Title: What We Still Learn from Ganesha’s Broken Tusk Today
Subheadline: Why this ancient story still resonates with the soul.
Word Count: 587
Themes: Faith, Dharma, Transformation
Keywords: Ganesha, Mahabharata, Upanishads, Sita, Shiva, devotional stories
---
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—kneeling by the riverbank that morning, when the Lord chose to break his own tusk.
I was just a boy then. My guru had sent me to deliver leaves of the banyan to Maharishi Vyasa. The sage was preparing to dictate the Mahabharata—a scripture that would echo through centuries, filled with dharma, war, love, and loss.
But who would write it?
Vyasa had asked Lord Brahma for help. Brahma had said, “Ask Ganesha.”
So they did.
Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, the son of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati, was sitting quietly near Mount Kailash when Vyasa approached him. I watched from behind the trees, my bundle of leaves forgotten in my arms.
Vyasa said, “Lord Ganesha, will you be my scribe? This story must be written without pause, for memory alone cannot carry its weight.”
Ganesha nodded. “I agree on one condition. You must recite it without pause. If you stop, I will leave.”
Vyasa bowed. “Agreed. But you must understand each verse before you write it.”
A silent look passed between them. The test was mutual.
So it began.
Hours passed. Then days. Vyasa chanted verses that came from the breath of the cosmos. Tales of the Kurukshetra war. Of brothers turned enemies. Of Krishna giving Arjuna the wisdom of the Upanishads. Of duty—dharma—tied not to winning, but to standing for truth, no matter the pain.
Ganesha wrote with his quill, fast as lightning. But suddenly, the stylus snapped.
I gasped.
The watching sages stared, uncertain. What would the Lord do?
Without hesitation, Lord Ganesha broke off one of his own tusks and dipped it in ink.
He kept writing.
No pride. No pause. The tusk hit the palm leaves again and again, catching every word, every truth.
I didn’t understand it then. Why break your own body just to finish a tale?
But as years passed, I came to see it.
The broken tusk was sacrifice. Faith. Dharma above comfort.
Ganesha wasn’t just writing a story. He was showing what it means to live with purpose. To give up something beautiful—like a curved ivory tusk—for something eternal.
Even now, centuries later, when we see his image—with one whole tusk and one broken—we remember. That wholeness isn’t always about being unbroken. Sometimes, it’s about what you’re willing to break for something greater.
Sita left the comforts of Ayodhya to walk beside Rama into exile. Arjuna laid down pride when he bent before Lord Krishna. Shiva drank poison during the churning of the ocean—to save the world.
Ganesha’s broken tusk is in that same lineage of devotion.
So now, when I tell my own son bedtime stories, I always start with the broken tusk.
I tell him, “Look at that image on our wall. That’s not just decoration. That is dharma in ivory. It means doing what’s right, even when it hurts.”
He listens. Eyes wide. Fingers tracing the cracked white tooth.
And one day, when life asks him to choose between ease and truth, between silence and duty—I hope he remembers.
Just like I remember that day by the river.
And the sound of the tusk, striking leaf.
Faith writing its own name.
Forever.
Title: What We Still Learn from Ganesha’s Broken Tusk Today
Subheadline: Why this ancient story still resonates with the soul.
Word Count: 587
Themes: Faith, Dharma, Transformation
Keywords: Ganesha, Mahabharata, Upanishads, Sita, Shiva, devotional stories
---
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there—kneeling by the riverbank that morning, when the Lord chose to break his own tusk.
I was just a boy then. My guru had sent me to deliver leaves of the banyan to Maharishi Vyasa. The sage was preparing to dictate the Mahabharata—a scripture that would echo through centuries, filled with dharma, war, love, and loss.
But who would write it?
Vyasa had asked Lord Brahma for help. Brahma had said, “Ask Ganesha.”
So they did.
Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, the son of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati, was sitting quietly near Mount Kailash when Vyasa approached him. I watched from behind the trees, my bundle of leaves forgotten in my arms.
Vyasa said, “Lord Ganesha, will you be my scribe? This story must be written without pause, for memory alone cannot carry its weight.”
Ganesha nodded. “I agree on one condition. You must recite it without pause. If you stop, I will leave.”
Vyasa bowed. “Agreed. But you must understand each verse before you write it.”
A silent look passed between them. The test was mutual.
So it began.
Hours passed. Then days. Vyasa chanted verses that came from the breath of the cosmos. Tales of the Kurukshetra war. Of brothers turned enemies. Of Krishna giving Arjuna the wisdom of the Upanishads. Of duty—dharma—tied not to winning, but to standing for truth, no matter the pain.
Ganesha wrote with his quill, fast as lightning. But suddenly, the stylus snapped.
I gasped.
The watching sages stared, uncertain. What would the Lord do?
Without hesitation, Lord Ganesha broke off one of his own tusks and dipped it in ink.
He kept writing.
No pride. No pause. The tusk hit the palm leaves again and again, catching every word, every truth.
I didn’t understand it then. Why break your own body just to finish a tale?
But as years passed, I came to see it.
The broken tusk was sacrifice. Faith. Dharma above comfort.
Ganesha wasn’t just writing a story. He was showing what it means to live with purpose. To give up something beautiful—like a curved ivory tusk—for something eternal.
Even now, centuries later, when we see his image—with one whole tusk and one broken—we remember. That wholeness isn’t always about being unbroken. Sometimes, it’s about what you’re willing to break for something greater.
Sita left the comforts of Ayodhya to walk beside Rama into exile. Arjuna laid down pride when he bent before Lord Krishna. Shiva drank poison during the churning of the ocean—to save the world.
Ganesha’s broken tusk is in that same lineage of devotion.
So now, when I tell my own son bedtime stories, I always start with the broken tusk.
I tell him, “Look at that image on our wall. That’s not just decoration. That is dharma in ivory. It means doing what’s right, even when it hurts.”
He listens. Eyes wide. Fingers tracing the cracked white tooth.
And one day, when life asks him to choose between ease and truth, between silence and duty—I hope he remembers.
Just like I remember that day by the river.
And the sound of the tusk, striking leaf.
Faith writing its own name.
Forever.
