Grandma and the Frog

The story was told by my mother when I was a child. I have roughly reproduced it here.

Grandma had a big house. It was surrounded on all sides by all kinds of trees—cypress, oak, fig, mango, walnut, and others.

She loved her trees.

Inside, however, she had almost nothing—just a few empty pots and pans. Her rice bag was nearly empty. She was very poor.

One day, Grandma went outside to look at her trees. She noticed a dry branch on the cypress tree. She was very sad and asked, "How did your branch become dry?"

The tree replied, "The thunder struck me."

Grandma was heartbroken. She said, "If your branches can dry up, then let me also be struck."

So she hit her knee very hard. Soon, her knee swelled up big. Grandma cried out in pain.

All day and all night, she sat near the oven, weeping. "It hurts so much!" she shouted at last. "Take back your pain!"

She struck her knee again, even harder.

The skin opened, and out jumped a frog. It landed right on the oven. "Let me burn this frog in the fire," Grandma said angrily.

She threw the frog into the fire. It burned like dry grass.

The frog quickly croaked, "Take me to the third room!"

Grandma carried it upstairs and placed it there. Instantly, the room filled with all kinds of grains—rice, wheat, maize, and millet.

"Take me to the first floor before I burn completely," the frog said again.

Grandma ran downstairs and set it there. The room filled with farm animals—a cow with a calf, a hen with four chicks, a pig with two piglets, and a horse with a foal.

"Take me to the garden," said the frog.

Grandma ran outside and placed the frog in her garden. The garden filled with all kinds of vegetables—radishes, cabbages, potatoes, pumpkins, leafy greens, and turnips.

By then, the frog had burned completely and turned to ashes.

Grandma felt both sorry and happy. She now had grains, vegetables, and animals to keep her company. Her home was no longer empty.

Yet, for a long time, she was not completely happy. She missed her sick cypress tree. One day, she went to visit it. To her delight, the tree had no dry branches anymore.

Grandma smiled with happiness.

The Three Cunning Men

A humorous short story told by my mother when I was a kid I think many of us have heard this tale before. Though it is quite popular, I have never seen a written record of it in any language. So here, I have briefly and roughly reproduced it from memory. But let me now tell it properly, the way my mother told it to me.

Once upon a time, in a small village nestled between rolling hills, there lived three men. They were not handsome men. They were not strong men. In fact, each had a peculiar flaw—but none of them was willing to admit it.

The first was called Threadlike Neck. His throat was so slender and delicate that swallowing a grape was an adventure. The second was named Scrawny Chest. His rib cage was so fragile that a hearty sneeze could trouble him for days. The third was known as Lanky Leg. His limbs were long, thin, and brittle—like dried twigs pretending to be tree branches.

One sunny morning, these three decided to go on a picnic. They met in secret behind a banyan tree, whispering like conspirators. "Listen," said Threadlike Neck, his voice a thin whistle. "No one must know about our plan. If others come, they will eat our share." "Agreed," said Scrawny Chest, puffing out his hollow chest. "This shall remain among us three." "Absolutely," added Lanky Leg, shifting his weight carefully from one foot to the other. "Not a word to anyone." And so they swore a solemn oath of secrecy.

“The next morning, while the village still slept, the three men slipped out like shadows. Carrying a large basket filled with rice, spiced meat, fresh vegetables, and pickles, they marched into the deep forest. They walked for an hour, then another, until they found the perfect spot—a clearing beside a bubbling stream, shaded by a mighty fig tree. Birds sang overhead. Butterflies danced among wildflowers. "This is the place," declared Threadlike Neck, setting down the basket with a grunt. They gathered firewood, lit a small flame, and began to cook. Soon, the aroma of simmering meat and fragrant rice filled the air. The men's mouths watered. Their stomachs growled. Lunch was almost ready. And it looked positively luscious. ” Each man eyed the food greedily. Each wanted to be the first to taste it. But none wanted to appear too eager. Finally, Threadlike Neck cleared his throat—carefully, always carefully—and spoke. "Let me check if the salt is all right," he said, as if doing everyone a great favor. Before anyone could object, he plunged his hand into the pot and fished out a large, juicy portion of meat. He lifted it to his lips. His friends watched with envy. But Threadlike Neck was in such a hurry that he did not notice—the meat contained a small, sharp bone. He gulped. The bone shot down his throat and lodged there, tight as a cork in a bottle. "Gkkk—" he gasped, clutching his neck. His eyes bulged. His face turned purple. His threadlike neck, true to its name, could not pass the bone. Within moments, the poor fool collapsed onto the forest floor. Dead.

Scrawny Chest looked at his fallen companion. For a moment, sadness flickered across his face. But then he glanced at the pot of food, still steaming and delicious, and his sorrow evaporated like morning dew. “"Well," he said cheerfully to Lanky Leg, "now there are only two of us to eat this tasty quantity. More for you and me!" He was so pleased with this realization that he decided to celebrate. He slapped his hand hard and fast against his own chest—thwack!—the way a triumphant warrior might beat his breast. But Scrawny Chest had forgotten something important. His ribs were scrawny. Fragile. Brittle as old twigs. ” At the force of his own slap, his ribs splintered like glass. A sharp crack echoed through the forest. Scrawny Chest gasped, staggered, and fell beside his friend. Within moments, he too lay still. Dead.

Lanky Leg stood alone in the clearing. Two bodies on the ground. A pot full of delicious food. And no one left to share it with. His eyes widened. His lips curled into a smile. Then a grin. Then a wide, wicked laugh. "Me?" he whispered. "Only me? All of this… just for me?" “Happiness knew no bounds. He threw his arms into the air and began to dance—a wild, victorious jig around the fire. "Me, only me!" he shouted, leaping higher and higher. "I am the luckiest man alive!" He pranced. He twirled. He kicked up leaves and dust. But Lanky Leg had forgotten something too.” His legs were lanky. Thin. Weak. Not made for dancing, and certainly not made for boasting.’On his seventh triumphant jump, his left leg buckled. Then his right. There was a sound like dry branches snapping—crack, crack—and Lanky Leg crashed to the ground. He tried to rise, but his legs would not hold him. The pain was terrible. The shame was worse. And so, with the scent of spiced meat still in his nose and no one to hear his final cry, Lanky Leg died.

And thus, the story of the three cunning men's picnic came to an end. The food they had so selfishly guarded was left untouched by human hands. But not for long.’Soon, the birds of the forest arrived—crows and mynas and bulbuls. Then came the squirrels, the wild boars, and even a shy forest fox. They ate every last grain of rice and every shred of meat. Nothing went to waste. Only the three foolish men wasted themselves.

My mother would always pause here, looking at me with kind but serious eyes, before delivering the moral: "Bragging, envy, and meanness are the garbage of foolish people." She would then add, softly: "A meal shared is a meal enjoyed. A secret hoarded is a poison swallowed alone. Do not be like the three cunning men. Do not let your own flaws become your undoing."

Another Lesson (from me to you) Looking back, I think the story teaches us even more: · Greed disguises itself as cleverness. Each man thought he was being smart. Each was merely being greedy. · Celebration without caution is dangerous. Scrawny Chest and Lanky Leg died not from others' actions, but from their own. · Secrets kept for selfish reasons often end badly. There was no need to hide the picnic. Had they invited the village, they might have lived to share the meal—and the joy. But then again, if they had been wise, there would be no story to tell. And that would be a shame, because my mother's stories were the best kind—funny, sad, and unforgettable, all at once.