We’ve all heard stories from our mothers, grandmothers, and other homegrown bards. I too, grew up listening to such stories. Most of them came from the Mahabharat, the Jatak Kathas, some from Baba Yaga, and the likes of Cinderella. But some special stories were my Mother’s own imagination. This tale was one such figment of her mind, that stayed with me forever. And now, I long to tell this to my own daughter, when she’s old enough to understand the moral behind this story. The original was in Hindi mixed with a few Garhwali words and inventive inventives used by my Mother. I, on account of many readers being uncomfortable with Hindi, have translated it as best as I could into a poem in English. An orphan boy with seven aunts, Lived from day to day on their alms, He’d clean their pots, their fields, their rooms, And in return, he’d get some food. One day, thus spake his seventh aunt, ‘Dear boy, I have naught but a magical plant, ‘Tis a magical golden fruit seed