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But Raghav thought of his father's last words: "The weight of a stolen thing is heavier than the thing itself." He shook his head. "No, Devi. That is not mine either. Please… return my old, broken axe. I will work with what I have."
Raghav was not a man of means, but he was a man of measure. Every morning, before the sun bled gold over the Sal forests, he would touch the cold iron of his axe. It was a humble tool—its wooden handle polished smooth by two decades of calloused palms, its blade nicked and scratched like the face of an old warrior. But it was his. an honest woodcutter story for class 11
Raghav thought for a moment. "Because a lie is a debt you cannot repay. If I had taken the silver, I would have to lie to my mother about where it came from. I would have to lie to my sister when she asked why we no longer honour father's name. I would have to lie to myself every morning when I picked up a blade that did not know my grip. That is not wealth. That is a prison." But Raghav thought of his father's last words:
The loss was not just iron and wood. It was the rhythm of his life. Without it, he could not work. Without work, no wages. No wages meant no medicine for his mother’s cough, no cloth for his sister’s school uniform. Please… return my old, broken axe
The second temptation was crueler. Gold. He could leave the forest forever. He could buy a shop, a house, a future. All for a single word: Yes .