Moral Stories

The last Candle

In a quiet village nestled among sleepy mountains, there lived an old candle maker named Ratan. His back was bent with age, and his hands were rough from years of shaping wax, but his heart glowed warmer than any flame he ever made.

He was not a rich man. His home was modest, and his meals were simple. But every evening, without fail, he lit a candle at the village temple; not for himself, but for the peace of others. He never asked for gold or comfort. He only wished that no soul around him would sleep with sorrow in their hearts.

One winter came like none before. The sky roared with storms, winds screamed through narrow lanes, and snow buried the village like a forgotten page. Electricity vanished. Fear crept into homes like shadows. Children cried. Elders shivered. The warmth of hope seemed to flicker out.

Ratan, now too frail to stand straight, looked around at the frightened faces, especially the children. He had only one candle left. His last one, the one he had made for himself to keep him company through the freezing night.

But he didn’t hesitate.

He wrapped the candle in his scarf and walked slowly, painfully, to the centre of the village. With trembling hands, he lit it and placed it on a stone.

Its flame was small, but it danced.

One by one, villagers came out of their homes, drawn to that light. They brought their own candles, old ones nearly forgotten, and lit them from Ratan’s flame. The square began to glow. Cold hands held warm candles. Strangers shared stories, songs, and smiles. Children laughed again.

Ratan sat quietly on the edge, watching. No words, just peace. His wrinkled hands folded in his lap, and his eyes glowed brighter than the candle.

That night, he gave away his only light, and in doing so, he lit up an entire village.

Moral :- True strength lies not in what we cling to, but in what we are willing to share. Sometimes, a simple act of kindness can ignite warmth in many hearts.

The Sound of Shoes

When I was ten, I thought the world revolved around shoes.

Not just any shoes—white canvas ones, crisp and clean, like the ones my classmate Subodh wore every Monday. His shoes squeaked when he walked on the school floor. I imagined that was the sound of importance, the sound of someone being noticed.

Mine, on the other hand, were hand-me-downs. A little too big. The laces didn’t match. And no matter how hard I scrubbed them with chalk powder on Sunday evenings, they never quite looked... bright.

I remember once, during lunch break, I stared at Subodh’s shoes for so long, I didn’t even notice he was looking right back at me.

"You like them?" he asked.

I looked away, embarrassed. "They’re nice," I mumbled.

He nodded. “Want to try them on?”

I thought he was joking. But he wasn’t. He bent down, untied them, and handed them over. Just like that.

“Only for a minute,” he smiled.

And for one whole minute, I stood there, wearing someone else’s shoes and feeling like someone else entirely. Taller. Straighter. Brighter.

But here’s the twist: they didn’t fit. Not really. They pinched my toes, and my heel kept slipping out. And just like that, I gave them back.

“They don’t suit me,” I said.

He nodded again, but this time it felt like he understood something deeper than I did.

Years passed. I never told anyone about that moment. I don’t think Subodh remembers it either.

But I do.

Because that day I learned something that stayed with me longer than algebra or map reading ever did:

Sometimes, the things we envy don’t actually fit us. And the things that truly belong to us are just waiting to be worn with pride—creases, scuffs, and all.

Moral: Don't measure your worth by what fits someone else. You were made for your own path, your own shoes—and they will take you exactly where you're meant to go.

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