The Branch

In a little town in the north of India there once lived a young man called Sheikh Chilli. He was kind, he was cheerful, and he always meant well. The trouble was that his head was usually somewhere else, floating among the clouds, while his hands got on with the work.

One morning his mother said, “Son, the neighbour needs firewood and will pay two coins for a good bundle. Go and cut some, and be careful.”

“Careful is my middle name,” said Sheikh Chilli, and off he went with an axe on his shoulder.

At the edge of the forest he found a fine old tree with a long, dry branch sticking out over the path. He climbed up, sat down on the branch, made himself comfortable, and began to chop. Chop, chop, chop. With every stroke he thought about what he would buy with two coins. A sweet for himself. A ribbon for his mother. Perhaps a little whistle.

Chop, chop, chop.

A traveller came walking along the path below. He looked up and stopped. “Hey there, young man!” he called. “You are sitting on the very branch you are cutting. If you go on like that, you will fall!”

Sheikh Chilli waved the axe cheerfully. “Mind your own business, uncle. I know how to cut a branch.”

The traveller shook his head and walked on.

Chop, chop, CRACK!

Down came the branch, and down came Sheikh Chilli with it, landing flat on his back in the dust with leaves in his hair. He lay there blinking at the sky. Then he sat up with wide eyes.

“That man knew,” he whispered. “He knew before it happened! He must be a holy man who can see the future!”

He jumped up and ran down the path, still holding his axe, shouting, “Wait! Wait, wise one! Please wait!”

The traveller turned round in surprise. Sheikh Chilli fell at his feet. “You told me I would fall, and I fell. You can see what is coming. So please, tell me one more thing. When am I going to die?”

The traveller tried to explain that anyone could have seen it, but Sheikh Chilli would not listen. He held on to the man's ankles and begged and begged. At last the traveller, who wanted to get home for his lunch, said the first silly thing that came into his head.

“Very well. You will die,” he said grandly, “when your feet go cold.”

Then he pulled his ankles free and hurried away before Sheikh Chilli could ask anything else. And Sheikh Chilli walked home very slowly, with no firewood at all, looking down at his feet the whole way.