The Lost Book

The Lost Book

Long ago, says a Khasi legend, people already lived in many valleys, on mountain slopes, and beside swift rivers. They built homes, grew food, sang songs, and gathered for festivals. But as villages became more numerous, it grew harder to remember everything their ancestors had taught them. Some people said, “We must do it this way, because our elders did.” Others answered, “No, I heard it differently.” Some added their own ideas to old rules, while others forgot half of what they had heard. Then, the story says, the Great God called two representatives from different peoples. One was Khasi, and the other came from a faraway land. “Climb the mountain,” they were told. “There you will hear guidance that can help people live wisely, remember kindness, respect one another, and take responsibility for their community.” The two travellers set off together. The path to the mountain was not easy. Sometimes it vanished among rocks, sometimes it ran into mist, and sometimes it followed the edge of a steep drop. But the travellers helped one another. “Do you see that ledge?” one would say. “We can rest there.” “And I noticed a spring,” the other would reply. “Let us fill our water vessels.” At last, they reached the summit. For three days and three nights they listened to the guidance they were given. They heard about honesty, hospitality, fairness, remembering their ancestors, caring for children, and the truth that knowledge must not only be heard but also kept and passed on. At the end, each traveller received a book. “Here are the things you must remember,” said the voice. “Carry this knowledge to your people. Read it, explain it, disagree with respect, and do not let what matters be lost.” The travellers carefully took their books and began their journey home. When they had climbed the mountain, they had crossed a river easily on foot. But during their three days above the clouds, heavy rain had fallen. Now the water roared, foamed, and carried branches and leaves along its surface. The two stopped at the bank. “Well,” said the Khasi traveller, “yesterday we could have crossed here without wetting our knees.” “We will have to swim,” said his companion. “But how can we save the books?” They thought for a long time. The traveller from the faraway land had long hair. He wrapped his book in cloth, lifted it high, and tied it securely on top of his head. The Khasi traveller had short hair and could not do the same. “I will hold my book between my teeth,” he decided. “I must not let it go.” “The current is strong,” his companion warned. “Be careful.” They stepped into the water. At first, everything went well. But in the middle of the river, the current suddenly grew stronger. The Khasi traveller worked with his arms and legs, but the book in his mouth made it hard for him to breathe. A wave covered his head. He came up gasping, went under again, and at last had to open his teeth to save himself. The river seized the book. “No!” he cried. He lunged after it and caught it near a rock, but it was too late. The pages were soaked. The ink ran away, and the sheets became a soft, wet pulp. The Khasi traveller sat on the bank, holding the ruined book against his chest. For a long time, he said nothing. “I have lost what I was meant to bring home,” he said at last. The other traveller sat beside him. “You have not lost everything,” he said. “You heard the guidance yourself.” “But I do not remember every word.” “No one remembers every word. Even a book needs a person who can read and understand it.” The Khasi traveller thought about this. Still, he decided to return to the mountain and ask for another book. The journey back took a long time. When he reached the summit, no one was there. Only the wind moved among the rocks, and clouds passed so low that they seemed close enough to touch. The traveller stood on the peak and said, “I could not save the book. But I will not allow everything I heard to be lost.” Then he returned home. In his own country, he called a great council. Elders and young people came, women and men, keepers of songs, people who knew the customs, people who remembered family histories, and people who knew how to ask good questions. The traveller told them the whole story from beginning to end. “The book was lost in the river,” he finished. “I do not remember every line. So I ask for your help. What remains in my memory, we must keep together.” The council grew quiet. Then an old woman said, “If one person forgets a word, another may remember its meaning.” A young hunter added, “If a rule is important, we can repeat it at gatherings.” A mother with a small child said, “And we can tell children stories. A story is easier to remember than a long list of instructions.” A musician touched the strings of an instrument. “Some words can become songs,” he said. “And some,” said another person, “can become proverbs.” So that is what they did. They discussed what the traveller remembered. The most important things were repeated at councils. Some teachings became short sayings; others became tales told beside the fire. Some entered ceremonies and customs. Some passed from grandparents to grandchildren. Years went by. The paper book was gone. But the knowledge did not disappear with it. It lived in voices. In memory. In songs. In the decisions of the community. In the stories one person passed to another. And when children asked, “Why do we do it this way?” their elders did not answer, “Because we must.” They sat down beside the children and told them a story. About a high mountain. About two travellers. About a river that suddenly became full and fierce. About a book whose pages were taken by the water. And about people who understood that knowledge can live in more than one place. A book helps us remember, but a human voice can hold a treasure too, if it is listened to carefully, passed on honestly, and met with the courage to ask again. People say that is why this story reached us. For once a book was lost. But the story was not.

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨