The village of Sagaing once carried the gentle rhythm of trust in every corner of its daily life. Morning chants from nearby monasteries drifted through the air, mixing with the sound of footsteps on packed earth and the calls of traders arranging their goods. People greeted one another openly, and disputes were rare and quickly resolved. Yet beneath this calm surface, change was quietly approaching, unnoticed at first like a cloud forming beyond the hills.
At the eastern edge of the marketplace stood an ancient stone. It was neither tall nor decorated, only smooth and round, resting beneath a wide tamarind tree whose roots gripped the soil like patient fingers. No inscription marked the stone, and no record spoke of its origin. Elders said it had been there longer than memory itself. Monks often paused beside it during alms rounds, resting briefly before continuing. Children once played around it, and travelers felt strangely calm when they sat nearby.
As the years passed, the village grew larger. Trade increased, and wealth began to concentrate in certain households. With growth came ambition, and with ambition came suspicion. When the village leaders proposed building a shared granary to protect against famine, the idea was welcomed at first. Each family agreed to contribute rice and silver according to their means.
Soon after contributions began, whispers followed.
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Some villagers claimed that others had given less than required. Others suspected that the council was keeping extra grain for themselves. Friendly conversations turned cautious. Accusations were spoken quietly, then more boldly. The marketplace no longer felt warm. Eyes lingered too long. Words carried sharp edges.
One afternoon, as the sun burned high and tempers ran thin, a trader named U Sein Min stood near the old stone and raised his voice. He accused a neighbor of falsifying records and stealing rice meant for the poor. His words cut through the marketplace, drawing a crowd. Faces tightened as people waited for the accused man to respond.
Before any answer could be given, a sound rose from the ground.
It was laughter.
Clear and unmistakable, it echoed beneath the tamarind tree. It did not sound cruel, yet it carried a sharp clarity that silenced every voice. The laughter came from the stone.
U Sein Min froze. His face drained of color. The sound faded as suddenly as it had appeared. A heavy silence followed, broken only by the flutter of birds startled from nearby branches.
Moments passed before anyone spoke. A monk stepped forward and studied the stone carefully. He said nothing, but his calm presence eased the panic beginning to rise among the crowd.
When the accused neighbor quietly spoke, he denied the charge with steady voice. U Sein Min, trembling, fell to his knees. He confessed that his accusation had been born from envy and fear, not truth.
Word spread quickly through the village.
The next day, villagers gathered near the stone with offerings of flowers and water. Elders declared the area sacred and urged people to speak honestly when disputes arose. Some were fearful, others curious. Few doubted what they had heard.
Over the following weeks, the stone revealed its nature again and again. Whenever someone spoke a lie near it, laughter followed. It was never random. Honest words passed in silence. Deceit never did. A woman falsely accused her sister of hiding grain. The stone laughed. She confessed through tears. A man denied taking silver meant for repairs. The stone laughed. He returned the money before nightfall.
Gradually, people learned restraint. Arguments softened. Accusations were weighed carefully before being spoken. Children were taught that words carried power, and that truth had a sound all its own.
The greatest test came when the village headman, U Thura, stood before the people to present the final granary records. His position had made him a target of suspicion. As he explained each account, the villagers watched the stone in silence. When he finished speaking, the air felt heavy with expectation.
The stone remained silent.
Relief swept through the crowd like cool rain. Trust, wounded but not broken, began to mend. U Thura bowed deeply, humbled by the responsibility placed upon him.
Not all visitors respected the stone. One evening, a group of travelers mocked the villagers and shouted false claims to provoke laughter. The stone answered them once, loudly and without mercy. Fear drove the men away before dawn. No outsider ever mocked the stone again.
Years passed. The laughter grew rare, not because the stone lost its power, but because the village learned to speak with care. The stone never demanded worship, never moved, never punished. It only revealed.
Elders taught that the stone was not a judge but a mirror. It reflected the truth people tried to hide from themselves. When a new generation grew, the story remained, passed quietly beneath the tamarind tree.
The marketplace returned to warmth. And though laughter once frightened the village, silence became its greatest gift.
Moral Lesson
Truth does not need force to defend itself. When people speak honestly and act with integrity, harmony returns naturally. Lies may feel powerful for a moment, but they cannot endure when truth is allowed to speak.
Knowledge Check
- Where was the laughing stone located in the village?
Answer: Beneath a tamarind tree at the edge of the marketplace. - What caused the village conflict to begin?
Answer: Suspicion and accusations surrounding contributions to the communal granary. - When did the stone laugh?
Answer: When people spoke lies or made false accusations near it. - Did the stone punish people directly?
Answer: No, it only revealed dishonesty through laughter. - What happened when outsiders mocked the stone?
Answer: The stone laughed loudly, frightening them away. - What lesson did the elders teach about the stone?
Answer: That it was a mirror of truth, not a judge.
Source
Adapted from Sagaing Regional Cultural Heritage Folktale Collection, 2015.
Cultural Origin
Upper Myanmar Spiritual Folklore.
