In a small Tamil Nadu village, where the fields waved like silk saris in the wind, lived Grandmother Valliamma—a sprightly old woman who always wore a green cotton saree and smelled of jasmine and roasted peanuts.
Right behind her house stood a large tamarind tree, old and knotted. Children believed it was haunted, but Valliamma would just laugh.
“One day, that tree saved my life,” she would say, chewing betel leaf.
No one believed her—except her granddaughter Meena.
One dry summer, Meena sat under the tree, sighing. The river had dried up. The cows were thirsty. There was no water for Pongal.
“Wish I could help,” she muttered.
Suddenly, a voice rumbled softly from the bark: “You’re kind. So I’ll help you now.”
Meena gasped as the tamarind pods began to glow. When she touched one, a stream of fresh, cool water poured out from the roots!
She ran to tell Valliamma, who smiled gently. “Ah… it remembers. I once watered it every day, even during a drought.”
From then on, Meena watered that tree daily too. The tamarind tree never stopped speaking to her again.And the village? They renamed it Puli Oor – the Tamarind Town.
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