Chattchitto

In the crook of an ancient banyan tree, where sunlight dripped like honey through the leaves, lived ChattChitto. He was not a squirrel, though he had a squirrel’s twitchy nose. He was not a bird, though he loved to sing. He was, simply, ChattChitto — a gatherer of tiny things: fallen jackfruit seeds, raindrops on a leaf, and most dangerously, words .

One monsoon, the forest fell silent. A great fever had stolen the voices of the parrots, the monkeys, even the whistling wind. The only sound was the drip-drip-drip of rain on tin leaves. The animals huddled in fear, unable to ask for help, unable to call their children. chattchitto

The forest gasped. The echo was raw, sharp, and unbearably true. In the crook of an ancient banyan tree,

ChattChitto froze. He had spent so long holding others’ words that he had hidden his own ache inside the Heart-Pot. Now the entire jungle knew: the cheerful gatherer was lonely. He was, simply, ChattChitto — a gatherer of