2

Story 1

“Stop, stop!” the wedding guests begged Raman. “Please stop playing
your flute. We want to be happy. But the sad songs you are playing are only
making us cry!”
“This is too bad,” said Raman. “I want to play happy songs, but my new
flute only seems to make sad music. I will just have to make myself another
new flute.”
So Raman set off again, looking for a perfect length of bamboo to make
himself a new flute. This time he found a tree near the village well. There
were many women drawing water from the well. The women were talking,
and their brass water pots were clanking loudly. It was a very noisy place.
Raman made himself a new flute from a length of bamboo that he cut
from the tree near the well.
Soon, it was the ninetieth birthday of the oldest man in the village, and
Raman was asked to play his flute. He tried to play a happy tune, but this
time he found that his flute made only loud and angry noises.
“What is the matter, Raman?” asked the oldest man in the village, putting
his hands over his ears. “Why are you playing such a loud and noisy tune?
You used to play such happy songs. But now, your flute sounds more like
a hundred people yelling at one another and two hundred brass pots all
clanking at the same time!”
Raman felt very sad. He said, “When I used a length of bamboo from a
quiet, lonely place, my flute made sad music. When I used a piece of bamboo
from a noisy place, my flute makes only loud music. I know what I must do.
I must make a new flute from a tree growing in a happy place. Only then
can I start playing happy tunes again.”
So Raman walked all over the village looking for a tree growing in a happy
place. He walked for many hours and for many miles searching. There were
no bamboo trees growing in any of the places where people laughed or sang
or joked.
Raman was sitting sadly on the steps of the village school wondering
what to do when he heard the sound of laughter. Everywhere in the school,
children were laughing and talking and playing happily. And there, in one
corner of the school, stood a bamboo tree.
Raman cut a piece from the tree growing in the school and made a flute
from it.
The next morning, Raman had to play his flute in a home where the priest
was naming a little baby. The priest was to name the baby “Hari.”
Raman put the flute to his lips. Would his flute make happy music or sad
music or angry music, he wondered. He started playing his flute, and once