The mountain and the feather - by Rahima Suleiman

Title: The Mountain and the Feather --- In a quiet village nestled in the arms of a sprawling valley, where green hills kissed the sky and rivers sang lullabies to the stars, lived a boy named Arun. He was small, thin, and often overlooked. While other children played with laughter echoing through the fields, Arun spent most of his days sitting by the river, watching the current drift past, dreaming of something more. Arun was born into a family of farmers, and though his heart loved the land, his spirit ached for the mountains that loomed in the distance. Towering, untamed, and mysterious—they called to him in his sleep. The villagers spoke of those peaks with reverence and fear. No one dared to climb them. The elders claimed they were cursed, guarded by spirits, impossible to conquer. But to Arun, they weren’t walls—they were wings. One evening, while helping his father tend the crops, a sudden gust of wind swept through the valley. A white feather, delicate as a whisper, landed on his hand. There was nothing unusual about a feather, but something in this one shimmered faintly in the dusk light. Arun looked up—and in that moment, the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated the highest peak of the mountain like a spotlight. That night, Arun made a decision: he would climb the mountain. His family laughed gently. “You are kind-hearted, Arun,” his mother said, “but the mountain is not for boys with dreams. It is for men with power.” Still, Arun packed a small bundle with dried fruit, a flask of water, a worn-out journal, and the feather. He began his journey at dawn, when the valley still slumbered. The path was steep, tangled with roots and shadows. At first, he was full of fire—each step a declaration of defiance. But as the days passed, the climb became cruel. His hands blistered, his legs trembled, and the mountain seemed endless. Sometimes, storms would roar above, drenching him in cold rain. Other times, the silence was so deep it threatened to swallow him whole. One morning, as he dragged himself up a narrow ridge, he slipped. He fell hard. His knee throbbed, and for the first time, he cried—not out of pain, but out of despair. “I can’t,” he whispered. “They were right.” And then the wind stirred. That same feather, impossibly, landed beside him again. He stared at it. How could it be here? Slowly, he picked it up and tucked it back into his journal. Something inside him shifted—not strength, not bravery—but something softer: belief. With gritted teeth, Arun stood. Weeks turned into months. Arun grew leaner, tougher. He learned to read the wind, to find shelter in the caves, to listen to the stars. He met others along the way—travelers who had turned back, monks who had made peace halfway, and a blind old man who gave him a walking stick and said, “The summit is not above—it is within.” Finally, after nearly a year, Arun reached the peak. It was nothing like he imagined. No golden treasure. No crown. No crowds. Just silence. And sky. And a sea of clouds beneath his feet. He stood there, alone, and laughed. Not because he had conquered the mountain, but because he had become it. He stayed there for hours, writing in his journal, the feather tied to its spine. And then he descended—not with pride, but with purpose. When he returned to the village, no one recognized him at first. His eyes held storms and sunrises. His gait was firm, but gentle. The children followed him, wide-eyed, as he spoke of stars that sing, caves that breathe, and winds that speak in dreams. Years passed. The villagers came to know Arun as the man who climbed the mountain. But Arun always smiled and corrected them gently: “I didn’t climb the mountain. I climbed myself.” And every child who heard his story began to look at the mountains not with fear, but with wonder. One day, a girl named Mira found a feather on her windowsill. And the wind began to stir. --- Moral: The greatest mountains we climb are the ones within ourselves. No path is impossible if we walk with belief.

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