The Guardians of Parvatagiri: The Untold Myth

 

Parvatagiri Valley, where nature’s deep secrets were kept in hushed reverence, was a place of power, ancient and untamed. The valley, cradled by towering hills and veiled in a blanket of mist, had a heartbeat all its own. The winds that spiraled through the trees sang songs of ages long past, and the shadows whispered of a sacred treasure buried beneath the temple of Goddess Bhagavati. Her image was revered throughout the land, carved in pure black stone, her eyes eternal fires that gazed down upon the valley, guarding it fiercely from any who dared trespass.

 

For centuries, the people of Parvatagiri had lived in harmony with the land, respecting its deep mysteries. They knew of the treasure beneath the temple, for the stories were passed from generation to generation. It was said to be a gift from the gods themselves, an offering that would one day change the fate of the world—but only for the worthy. The legends told that to uncover the treasure would bring great blessings to the one who succeeded, but that few had ever returned once they dared to disturb the sacred ground.

 

Three guardians, fierce and immortal, protected the treasure, each bound to its secrets. They were the valley’s sentinels, ancient as the earth itself.

 

The first was Nagari, the serpent Sarpanch, whose wisdom was unmatched. Coiled high within one of the oldest trees in the valley, Nagari could sense the heartbeat of anyone who approached. His amber eyes gleamed with the knowledge of millennia, and his fangs could pierce the soul of any who sought to disturb the temple’s peace.

 

The second was Basava, the mighty bull of Tunga River. Basava was no mere beast; he was a living force of nature. His enormous frame carried the strength of the earth itself. His horns were sharp as the jagged cliffs that dotted the valley, and when he charged, the very ground trembled with his fury. He grazed peacefully by the riverbank, but if the temple’s sanctity was threatened, he would unleash a storm of violence.

 

The third was Kinkara, the ever-present hornet swarm that surrounded the temple like a dark cloud. The buzzing was constant, a sound that seemed to vibrate within the core of the valley. It was said that the hornets were not simply insects but were the spirits of those who had once tried to seize the treasure and had been forever bound to guard it in death. Their sting was fatal, and their wrath was never sated.

 

It was into this realm of myth and legend that Ramesh entered. A scholar from distant lands, Ramesh had heard the whispers of Parvatagiri’s treasure, and like so many before him, he believed that the valley’s legends were just that—stories, figments of imagination. The curse of the guardians, the sacred forces, he dismissed as superstition, something that could not withstand the power of logic and reason.

 

He came to the valley, a gleam of greed in his eyes. He claimed to be a researcher, but the villagers knew better. They warned him of the guardians, of the terrible price paid by those who dared defy the land. The priest, too, refused him entry to the temple, his eyes filled with concern, but Ramesh paid no heed. He was driven by a singular thought—wealth beyond measure, power beyond imagining.

 

One moonless night, while the valley slept beneath a starless sky, Ramesh crept up the hill toward the temple. His heart raced with excitement, and his shovel gleamed under the faint light of the torches he had brought. He would unearth the treasure, dispel the legends, and claim what was rightfully his.

 

He dug.

 

The earth groaned under his touch, as if the land itself were waking from a long slumber. The wind, once playful and gentle, stilled. A heavy silence fell over the valley.

 

And then, from the darkened sky, a pair of glowing amber eyes opened, high among the branches of the ancient tree. Nagari had sensed the disturbance. The air shifted, and the sound of hooves pounding the earth echoed through the valley. Basava, the bull, had heard the challenge. A hum, faint at first, filled the air—Kinkara, the hornet swarm, stirred from their perch around the temple, their stingers ready.

 

Ramesh looked up, fear seizing his heart as he saw the three guardians approaching.

 

Nagari uncoiled from his perch, slithering toward the earth with the speed and grace of a striking arrow. His eyes locked onto Ramesh’s, burning with a promise of punishment.

 

Basava, his massive form appearing from the mist, let out a mighty roar that shook the valley. His hooves hit the ground with the force of a thousand storms, and his eyes blazed with ancient fury.

 

Kinkara, a cloud of hornets, descended upon him like a living fog. Their buzz was deafening, a terrible sound that filled the air with a suffocating weight. The sting of one would be enough to bring a man to his knees, but thousands would bring death.

 

Ramesh, in a panic, dropped his shovel. He turned to flee, but the earth seemed to rise beneath his feet, trapping him in a field of roots and stones. The ground was alive, resisting him, pulling him deeper into the soil as though it too sought to punish him for his trespass.

 

The hornets descended, their sting sharp and unforgiving. Basava charged, and Ramesh screamed as he was caught in the bull’s furious path. The serpent struck, coiling around him, its fangs sinking deep.

 

By dawn, when the villagers came to see what had become of the stranger, they found only a scorched mark upon the earth. The treasure, like the secrets of the valley, remained untouched.

 

And so the valley whispered its tale, as it had whispered countless times before—of a man who dared disturb its peace, and of the guardians who reminded him that some treasures were not meant to be found, only respected.

 

The legend of Parvatagiri grew stronger with each telling. The land had protected its heart once again, and the guardians, eternal and unwavering, stood watch over the sacred ground.

 

Omkar Hosalli

English Language Teacher

GHS Hullatti

 

 

 

The Wrath of Goddess Bhagavati (A folktale from the hills of the sacred valley)

 

Long ago, in a valley veiled by thick forests and high hills, there lived a mighty goddess named Bhagavati. Her temple stood on a low hill, where the trees whispered prayers and birds sang her name. Beside the temple flowed a stream of pure, silver water — it never ceased, not in summer’s heat nor monsoon’s rage. The people of the Bhagavati Valley worshipped her with deep devotion, for she was the protector of their land, their forests, and every creature that walked, crawled, or flew.

 

The valley was blessed — rich in soil and sweet in fruit. But blessings often draw the eyes of the greedy. A wealthy man from the valley, proud and powerful, set his gaze upon the fertile lands by the stream. “If I build a dam,” he thought, “I can control the waters. I can own the valley.”

 

The villagers warned him.

“Do not touch the stream,” they said. “It belongs to the goddess. Her temple guards it.”

But the man laughed. “Superstition,” he said. And with his influence, he sought permission from the rulers beyond the valley. Paper and coin opened doors, and the work began.

 

An educated engineer was brought to lead the construction. He had heard the villagers’ stories too — tales of dreams, curses, and divine warnings. But like his master, he dismissed them.

 

Stone by stone, the dam rose. The stream slowed. The water behind the dam began to rise. It crept slowly toward the temple.

 

One night, when the moon hung heavy and pale, the water touched the temple’s steps.

 

That very night, as the rich man, the engineer, and the workers slept at the site, the goddess came. Not in fire or storm — but in a dream. She stood before the engineer, tall as the forest trees, her eyes glowing with rage. Her voice rumbled like thunder across the hills:

 

“You have defied the sacred. You have chained my stream. Leave before dawn, or face my wrath.”

 

The engineer woke in terror. His heart pounded like a drum. He rushed to wake the others. Some mocked him, others scoffed. But soon, the earth began to shake.

 

A loud crack echoed through the forest. The dam — proud and newly built — shuddered.

 

And then, it broke.

 

With a roar like a thousand lions, the water burst forth. It tore through stone and steel, swept away machines and men’s dreams. The workers, the engineer, and even the rich man fled for their lives, climbing the nearest hill as the waters raged below.

 

By morning, silence returned to the valley.

 

The temple stood untouched. The stream flowed as it always had, calm and clear. The forest whispered again, as if nothing had happened.

 

Since that day, none dared disturb the valley or its goddess. The tale of Bhagavati’s wrath passed from tongue to tongue, from elders to children — a warning to all:

 

“Never lay claim to what the goddess guards.”

 

 

 

Omkar Hosalli

English Language Teacher

GHS Hullatti

The Night of the Divine Chorus

 

Long ago, nestled in the cradle of the Bhagavati Hills, there was a quiet valley watched over by the revered Goddess Bhagavati. The people of the valley believed deeply that she protected the forest, the animals, and all who lived within its reach. Her temple stood at the feet of the highest hill, surrounded by dense woods and veiled in an air of mystique.

It was said that on every full moon and new moon, strange yet enchanting sounds would echo through the valley—prayers and chants so divine they could not have come from humans alone. The villagers believed it was the Yakshas and Yakshinis, celestial spirits of the forest, who took human form and gathered in the temple to worship the goddess under the moonlight.

One such full moon night, a villager named Oorjit was returning home late. The forest loomed large and dark around him, and every shadow seemed alive with the eyes of wild creatures. Fear tightened his chest as he ran through the woods, whispering silent prayers to Bhagavati with each step.

As he neared the temple, a soft glow lit the path ahead. To his surprise, he heard harmonious chanting—many voices singing praises to the goddess. Drawn by the sound, Oorjit peeked inside the temple. It was filled with people, all dressed in white, their faces serene, their voices in perfect unison.

They smiled and welcomed him. Overwhelmed with awe and gratitude, he joined them. Together, they sang prayers through the night, and Oorjit felt an otherworldly peace settle over him.

At dawn, exhausted but content, he dozed off by the temple’s threshold.

When he woke, the sun was high and the temple was silent—completely empty. Not a single soul in sight. Bewildered, he stepped outside. The forest was quiet, calm. Not a trace remained of the night's gathering.

Oorjit walked home, his heart full of wonder and reverence. He believed—no, he knew—that Goddess Bhagavati had heard his prayers and sent her divine spirits to protect him.

And from that day forward, he became a devout guardian of her temple, sharing his tale with others, ensuring the legend of the Night of the Divine Chorus lived on.

 

 

Omkar Hosalli

English Language Teacher

GHS Hullati

 

A Torch Ghost’s Tale

 

Abhishek and Anwar were the kind of best friends who did everything together—school projects, cricket matches, mischief, and most recently, attending the State-Level Rural Games held in a nearby village.

The event was vibrant—kabaddi, kho-kho, archery, and food stalls lined with spicy chaat. So caught up in the fun, they didn’t realize it was almost nightfall when they started their journey back.

A group of local woodcutters heading the same way offered to walk with them. The path led through a dense stretch of forest known as Torchwood Trail. On the way, the woodcutters shared hushed, chilling stories of the Torch Ghosts—spirits with flaming torches that roamed the path at night, seeking warmth from the living, or dragging those who ran from them into the trees.

“They only come after dark,” one said grimly, “and if you see their light—never stop. Never look back.”

Abhishek and Anwar laughed it off nervously, blaming the tales on old superstition. The next day, the final match was even more exciting. They stayed late again, caught up in the roaring cheers and celebration. But by the time they began their walk home, the sun had long disappeared behind the hills.

This time, they were alone.

The path was darker than they remembered. Crickets chirped, and every rustle of wind made the trees whisper like voices. The earlier stories now echoed in their heads like chants.

Halfway through the woods, they saw it.

A flicker of orange light. Then another. Then… floating torches—with no hands holding them—drifting slowly toward them in total silence.

Their breath caught. No time to think.

They ran.

Through mud, over roots, their legs burning, hearts thundering louder than their footsteps. Behind them, the lights moved faster—gliding, chasing, always the same distance behind.

Anwar tripped. Abhishek yanked him up without stopping. They didn’t scream, didn’t look back.

The lights followed all the way to the village gate. Just as they stumbled through the arch, gasping for air, the torches vanished like sparks in the wind.

The villagers found them pale, shaken, and speechless.

From that night on, they never used that trail after dark again. And if anyone asked why, they’d just say, “If you see a torch without a hand—run. And never look back.”

Because not all stories are made up.

Some just haven’t caught you yet.

 

 

Omkar Hosalli

English Language Teacher

GHS Hullatti

 

 

The Nightwork of the Torch Ghosts

 

Village Parvatagiri was famous for brave farmers, but among those Ravi was the bravest. He was a hardworking dedicated farmer. Parvatagiri had some whispers of torch ghosts—restless spirits who wandered the fields at night, their eyes burning like fire, each carrying a flickering torch. They were known to haunt the crops, chase farmers, and vanish before sunrise.

It was said they were the spirits of greedy landlords from ages past, cursed to roam the earth for exploiting the farmers. Now, they held power only from sunset to dawn. By morning, their flames would flicker out, and they'd be helpless once more.

The villagers feared them deeply. No one stepped into the fields at night—except one.

A humble but clever farmer named Ravi.

One night, his crop was on the verge of withering, and he couldn’t afford another bad season. So, against all warnings, he took his tools and walked into the field under a full moon.

As the clock struck midnight, a wind howled through the grass. And then—appearing like fireflies rising from the earth—came the torch ghosts. Their eyes glowed, their voices hissed, “Why do you walk where none dare?”

Ravi, heart pounding but face calm, replied, “Because I need help. My harvest is failing. You want to haunt this land? Then at least make it fruitful.”

The ghosts paused, confused. Never had someone spoken to them like that—not with fear, but with… commands.

“You are cursed to roam,” Ravi said. “So why not make yourselves useful? You hold torches. Light my path. Work the field. Let your punishment have purpose.”

Bound by ancient magic to obey those unafraid and truthful, the torch ghosts—grumbling—obeyed. All through the night, they ploughed, planted, and cleared weeds, their torches lighting the soil in strange glowing patterns.

As dawn approached, their torches dimmed, and their ghostly forms began to fade. But before vanishing, one whispered, “Clever farmer… You tricked the curse.”

Ravi simply smiled. “No trick. Just labour. Something you all once avoided.”

From then on, he returned to the field each full moon, and the torch ghosts, bound by his boldness, worked the land until dawn. His crops thrived. The village prospered.

The torch ghosts, once feared, became silent workers in the night—until the curse would one day break.

But only for the brave who dared to give orders in the dark.

 

Omkar Hosalli

English Language Teacher

GHS Hullatti

The Monkey with Secret Power

 

Once upon a time in a quiet village nestled between the hills of Chandragiri and Bhagavati forests, there lived a cheerful girl named Meena and her brave older brother, Mahesh. They loved each other dearly and were always looking out for one another.

One day, Mahesh visited the village market and found a strange merchant selling exotic animals. Among them was a small monkey with twinkling eyes and unusual golden fur. The merchant claimed the monkey had magical powers and would bring good luck. Intrigued, Mahesh brought it home as a surprise for Meena.

But the monkey was no ordinary creature. As night fell, it transformed into a towering beast with eyes that glowed like fire and strength beyond imagination. It spoke in a deep, echoing voice, declaring itself a cursed prince with powers of sorcery. The monkey, whose name was Zimbu, had been waiting centuries for a bride to break his curse—and he had chosen Meena.

In a flash of wind and smoke, Zimbu kidnapped Meena and vanished into the dense forest, hiding her in a gigantic tree as ancient as time itself. The tree's branches were like prison bars, and its roots whispered strange words to anyone who came near.

When Mahesh discovered Meena was gone, he didn’t waste a moment. Guided by courage and the love for his sister, he ventured into the dark forest. Animals bowed before him, trees bent aside—they had seen Zimbu’s tyranny and longed for a hero to end it.

 

Deep in the forest, Mahesh met a wise old owl who knew the secret of Zimbu’s power.

"To defeat Zimbu," the owl whispered, "you must break the moonstone around his neck. It holds the magic of his strength and mind. But be warned—he will sense your intent."

Armed with this knowledge, Mahesh crept into the heart of the forest. He found Meena trapped in the giant tree, guarded by Zimbu who was preparing for a forced magical wedding. Meena’s eyes lit up when she saw her brother. With silent determination, Mahesh leapt from the shadows during the ceremony.

A fierce battle broke out. Vines twisted, lightning cracked the sky, and the earth shook with Zimbu’s fury. But in a final, desperate move, Mahesh grabbed a fallen shard of glass and hurled it at the moonstone around Zimbu’s neck. It shattered into a thousand pieces.

Instantly, the magic broke. The tree shrank, the forest sighed in relief, and Zimbu crumbled into dust, his curse undone forever.

Meena was free. She hugged Mahesh tightly, and together they walked home through the now-peaceful forest, where birds sang songs of their bravery.

And so, the tale of the girl, her brother, and the monkey with secret powers became legend in the village for generations to come.

 

 

Omkar Hosalli

English Language Teacher

GHS Hullatti

Summary of the poem 'Dust of Snow'

 The poem “Dust of Snow” is written by RobertFrost. The poem deals with the communication between nature and human beings and how the nature helps us to overcome from negative emotions.

The poet recollects a small incident that changed his mood. Once the poet was so sad he was feeling depressed. He was standing under a hemlock tree. A crow sitting on the Hemlock tree started shaking the branch of it and snowflakes fell on the poet. This changed the mood of the poet. He spent rest of the day happily.

Omkar Hosalli

English Language Teacher

GHS Hullatti