Stories from the Park

Today, I went to the park with a group of Grade 5 children. The idea was simple: to sit under a tree, share a story about how different people relate to trees in different ways, and then let the children find a tree they felt drawn to — just to be with it.

While the story session was in full swing, something unexpected happened. A wasp landed on one of the girls. Another girl, acting on impulse, took the book in her hand and gave the wasp a sharp blow. It fell to the ground. Before anyone could react, she quickly stomped on it, making sure it was dead.

It all happened in a flash.

I walked up to the scene, unpleasantly shocked. My instinct was to say something — the usual adult reflex, to explain, to draw a parallel: “What if a giant came to your home and stomped on you like that? This too is a life…” But somehow, I managed to hold my tongue.

Instead, I picked up a leaf, gently placed the wasp on it, and just stayed with it.

The children slowly gathered around me. Some crouched nearby, watching the still wasp. A few noticed faint movements. One girl asked if she could sprinkle some water, and with a quiet sense of care, she did. The wasp stirred a little more. When I shared that it was a mud-blue wasp, they wondered if being in the mud might help. Someone brought a pinch of soil. Another small movement — barely visible — but enough to stir something in them.

Eventually, it became clear the wasp wouldn’t make it.

A couple of children suggested, “Chalo dafna dete hain,” “Let’s cremate it.” We went near the tree trunk and just placed the wasp down. In no time, ants began to gather — already beginning their part in the cycle of life.

Amidst all this hustle and bustle, the wasp had become a sort of hero. There was a shift — a noticeable sensitivity towards the creature.

The children were deeply engaged, observing the entire process: how the ants were carrying the wasp, bit by bit. Each part of the wasp was described with wonder: “Oh, the wing is shining like a rainbow,” “Look at its beautiful eyes,” “Such a cute wasp,” “Look how fast the ant is dragging it—as if it were walking on its own!” These conversations were so heartening.

Then came the backlash — some children began scolding the girl who had stamped on the wasp. I gently walked up and simply said, “Let’s be more careful next time.”

We all decided to sit in silence for a minute before heading back to school. Even the most restless ones sat still.

I’m still feeling so grateful for keeping my preachy-teachy mouth shut, for simply being present. For just being myself without entering “a wiser adult role”

Something gently shifted in them, and in me.

That, I feel, was the real story of the day.

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Shared by Bhaval Dawda, Teach for Nature Fellow, Bengaluru, Karnataka