Long ago, on one of the northern islands of the Maldives, there lived a man named Toshali Takuru. He was known throughout the atoll as a man of wealth and hard work. His storehouse was filled to the rafters with rice, coconuts, and dried fish. Yet, for all his riches, Toshali’s heart was poor. He never shared, never offered food or shelter, and never gave alms to the poor who came to his door.
When travellers passed through the island, they often avoided Toshali’s house, for he was quick to anger and slow to kindness. His neighbours whispered that greed had closed not only his hands but his spirit as well.
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One stormy evening, during the heavy rains of the monsoon season, a weary traveller arrived on the island. His clothes were drenched, his body shivering from the cold, and his face pale with exhaustion. Seeking shelter, he knocked on Toshali’s wooden door.
“Good sir,” the traveller pleaded, “the rain has soaked me through. May I rest by your hearth until morning?”
But Toshali, sitting beside his fire and eating a bowl of warm rice, frowned and barked, “Go away! I have no room for strangers. Find a tree if you must.”
The traveller tried again, bowing his head. “Even a little food, then, just enough to keep me alive through the night.”
Toshali slammed the door shut. The sound echoed through the house like a curse.
Outside, the storm raged fiercer. The traveller wandered toward the forest beyond the village, seeking any shelter from the rain. By dawn, he was dead, his body found cold and still among the roots of a banyan tree.
From that night onward, Toshali’s peace was broken.
It began with a faint whispering through the eaves of his thatched roof, as if the wind itself spoke his name. Then came a low moan that circled the house. At first, Toshali thought it was the wind or the rustling palms. But when the sound began to echo inside the room, he knew it was something else.
On the third night, the whisper grew into words.
“Toshali… Toshali…”
He woke, trembling, his fire nearly out. Shadows moved along the walls, long and thin, shifting with the flicker of the dying flame. When he rose to light the lamp, he felt something cold brush his arm. His breath caught. The air grew heavy and damp, as if the sea itself had entered his house.
Night after night, the haunting grew stronger. The vigani, the spirit of the wronged traveller, had come to torment him. It rattled the palm rafters, howled through the keyholes, and cast a dark shape that crept closer each time Toshali lay down to sleep.
By the seventh night, he could bear it no more. He ran barefoot to the home of the island priest, an old man known for his wisdom and calm.
“Save me!” Toshali cried. “A spirit has taken my house! It comes for me every night, I hear it whisper my name!”
The priest looked at him quietly and asked, “Tell me, what deed have you done to call the vigani?”
Through trembling lips, Toshali confessed everything, the traveller at his door, his refusal, and the man’s death in the forest.
The priest nodded slowly. “The vigani is the spirit of one who has died wronged or hungry. Such spirits wander until their pain is eased. No prayer can drive it away if your heart remains closed. Only compassion can silence it.”
“What must I do?” Toshali pleaded.
“Open your storehouse,” said the priest. “Feed those in need. Share what you have without pride or measure. When your hands open, the spirit will find rest.”
Toshali returned home, his heart heavy with shame. That very morning, he unlocked his storehouse for the first time in years. He called out to the villagers, “Come, all of you, take what you need!”
He gave rice to the hungry, coconuts to the poor, and dried fish to the travellers who passed through the island. Each act of giving lifted a weight from his chest.
That night, when he sat by the fire, the wind was quiet. The whispers had stopped. The shadows no longer moved. For the first time in many days, Toshali Takuru slept peacefully.
From that time forward, he became known not as the miser, but as Toshali the Kind.
The villagers would later say, “A closed hand calls the ghost; an open hand keeps it away.”
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Moral of the Story
This Maldivian folktale teaches that greed and selfishness bring no peace. True protection from fear and misfortune lies in compassion, generosity, and an open heart.
Knowledge Check
1. Who was Toshali Takuru in the folktale?
Toshali Takuru was a wealthy but miserly man from a Maldivian island who learned the value of compassion after being haunted by a spirit.
2. What is a vigani in Maldivian folklore?
A vigani is the spirit of someone wronged or neglected in life, often returning to seek justice or peace.
3. Why did the vigani haunt Toshali Takuru?
The vigani haunted Toshali because he refused shelter and food to a traveller who later died from exposure.
4. How did Toshali end the haunting?
He ended the haunting by feeding the poor and sharing his wealth with those in need, freeing both his soul and the spirit’s.
5. What lesson does this Maldivian folktale teach?
The story teaches that generosity and compassion can heal wrongdoing and bring peace to both the living and the dead.
6. What is the cultural significance of this tale?
The story reflects Maldivian island values, respect for community, hospitality, and the belief that harmony depends on kindness.
Source:
Adapted from Maldivian Old Folk Stories by H. C. P. Bell, early 20th century ethnographic translation.
Oral source: Northern Atolls, Maldives.
Cultural Origin: Maldivian folklore
