In a village surrounded by a devastating drought, a young fawn lay weak and hungry. The crops had failed, and even the millet fields were bare. The old mill-wheel by the river had stopped turning. One day, the fawn swooned from starvation near a farmer’s hut. The farmer’s daughter, Leela, saw the tiny creature. Her heart filled with compassion. She remembered the perseverance of a summiteer her grandfather had told her about — someone who never gave up despite every ordeal.

Leela shared her last handful of millet with the fawn. The fawn licked her hand with contrite eyes, as if asking for forgiveness for being a burden. Leela was dumbfounded by the animal’s gentle nature. She clambered up the hill to find curative herbs. The fawn, weak but alive, followed her with penetrating eyes full of trust. Days passed. The fawn grew stronger, and the mill-wheel began to turn again when the rains finally came.

The villagers attributed the return of the rains to Leela’s compassion. She herself was contrite for ever feeling hopeless. “True strength,” she said, “is not tenacity alone — it is compassion that turns the mill-wheel of life.” She kept a small souvenir — a tuft of the fawn‘s fur — on her mantelpiece. Every time she stammered while telling this story, she remembered that kindness is the greatest truce we can make with a suffering world. The moral of the story spread across lands: A single act of compassion can restart a mill-wheel of hope.

In ancient times, a cruel king named Maharaja Durgam ruled with tyranny. His regime would plunder villages and force subjugation upon the weak. He demanded absolute allegiance, and his dissatisfaction with anyone who resisted led to devastating punishments. Many perished from the ingestion of poisoned millet that he ordered to be scattered. The epicentre of his cruelty was the old mill-wheel that he broke, symbolizing the grinding of his people’s spirits.

One day, the king fell ill. He became delirious with fever, muttering about a young fawn he had once killed in a hunt. In his delirious state, he swooned and dreamed of the fawn‘s mother weeping. A wise hermit visited him and said, “Your reproach is not for others — it is for yourself. Only compassion can heal you.” The king woke up contrite. He distinctly remembered every scrawled order he had given. For the first time, he stammered while speaking, overcome with shame.

The king called a truce with his enemies. He ordered his soldiers to evacuate the occupied lands. He rebuilt the mill-wheel and distributed millet to the hungry. He wrote a new hymn — a song of peace — and placed it on his mantelpiece as a souvenir of his change. Historians later attributed his transformation to a moment of contrite awakening. His perseverance in becoming good was as remarkable as any summiteer‘s tenacity. The moral of this historical story is clear: No tyranny is too great to end when compassion begins.