Meera and Kaali

Meera had a pet buffalo named Kaali. A mass of muscle and mud, her horns curved like the crescent moon, and her eyes held a knowing gleam. The other children laughed at Meera for loving Kaali so much. “She’s too wild,” they said. “She’ll never listen.”

 

But Meera knew Kaali’s heart beat like her own. She had raised her from a calf, whispered stories into her ear at night, and run barefoot beside her through the fields.

 

One summer, a drought gripped the land. The village well dried to a whisper. The river shrank to a ribbon of dust. The men muttered, the women wrung their hands, and the buffalo grew thin. But Meera had heard of a secret spring hidden deep in the hills, where water ran clear even when the earth cracked.

 

No one believed her. But Kaali did.

 

At dawn, Meera climbed onto Kaali’s back, her fingers curling into the thick fur of her neck. “Find it, my friend,” she whispered. And Kaali ran.

 

Through fields that had turned to brittle gold, past withered mango trees, over dry riverbeds where fish bones gleamed like tiny ghosts. Meera clung to her, wind whipping her hair, dust coating her tongue.

 

Then Kaali stopped. Snorted. Stomped her hoof. Meera slid down, heart pounding. The earth smelled different here.She dug with her hands, Kaali watching, nostrils flaring. A few inches down, the soil turned dark. Then wet. Then a rush of coolness against her fingertips.

 

She laughed, splashing water over Kaali’s nose. The buffalo huffed, triumphant.

 

By nightfall, the whole village had followed them, carrying pots and prayers. The old well was forgotten. The new spring belonged to them all.

 

 

Done