One sweltering afternoon, while crossing the rickety bamboo bridge over the river, disaster struck. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, shifting his axe from his right shoulder to his left. His foot slipped on a mossy plank. The axe, as if possessed by its own gravity, flew from his grip, arced through the humid air, and plunged into the deep, swirling green pool below. It did not float. It vanished with a soft, final gulp .
Raghav stood frozen. The river, which had always been his companion—cooling his feet, reflecting the sky—now seemed like a hungry mouth. He fell to his knees and stared into the opaque water. No shimmer. No handle. Nothing. an honest woodcutter story for class 11
Raghav returned to his village. He sold the golden axe, bought medicine and a school for his sister, and built a new bridge over the Kosi. He kept the silver one on his mantelpiece as a reminder of what he had refused. And every day, he picked up his old iron axe, walked into the Sal forest, and worked. One sweltering afternoon, while crossing the rickety bamboo
He lived in a small stone hut by the edge of the Kosi River, supporting his ailing mother and younger sister. While other woodcutters in the village often returned with extra timber poached from the reserved forest or bartered unfairly in the market, Raghav never did. He cut only his allotted trees, paid his dues, and slept without a knot in his stomach. The axe, as if possessed by its own