Full · 6 min aloud
The sea would not move.
On one side stood an army of — monkeys and bears, thousands of them, hands cupped and empty. On the other side, far across the water, was . And in Laṅkā was .
needed a bridge.
So the builder walked down the beach and looked at the water for a long time, and then began giving orders.
The mountains came apart in their hands. Boulders the size of houses went into the sea. Whole trees with the roots still on them. Rocks passed hand to hand down a line of monkeys a mile long, each one landing with a sound like thunder, and the water boiling white where it took them.
It went on for days. The crept out from the shore a little further every morning, and every evening the sea tried to take some of it back.
Nala had a rule, and he shouted it all day until they were sick of him: the big ones first, then the ones that fit the holes, then the small ones, then the sand. Nobody was listening to the last part. There was no sand. There was nobody to bring any.
Nobody noticed the squirrel.
She was small enough to sit in your palm. She could not lift a rock. She could not, honestly, lift a pebble.
So she did the only thing she could think of.
She ran down to the shore. She rolled in the wet sand until her fur was thick and heavy with it. She ran back up onto the growing bridge, and shook herself out, and a little grey dust fell into the spaces between the stones.
Then she ran back down. And did it again.
And again. All day, while the thunder went on over her head.
She was not trying to be noticed. That is worth saying. Nobody had asked her, nobody was counting, and if she had stopped at midday and gone home to her tree, the only creature in the world who would have known was her.
A monkey saw her and laughed. Then a few more of them laughed.
And one of them picked her up by the scruff — gently, the way you would move a leaf off a step — and set her down on the beach out of the way, and said: not now, little one. This is work for big hands.
She sat there. She was, I think, about to start again anyway.
And , who had been standing at the water's edge watching the sea, turned around.
He came back down the sand and knelt, which took a while, because everybody had to move.
He held out his hand, and the squirrel climbed into it.
And he said, so that the monkeys nearby could hear him: the bridge is not only rocks. The sand she brings fills the spaces the rocks leave open. Without her it is a pile. With her it is a road.
Then he ran three fingers, very gently, down her back.
The army went across it four days later. All of them. It held.
Nala walked it first, the whole length, testing. He came back and said one word, which was good, and then would not say anything else for an hour.
slow down hereAnd that is why, even now, every squirrel you see carries three pale stripes down her back. They are the marks of Rāma's fingers, and she never washed them off.
Short · 2 min aloud
The sea would not move. 's army had to cross to , and there was no bridge — so the pulled the mountains apart and threw them into the water, boulder after boulder, for days.
Nobody noticed the squirrel.
She was too small to lift a pebble. So she ran down to the shore, rolled in the wet sand until her fur was heavy with it, ran back up onto the bridge, and shook it out into the gaps between the stones.
Then she ran down and did it again. All day, while the thunder went on over her head.
A monkey laughed, picked her up the way you would move a leaf, and set her aside. Not now, little one. This is work for big hands.
And Rāma turned around.
He knelt down. He let her climb into his palm. And he said, loudly enough for the monkeys to hear: the bridge is not only rocks. Her sand fills what the rocks leave open. Without her it is a pile. With her it is a road.
Then he ran three fingers gently down her back.
The army crossed it four days later. It held.
slow down hereThat is why every squirrel still carries three pale stripes. They are the marks of his fingers, and she never washed them off.