Up in the sky, there lived a little cloud named Chhotu.
All the other clouds knew how to rain. Big clouds, small clouds, grey clouds, white clouds — when it was time, they opened up and let the water fall down to the earth below.
But Chhotu wouldn't.
"It's time to rain," said the big grey cloud one morning.
"I know," said Chhotu. "But what if nobody wants my rain?"
The big cloud looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"What if my rain is too cold? Or too fast? Or falls in the wrong place?"
The big cloud had never thought about any of this. "Just rain," he said. And floated away.
Chhotu drifted over a farm.
Below, a farmer was looking up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun. His fields were dry. His plants were drooping. He was waiting.
Chhotu looked down at him for a long time.
Then he looked at his own small round belly — full of rain that had been waiting just as long.
He took a deep breath.
And rained.
Not perfectly. A little too fast at first, then too slow. Some drops went sideways. One very large drop landed directly on the farmer's nose.
But the fields drank it all up. The plants lifted their heads. The farmer laughed and turned his face up to the sky.
Chhotu felt lighter.
And warmer.
And much, much better than before.
That evening the big cloud floated past. "I told you," he said.
"You did," said Chhotu. "But I had to find out for myself."
Sometimes we're scared we'll get it wrong. But until we try — we'll never know. Chhotu tried. And the whole field turned green.
The End. Sleep tight, little one.
