Harini and her mother have a picnic in the garden
It was Sunday.
In Lonavala, Sunday meant no school, no hurry, and Amma saying, "We will do something nice in the evening."
The sky was soft after the afternoon heat. The Western Ghats in the distance were a pale blue, and a small wind was moving through the garden, shaking the mango leaves.
Harini was in her yellow t-shirt and blue denim skirt, flip-flops slapping on the gravel path. Her mother had a straw basket in one hand and a steel thermos in the other.
"What is in the basket, Amma?" Harini asked, skipping ahead and then running back.
"Groundsheet, sandwiches, and a small surprise," her mother said. "Where shall we have our picnic?"
Harini did not even have to think. "Under the banyan! The Great Banyan in the centre. It is the coolest place."
Her mother smiled. "As you command."
They walked down the mud trail behind the cottage, past the Champa bush where the white flowers were just opening for evening. The Great Banyan stood huge and kind in the middle of the garden, its aerial roots hanging down like long, gentle arms. Under it, the ground was clean and shaded.
Amma spread the blue and white checkered groundsheet. She had made cucumber-tomato sandwiches, cut into triangles. From the thermos, she poured thick mango milkshakes into two steel cups.
"Amma, did you bring the sugar-honey?" Harini asked.
"I did," said her mother. She took out a small wax paper sheet, folded like a boat, and inside was a spoonful of sugar mixed with honey, glistening gold and white. "For dipping the sandwiches. You like it sweet."
Harini nodded seriously. "Like the sunbirds."
They sat and ate. A pair of bulbuls were chattering above them in the banyan.
"I can see you. We have picnic," Harini whispered up.
"We saw," said the bulbul. "We will not steal. Your Amma is watching."
Harini giggled. Amma thought she was giggling at the sandwich.
Just then, at the edge of the groundsheet, where the mud trail met the roots of the banyan, Harini saw something.
A line. A perfect, straight, moving black line.
Black ants. Camponotus. The big carpenter ants.
They were marching single file, each carrying a tiny speck of something — a leaf bit, a grain.
"Oh!" Harini leaned forward. "Something there..."
Her mother looked. "Ants, kanna. Don't disturb them."
But Harini was already fascinated. She remembered the last time, near the little monsoon stream that cut across the trail. Now they were here, near their picnic.
In her mind, she could hear them, small and busy voices.
*"Left, left, left, left..."* one ant was saying.
"Heavy! Heavy! This crumb is bigger than my house!" said another, dragging a tiny piece of biscuit that had fallen earlier.
"Road is long. Road is long. Keep straight," said the leader ant, touching his antennae to the ground.
Harini looked at her sandwich. Quickly, carefully, she pinched off a few crumbs and some tiny sugar granules from the sandwich edge and scattered them a little away from the groundsheet, on the mud, in the ants' path.
"What are you doing, Harini?" her mother asked, sipping her milkshake.
"Helping," Harini whispered. "They are working so hard."
She scattered a few more sugar granules and some very tiny bread crumbs near the line, not on it, but just beside it, so they would find it.
The ants stopped. Their antennae wiggled wildly.
"Sugar! Sugar! Sweet star dust!" shouted a small ant.
"Bread! Bread! Soft mountain! Call everyone!" said another, running back and forth excitedly.
The leader ant came forward, touched the sugar with his antennae, and looked up at Harini. Or at least, Harini felt he looked up at her.
"For us? You giant-yellow-shirt giant?" he asked.
Harini nodded, her ponytail bouncing. "For you. And your friends."
"Thank you, Harini-who-talks," said the leader ant. "We will carry it home. The little ones will be happy tonight."
Her mother was watching all this. She didn't hear the ants, of course. She just saw her six-year-old daughter crouched at the edge of the sheet, very carefully placing crumbs on the earth, her face full of concentration and kindness.
Amma's eyes softened. She didn't say anything. She just let her daughter do it.
After a while, the milkshakes were over. The sandwiches were over. The sun was lower, and mosquitoes were beginning to hum near the dense papaya-banana corner.
"Shall we go back, Harini? We need to feed the cows. Lakshmi and Gauri will be waiting with the calf," Amma said.
Harini got up and helped fold the groundsheet. Her mother picked up the thermos, the cups, the basket. As they started walking back towards the cottage on the mud trail, Harini looked back.
"Amma! You forgot!"
On the ground, where the groundsheet had been, was the wax paper sheet with the spoonful of sugar mixed with honey. It was shining in the evening light.
Harini ran back. "Should I pick up the wax sheet with the sugar and honey? We will need it?"
Her mother turned, looked at the wax sheet, then looked at Harini, and at the little scattering of sugar and crumbs Harini had left for the ants.
Then her mother smiled. That slow, knowing smile mothers have.
"Let it be," she said. "Let it be, for it would be good for Harini's ant and beetle friends."
Harini stared. Her mouth opened.
"You saw? You saw I gave them sugar?"
"I saw," Amma said, tucking a strand of hair behind Harini's ear. "I saw my daughter being kind when she thought no one was looking. That is the best kind of kindness."
Harini's cheeks went pink. She was surprised and very, very happy. "You are not angry that I wasted bread?"
"Arrey, a few crumbs for ants is not waste," Amma said. "The garden gives us mangoes and guavas and champa flowers. We can give a little sugar back."
Harini hugged her mother's waist.
Just then, there was a rustling at the wax sheet.
"Ohhh! Ohhh! What is this! What is this shining lake!"
Two big, shiny black dung beetles had trundled in from the direction of the cow shed near the tamarind tree. Their backs gleamed like polished buttons. Behind them, the line of black carpenter ants had already reached the wax paper.
"Sugar! Honey! Mixed together! The moon and the sun together!" shouted the ants.
The first dung beetle, a little older and slower, pushed his head into the edge of the honey.
"Mmm. Mmm. The humans left us kheer," he said in a deep, slow voice.
The second beetle, smaller, was almost dancing.
"Too sweet! Too sweet! My legs are sticking but my heart is flying!"
Harini crouched down again, just a few feet away. She could hear them all.
"Is it good?" she whispered.
The leader ant looked up, his mouth full of honey-sugar.
"Good? Harini-who-talks, it is not good. It is a festival! We have never had honey-sugar river before!"
The big dung beetle looked at Harini and bowed his shiny head.
"Thank your mother, little speaker," he said. "Tell the tall lady that we beetles also say thank you. We came for dung, but we found gold."
Harini turned to her mother, eyes shining. "Amma, they are saying thank you! The ants and the beetle uncle!"
Her mother laughed. "Then we must say you are welcome."
She did not hear the beetles, but she believed Harini did. That was enough.
Hand in hand, they left the wax paper sheet under the Great Banyan, with the line of black ants and the two dung beetles having a quiet, sticky feast in the shade.
As they walked back on the mud trail towards the cottage, the bulbuls above sang a good-night song, and Harini whispered back, "Good night! Good night! See you tomorrow!"
And somewhere behind them, a very small voice said, "Good night, Harini-who-talks. And thank you for the sugar stars."
(c) Dr. Bharat Bhushan, 25 September 2026
