. The trees, no longer protected by the constant movement of a wary prey, were cut down by those who saw a profit in them. The riverbanks crumbled, and the water grew muddy. The forest, once a vibrant kingdom, became a ghost of its former self, a silent monument to what was lost.
Just when all hope seemed lost, a new kind of sound echoed through the jungle. It was not the roar of a tiger, but the footsteps of the guardians—the dedicated forest rangers and conservationists. They were men and women who understood that the forest needed its king. They patrolled the borders, their eyes and ears sharp. They educated the villagers, teaching them that the tiger was not a monster, but the protector of their water and their land. They set up cameras and tracked every movement, working tirelessly to make the jungle safe again.
Slowly, through their tireless efforts, the tides began to turn. The poachers were driven away. The forest, given a chance to breathe, began to heal. And one day, a faint roar was heard in the distance. It was not The Ghost, but a new tiger, his offspring, returning to reclaim his throne. The deer, hearing that familiar sound, became wary again. The wild boars moved with caution. The trees began to grow, and the rivers, once more, ran clear.
The fable of the tiger in Corbett is not just about the tiger itself, but about the people who understood its true value. It teaches us that the tiger is not just a magnificent beast, but a symbol of a healthy ecosystem. To save the tiger is to save the forest, the rivers, the deer, and all the life within. And to lose the tiger is to lose the very heart of the jungle. It is a tale that reminds us that we, too, can be the guardians of the wilderness, and in doing so, we can save a whole world.

An ecological fable of Yellowstone National Park 

 The fable of the elk in Yellowstone is a modern-day ecological tale that highlights the interconnectedness of a healthy ecosystem. It's often told to illustrate the concept of a trophic cascade.

The story begins with the absence of a top predator: the gray wolf. In the early 20th century, wolves were hunted to local extinction in Yellowstone National Park. With their primary predator gone, the elk population exploded.

The Overgrazing: The massive herd of elk, with nothing to keep their numbers in check, began to overgraze the landscape. They devoured young aspen, willow, and cottonwood trees, particularly along riverbanks.

The Consequences: This overgrazing had a ripple effect throughout the ecosystem:

 * Fewer Trees: The lack of young trees meant the forest couldn't regenerate. The vegetation along streams and rivers, which helped hold the soil in place, vanished.

 * Erosion: With no tree roots to anchor the soil, the riverbanks began to erode, widening the streams and making the water murkier and warmer.

 * Decline of Other Species: The loss of trees and shrubs meant a loss of habitat for other animals. Beaver populations, which depend on aspen and willow for food and dam-building material, declined. Songbirds that nested in the trees disappeared.

 * Impact on Bears: Even grizzly bears were affected, as the fruit-bearing shrubs and berries they relied on for food became scarce.

The Return of the Wolf: In 1995, after decades of scientific research and debate, gray wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park.

The Restoration: The wolves, acting as a natural check on the elk population, began to restore the ecosystem's balance:

 * Changes in Elk Behavior: The wolves didn't just reduce the number of elk; they also changed their behavior. The elk became more cautious and avoided certain areas, especially valleys and ravines where they were vulnerable to ambush.

 * The Trees Return: With the elk no longer constantly grazing in these areas, young trees and shrubs began to grow back, particularly along the riverbanks.

 * The Ecosystem Heals: As the trees returned, so did other species. Beavers found new food sources and began to build dams again. These dams created ponds and wetlands, providing new habitats for fish, amphibians, and insects. The stabilized riverbanks led to clearer, colder water, benefiting fish like trout. Even songbirds returned to the rejuvenated forests.

The moral of the Yellowstone elk fable is that removing just one piece of a complex system can have devastating, unforeseen consequences. Conversely, restoring that one piece can help the entire system heal and thrive. It's a powerful and tangible illustration of the importance of biodiversity and the delicate balance of nature.