A True Friend: An Indian Folktale of Loyalty

Introduction

Under a sapphire dawn by the banks of the Ganga, friendship blossomed like the first lotus of spring. Arjun, the potter’s son, and Ravi, whose father tended the cattle, found in one another a mirror of hopes. Their laughter echoed along earthen lanes, light as wind-chimes.

By the time they reached school, their bond was as solid as clay in the potter’s wheel. Each morning they greeted the world with shared dreams. A local vendor would call, “atithi devo bhava!”, selling sweet jalebis whose syrupy aroma clung to the air like childhood itself. The golden yellow glint of spices shimmered at the market stalls, and temple bells tolled in distant rhythm. Dust warmed beneath their sandals.

In whispered confidences beneath the ancient banyan, they vowed never to let fear part them. Parents nodded at their closeness, remarking it recalled the friendships of old maharajas and poets. Yet even the most steadfast branches can tremble in the storm. Along the riverbank, news arrived of brigands marauding nearby, seekers of coin and cattle. With hearts pounding like war-drums, the boys grasped each other’s wrists.

From that moment, they embarked upon a journey where the true measure of their loyalty would be weighed like rice on a merchant’s scale. Would they stand firm as mountain peaks against the howling gale of adversity? The scent of damp earth rose from the river as twilight approached, painting the horizon with roseate hues and unspoken promises. In a world teeming with mirages, their friendship gleamed like a solitary star.

The Meeting Under the Banyan

In the hush before sunrise, Arjun arrived beneath the sprawling banyan to find Ravi already waiting. The tree’s roots coiled across the earth like a sleeping serpent. Their breath rose in misty puffs. Birds stirred in the canopy, as though eager spectators. Arjun carried a small clay figurine he had fashioned overnight, its glaze still warm to the touch. Ravi admired it, fingers tracing every curve. "It is as fine as monsoon-pearl," he said, offering a grin that sparkled like sunlight on water.

They spoke of distant kingdoms and heroic deeds—even plucking a mango from the highest bough—until Ravi’s mother appeared, bearing steaming rotis fragrant with ghee. They ate in companionable silence, the flatbread warm against their palms. A faint breeze carried the scent of jasmine from a neighbour’s courtyard. Far off, a cowbell tinkled, each note a droplet of sound on silent stone.

When the school bell rang, their steps fell in perfect harmony along the packed-earth road. Children teased and jostled, but the two moved as one current—never apart. At midday, a merchant’s cart rattled by, laden with spices. The air caught fire with turmeric’s ochre glow and cumin’s sharp whisper. The boys paused, enveloped in the swirl of aromas, before continuing toward the lesson awaiting them.

After lessons, they returned to secrets whispered in leafy shadows. Under that tree, promises were laid down like offerings at a shrine. "Pakka friend rahoge?" Arjun asked in the familiar dialect. "Hamesha," Ravi replied without hesitation. Their voices mingled with the hush of rustling leaves, sealing a pact more unbreakable than iron. Yet fate, like a restless traveller, would soon arrive to test their vow.

A Test of Trust

Word of looming danger reached the village by evening. Shadows lengthened into ominous fingers, and the air tasted of fear. A band of brigands had been sighted near the old temple. Their lanterns bobbed like ghostly fireflies across the fields three nights past. Arjun’s father frowned over his potter’s wheel, its clay turning under practised hands. Ravi’s mother clutched her sari’s edge as she tended the hearth. The flame’s glow danced over her anxious eyes.

That night, the friends convened beneath the banyan once more, where the moonlight fell in silver slivers through the leaves. "We should warn the elders," said Ravi, voice low as candle wax. Arjun hesitated, heart thumping like a tribal drum. "What if they think we exaggerate?" he murmured. But Ravi’s gaze was firm. "Atithi devo bhava—it is our duty to protect all who dwell here."

The breeze rustled, carrying the fragrance of koel song and distant incense. Arjun swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew Ravi spoke the truth. Yet a flicker of doubt, ice-cold, crept through him. Flames from a lantern nearby flickered on their faces, casting long shadows like ancient demons.

By dawn they approached the council of elders. Every footstep felt heavier than the last. Village heads sat atop a raised platform, faces carved by worry. Ravi spoke first, words tumbling like mountain water. Arjun followed, voice wavering yet resolute. When at last the council rose in alarm, they acted swiftly: scouts dispatched, gates secured, villagers mustered. Through it all, the two friends stood shoulder to shoulder—proof that together, even the fiercest storm could be calmed.

Betrayal in the Market

Days later, the market bustled like a festival of colour. Traders hawked silks shimmering as peacock feathers. Tiffin vendors cried out, their wares perfumed with saffron and cardamom. Ravi wove through the crowd, eyes bright with purpose. He carried word that the brigands were regrouping near the river’s fork. Arjun trailed, clay shards tucked in his satchel as a token of safety.

Suddenly, a tall stranger emerged, clad in velvet that swallowed the light. His voice spilled like honey as he offered a pouch of gold coins. "Help me secure safe passage, and you shall be handsomely rewarded," he coaxed, glancing at Arjun’s bag. Doubt creeped into Arjun’s heart like mildew on damp walls. But Ravi’s steady gaze was warmer than moonlight. "No price is dearer than our honour," he whispered.

Enraged, the stranger revealed a dagger, its blade glinting like snake’s fang. A moment’s hesitation, and he thrust it towards them. A cry escaped Arjun’s lips. Ravi lunged forward, catching the traitor’s wrist with surprising strength. The crowd froze, spices scattering underfoot. Sandalwood incense mingled with the acrid tang of sweat as the stranger yielded.

Guards seized the would-be betrayer. Ravi’s bravery blazed like midday sun, and Arjun’s relief washed over him like river rain. Under the watchful eyes of the village folk, the two friends—bound by choice and courage—proved that loyalty trips false promises like a hidden root.

Journey to Redemption

With dawn breaking across the horizon, Arjun and Ravi set off toward the Brigand’s Den—a rocky cavern high above the river. Their feet crunched on loose stones, and the wind moaned through crevices like restless spirits. Each step sank them deeper into peril. Ravi admired Arjun’s steadfast gaze, as clear and bright as polished brass. "Together, always," he repeated, touching Arjun’s shoulder.

A distant rumble echoed, and shadows danced at the cliff’s edge. They descended by rope, hearts pounding in unison. The cavern mouth yawned before them, black as a moonless night. Ravi pressed a hand to Arjun’s back, guiding him into the gloom. Inside, the air was thick with dust and fear. The rancid stench of damp hides and old fires clung to the rocks. Their lanterns sputtered, revealing crude markings and bone shards.

At the cavern’s heart, the brigand chieftain sat atop a pile of stolen treasure. Greed glittered in his eyes. He seized Arjun, forcing the boy to cradle a priceless amulet. "Hand over all you have," he demanded. Ravi stepped forward, voice echoing like thunder. "Let him go! Our village needs that amulet to call the rains." Reluctantly, the chieftain released Arjun in exchange for his own life. Ravi offered no treasure, but spoke only of duty and compassion.

Moved by their courage, the brigands laid down arms. The chieftain bowed his head, for the boys had shown him the strength of friendship stronger than any blade. They emerged into sunlight, battered but unbroken. The amulet returned, the village saved, and a bond sealed by trial—a friendship as enduring as the river’s endless flow.

Conclusion

When Arjun and Ravi returned, the village greeted them with cheers that rolled like thunder across the fields. Elders wept with pride and mothers embraced them as living proof that loyalty needs no grand adornment. The chieftain’s amulet hung once more in the temple, its glow blessing each dawn. In the market, traders spoke of the two young heroes, with similes to mete out their deeds as dazzling as the noonday sun.

Under the now-familiar banyan, the friends sat side by side, sharing tiffin as the breeze carried jasmine and cowbells. Where once doubt had crept like mildew, trust now bloomed like wild jasmine, fragrant and unyielding. They recalled the moment of betrayal in the market, the terror in the brigand’s den, and the vow they had taken on that first morning: to stand by each other, whatever storms might come.

Years later, the tree’s branches would shade their grandchildren, who heard the tale in whispers and wonder. "Pakki dosti," the elders would say, "is rarer than gold." And so, the story of Arjun and Ravi passed into legend—proof that friendship, tested by fire, emerges brighter than any precious metal. The river still flows, the temple bells still ring, and in every dawn’s blush, the promise of a true friend endures.