Zavadi Vahini Stories -

“Tonight,” he said, “I will not tell a tale of heroes or demons. Tonight, I will tell you of the Zavadi Vahini herself—the river that gave us our name.”

He crouched down to Pooja’s level.

In the rain-soaked village of Kurinji, nestled in a cleft of the Zavadi Hills, the old storyteller named Muthu Vahini sat beneath the banyan tree. The children gathered, as they always did, when the evening mists rolled down like grey cats. But tonight, Muthu’s face was not gentle. It was carved with worry.