Long, long ago, when the world was still young and the mountains breathed mist at dawn, the great Himalayan peaks guarded a quiet forest. In that forest stood a small but beautiful palace made of sandalwood. This was the home of Parvati, the gentle mother of the universe, and her little son Ganesha.

Ganesha was unlike any other child. He had the round, soft body of a cheerful boy, but his head was that of an elephant. Two bright eyes twinkled with mischief and kindness, and his ears were wide as hand fans one could hear the rustle of a single leaf. But what everyone loved most was his heart. It was as big as the sky.

Parvati adored her son. One pleasant evening she decided to take a long bath in the nearby stream. “Ganesha,” she said, tying her hair into a thick braid, “I am going to bathe. I do not wish to be disturbed. Please guard the entrance until I return.”

Ganesha stood proudly, his small belly peeking out from his silk cloth.
“Don’t worry, Mother,” he said, puffing up his chest.
“No one will pass without your permission.”

Parvati smiled and walked away, leaving her little guardian at the gate.

As the sun dipped behind the trees, the forest grew quiet.
Suddenly the evening breeze carried the sound of distant footsteps, strong, firm, and quick. Ganesha’s sharp ears caught it at once.

A tall warrior emerged from the shadows. His body was broad and muscular, and his eyes shone like molten copper. Across his shoulder rested a mighty axe that glowed with a light of its own. This was Parashurama, the great sage-warrior and an avatar of Lord Vishnu.

Parashurama had come to seek Parvati’s blessings. He was known for his fiery temper and unmatched skill with weapons. But Ganesha did not know who he was.

The warrior approached the gate.
“Move aside, child,” he said, his deep voice echoing through the forest.
“I must meet Goddess Parvati.”

Ganesha planted his feet firmly on the ground.
“My mother is bathing,” he said politely but firmly.
“No one may enter without her permission.”

Parashurama frowned.
He was not used to being stopped.
“I am Parashurama, the son of Sage Jamadagni, the one blessed by Lord Shiva himself. I am no ordinary traveler. Let me pass.”

But Ganesha only shook his head.
“My mother’s word is my law.
Until she returns, no one goes inside.”

The mighty warrior’s pride burned. He tightened his grip on the axe.
“Little one,” he said, “do you know whom you are denying? I have defeated kings and demons. Step aside before you regret it.”

Ganesha’s eyes were calm, almost playful.
“You may have defeated many,” he said, “but today you cannot defeat a son’s duty.”

Parashurama’s temper flared. He was a sage, yet the warrior in him roared. With a swift movement he struck the ground with his foot. The earth trembled, still Ganesha stood, unmoved.

Parashurama tried to push past. Ganesha blocked him with the strength of a mountain.
The forest echoed with the sound of their struggle one small boy with the heart of a lion, one great warrior with the strength of a storm.

At last Parashurama lifted his weapon, this was no ordinary axe. It had been given to him by Lord Shiva, the very father of Ganesha. Its power was unmatched.

For a moment Ganesha saw the flash of the blade in the fading sunlight. He knew it carried his father’s blessing. He also knew his duty: to obey his mother and to protect the gate.

Ganesha took a deep breath. He folded his hands and bowed slightly.

“O mighty sage,” he said softly, “this axe belongs to my father.
I will not fight against its power. If you must strike, strike me. I will not stop you.”

Parashurama hesitated, but anger still ruled his heart. In a swift motion he hurled the axe.

The weapon spun through the air, a streak of silver lightning. It struck Ganesha on the right side of his face.

Crack!

The sound echoed through the forest like a thunderclap. One of Ganesha’s tusks broke and fell to the ground.

Pain shot through Ganesha’s head, yet his eyes remained gentle. He neither cried nor stepped back. Instead he picked up the broken tusk and held it close, as if it were a treasure.

At that very moment, the trees began to glow with a golden light. Parvati emerged from the stream, her face radiant and calm, though her eyes burned with hidden power.
Behind her, the sky darkened and a deep rumble announced the arrival of Lord Shiva.

Seeing his son’s broken tusk and the axe in Parashurama’s hand, Shiva’s third eye glowed with anger. But before he could speak, Ganesha raised a hand.

“Father, Mother,” he said gently, “do not be angry. I only obeyed Mother’s command.
And I could not fight against a weapon blessed by you, Father. So I accepted the blow.”

Parvati’s anger melted like snow under the sun. Her heart swelled with pride.

Shiva looked at his little son with admiration. “You have shown courage beyond measure,” he said. “You defended your duty with strength and accepted pain with humility.
You are truly my child.”

Parashurama stood silent, shame washing over him.
He saw now not a stubborn child but a wise guardian whose courage outshone his own.

He fell to his knees. “O gentle Ganesha,” he said, “forgive me. My pride blinded me.
Your strength is not of muscle alone but of heart. You have taught me a lesson greater than a thousand battles.”

Ganesha smiled and placed a comforting hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive. Even the greatest can forget the power of patience.”

Parashurama bowed to Shiva and Parvati.
From that day he carried a deep respect for the little elephant-headed god.

The gods gathered, their voices soft with wonder. Parvati touched her son’s face and said, “Though your tusk is broken, you are more complete than ever. Let the world know you as Ekadanta—the One-Tusked Lord. Your broken tusk shall remind everyone that true strength lies in sacrifice, not in violence.”

Ganesha smiled, holding the ivory piece in his palm. “It will be useful someday,” he said with a twinkle.

And indeed, many years later, when Sage Ved Vyas needed a scribe to write the vast Mahabharata, Ganesha would use this very tusk as his pen.