The White One: A Poetic Fable

This is a story about a calf—or perhaps about us. About innocence, and what we do with it. He was born into sunlight, named by laughter, and loved without question. A calf with eyes like morning dew and a heart untouched by betrayal. But the world he trusted was not what it seemed. In 'The White One', K.G. Sharma weaves a poetic fable of innocence—how it lives, how it breaks, and how it walks quietly into the river. A haunting reflection. A whisper for the soul.

The White One

Krishan Gopal Sharma

He leapt through the morning mist like a whisper chasing sunlight. His legs, still unsure of their strength, danced across the soft earth with the clumsy grace of new life. He nudged wildflowers with his nose, chased butterflies without catching them, and paused often—just to feel the wind press against his face.

He had no name, not yet. Only a rhythm in his heart and a world that felt kind.

Sometimes, he would run in circles, then stop abruptly to stare at the sky—as if it held secrets meant only for him. Birds flew overhead, and he would tilt his head, listening not to their calls, but to the silence between them.

Two children watched him from the edge of the enclosure. A boy and a girl, barefoot and bright-eyed. They came every morning with chopped carrots, mango peels, and their laughter. He would trot toward them, nuzzle their palms, and lick their fingers with a tenderness that made them giggle.

They named him The White One — not for his colour alone, but for the light he carried in his gaze.

"He looks like a dream that forgot to end," the girl once whispered.

He loved them. Not with the loyalty of a pet, but with the quiet trust of a soul that had never been betrayed. His mother, the cow, watched from a distance. Her eyes held the weight of seasons, but her gaze softened when he played. She chewed slowly, always chewing, always watching.

The world was still a place of rhythm. The fox took the hen. The eagle snatched the chick. The snake swallowed eggs from a nest. He saw it all, and he understood.
“Hunger has its own honesty,” he thought.

And so he played. And so he trusted. And so he believed the world was good.

One day, men came for the bull — his father. They tied a rope around his neck and dragged him away. The White One cried out, but his mother remained still. Her eyes did not follow. Her chewing did not stop.

"This is how it is," her silence seemed to say.

Later, he saw a lamb and a goat taken to the temple. The men carried machetes and sang hymns. They bowed, then butchered. The White One trembled — not from fear, but from confusion.

A truck passed by, filled with buffaloes and cows. The air carried a stench he couldn’t name, but it made his stomach twist. His mother chewed calmly, her eyes distant.

"It’s alright," she seemed to whisper. But he wasn’t sure anymore.

Then came the day of worship. The villagers bowed before his mother, smeared vermillion on her forehead and his. They offered fruits, chanted prayers, and called her Gaumata. The White One felt joy swell in his chest.

"They love her. They love me. We are sacred."

But joy is a fragile thing. He saw men fight over buffaloes — not for milk, but for profit. He saw others drink his mother’s urine, smear her dung on their foreheads, and call it holy. "I only drink her milk. Why do they do this?"

Then came the youth—loud, brash, wearing their faith like armor. They too bowed, but their eyes gleamed with something else. Greed. He felt it. It clung to their skin like smoke.

"The wolves never lied. The men do."

The White One grew quiet. He no longer leapt. He no longer licked. He watched the sky, wondering if this too had changed.

And one evening, his mother was taken. No prayers. No chants. Just silence and ropes. The children cried, but the men did not look back.

That night, The White One stood by the river. The moon hung low, casting silver on the water. He thought of the fox, the eagle, the snake. They killed to live. But these men — they killed to own, to profit, to pretend.

“Better to be taken by the river’s hunger than by hands that wear masks of love.” He stepped into the water. Slowly. Surely. Until the ripples swallowed his reflection.

No one saw him again.

But the children still search. In the rustle of leaves, in the hush of dawn, they call his name. And sometimes, when the wind is just right, it feels like he might answer. Some say he walked into the river. Some say he waits.

Perhaps innocence never dies. It just walks into the river… and waits.

The children still search. And maybe, so do we.

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The part 2 of this poetic fable can be reached here. 

Krishan Gopal Sharma; kgsharma1@gmail.com; Freelance journalist, retired from Indian Information Services. Former senior editor with DD News, AIR News, and PIB. Consultant with UNICEF Nigeria. Covered BRICS, ASEAN, Metropolis summits and contributed to national and international media.

(Views are personal)