jayamanchiraju

Ram had been waiting for this day for weeks.

Every summer, he travelled from Chennai to his grandfather’s small town for the holidays. And every summer, the railway station felt like the beginning of an adventure.

The moment Ram spotted his grandparents waiting on the platform, he ran towards them.

“Grandpa!”

He jumped straight into his grandfather’s arms.

“Hi, Kasu!” Grandpa said, hugging him tightly and covering his face with kisses.

Grandma stood beside them, smiling. “Look how much he has grown!”

The journey home was filled with chatter. By the time they reached the house, Grandma had already prepared Ram’s favourite sweets.

The old house was just as Ram remembered it—a long verandah, wooden doors, a huge backyard and trees that seemed to have been standing there forever. Ram loved exploring every corner of it.

At night, as always, Ram slept between his grandparents.

His grandfather was a wonderful storyteller. Whenever Ram visited, Grandpa told him stories—not just fairy tales, but stories about kings, queens, warriors, philosophers and people who had shaped India.

That night, Grandpa was telling him about Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.

“Shivaji Maharaj was a remarkable king…” Grandpa began.

Ram listened for a few minutes before interrupting.

“Grandpa, why do I need to know all this?”

Grandpa looked at him.

“They lived hundreds of years ago. Why should I learn about kings and queens who are already dead? It’s so boring.”

He paused.

“Can’t you tell me something about Ninja Turtles?”

Grandpa laughed.

“I don’t know much about Ninja Turtles. But I can tell you a story about Kurmavatar, one of Vishnu’s avatars.”

“No!” Ram groaned. “That’s even more boring.”

Grandpa smiled.

“Okay. Tomorrow we can watch Netflix.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Ram turned around, pulled the blanket over himself and fell asleep.

---

A few days later, the Ramakrishna Mission in town announced an essay-writing competition for children between nine and twelve.

The topic was simple:

“Who Am I?”

Ram was excited.

He loved writing. Whenever he visited his grandparents, he would go with Grandpa to the Ramakrishna Mission. He had written many little stories and essays of his own.

So he sat down confidently and began.

“My name is Ram…“

He wrote about his parents, his school, his friends, his favourite food, his hobbies and the cartoons and shows he liked watching. He wrote about his favourite books. He wrote about how he wanted to become a pilot when he grew up.

Then he stopped.

He looked at the page. It wasn’t even half full.

Ram stared at the question again.

Who am I?

He had written everything he knew about himself. And yet, somehow, it didn’t feel like enough. He thought harder. Nothing came.

Finally, he walked into the backyard, where Grandpa was sitting under a tree reading a book.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, kanna?”

“I need your help.”

Grandpa closed his book.

“What happened?”

“I have to write an essay on ‘Who Am I?’ I started writing, but I don’t know what else to write.”

Grandpa smiled.

“Let me see.”

Ram handed him the paper.

Grandpa read it carefully.

“Ram, you have written very well. You have written about our family, your hobbies, your favourite books and the things you enjoy.”

“But I don’t know what else to write.”

Grandpa looked at him for a moment.

“Do you remember the story I was telling you about Shivaji Maharaj the other night?”

Ram hesitated.

“The boring one?”

Grandpa laughed.

“Yes. That one.”

Ram smiled.

“Okay. Tell me.”

Grandpa began.

“Shivaji Maharaj is a great Indian king. He is regarded as “Father of the Indian Navy”. He is a powerful Maratha king who subdued several Mughal Army generals and defied Aurangzeb.

“One day, he saw his Guru, Samartha Ramdas, walking through the streets asking people for alms.

“Shivaji was deeply disturbed.

“He went to his Guru and said, ‘I will give you my entire kingdom.’

“Samartha Ramdas looked at him and said, ‘Leave your crown and come with me.’

“Shivaji did exactly that.

“For the next three days, his Guru sent him from house to house to ask for food. Whatever they received, the Guru and his disciple ate together.

“On the fourth day, Ramdas asked Shivaji, ‘Is there anything else you have left to give me?’

“Shivaji replied, ‘I have given you everything I have. Now, I have only my life left.’

“His Guru looked at him and said,

“‘The kingdom, the wealth and even your life were never truly yours to give away. You are merely its guardian. Your karthavya is to serve the people entrusted to you.’

“Shivaji understood.

“Samarth Ramdas then gave him a saffron flag and asked him to use it as a reminder of his karthavya—to uphold Dharma and serve his people.”

Grandpa stopped.

Ram was silent.

The story didn’t seem boring anymore.

“Grandpa,” he asked, “so Shivaji thought he was a king, but his Guru taught him that he was actually a guardian?”

Grandpa smiled.

“Exactly.”

Ram looked down at his unfinished essay.

“Then maybe I don’t know who I am yet.”

Grandpa raised an eyebrow.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know what I like. I know what I want to become. But I don’t know where I come from.”

Grandpa smiled.

“Now you’re asking the right question.”

That night, Ram sat down again with a fresh sheet of paper.

He still wrote about his family. He wrote about his favourite books and the things he enjoyed.

But this time, he wrote something more.

He wrote about the people who had lived before him.

He wrote about kings and queens who had built kingdoms, thinkers who had challenged ideas, scientists who had expanded human knowledge and freedom fighters who had sacrificed their lives so that children like him could grow up in a free country.

He realised that history was not simply a collection of dates and names.

It was a collection of choices. Courage. Mistakes. Sacrifices. Dreams. Values. And legacies.

He understood that his grandparents, parents, teachers and ancestors were all threads in the story that had eventually led to him.

At the end of the essay, Ram wrote:

“I am Ram. I am a son, a grandson, a student and a friend. I am someone who loves cartoons, comics, stories, books and flying.

But I am also the child of Mother India and her brave sons and daughters.

The freedom I enjoy today came from the sacrifices of people I never met. The knowledge I have came from people who lived before me. The values I carry came from generations of people who shaped my family and my country.

Perhaps knowing who I am means understanding all these stories that came before mine.

One day, I want to become a pilot. I want to fly high, not just for myself, but carrying the honour of my country with me.

My story has not been written yet.

But now I know that I am standing on the pages written by many people before me.

And what I write next is up to me.”

Ram put down his pen.

He looked at Grandpa.

Grandpa didn’t say anything.

He simply smiled.

And for the first time, Ram understood why his grandfather loved telling him stories about people who had lived hundreds of years ago.

They weren’t really stories about the past.

They were stories about who we are—and who we can choose to become.