-- *Mar*Of course. Here’s a *story inspired by YM Sarma’s “Mantra”* — a work of short fiction that carries the same spirit of connection between thought, nature, and the lost magic of communication. ------------------------------ *The Garden That Spoke*
Long before the cities rose and screens began to glow, there was a valley where people did not speak with words. They spoke in *scents*. When they were happy, the air filled with a fragrance like wild jasmine. When they were angry, it turned sharp, like crushed neem leaves. When they were in love, even the stones smelled of rain. A young woman named *Anaya* was born into this valley. She could hear the songs of mushrooms beneath the soil and the sighs of sleeping trees. Every morning she walked barefoot to the river, and the fish would shimmer with her thoughts, answering in ripples. She never felt alone, because the air itself carried her questions and returned them as scent, breeze, and color. Then came the *Age of Noise*. Men arrived from far-off lands, carrying iron, smoke, and square symbols they called *words*. They said the valley’s way was primitive — that knowledge must be written, not smelled. They cut down the trees to build schools and walls, teaching children to speak with their mouths instead of their breath. The air became still. The flowers lost their voices. Even Anaya’s dreams stopped smelling of rain. One day, unable to bear the silence, she climbed the old hill where her grandmother had once taught her the first Mantra — not a word, but a rhythm of breathing that joined her to the wind. She closed her eyes and whispered it again, though her tongue no longer remembered how it felt. At first, nothing happened. Then a faint fragrance drifted from the grass — something like sandalwood mixed with starlight. The ground trembled. Insects stirred from the dust. The wind rose and began to hum with thought. Every creature turned toward the hill. The valley breathed again. The old language — the *language of Mantras* — returned for a moment. People smelled one another’s joy and grief, and even the iron walls seemed to soften under the perfume of understanding. But the moment was brief. The city below still burned with noise. Yet Anaya smiled. She knew that one garden, untouched, was enough for the world to remember its lost voice. And on quiet nights, when the machines sleep, the valley still exhales a fragrance that only the honest-hearted can smell — the scent of thought before words. ------------------------------ Would you like me to expand this into a *longer fable or novella-style story*, perhaps with more characters and a clearer conflict between the natural and technological worlds? -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. To view this discussion visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CACDCHCLejEJcfv775%2Bo8a3LtJfx%2BfsD1--oBspzRmZM7Ekv2Wg%40mail.gmail.com.
