A Journey of Unheard Heartbeats"

"A Journey of Unheard Heartbeats"

* The Story of the Peepal Tree*

The Peepal tree standing in the middle of the village had been listening to everything silently for centuries—songs of joy, cries of pain, and dreams that never came to the tongue. The marks on its bark were like musical notes, which could be read only by the one... whose soul had colours instead of notes.

*That Tree and My Silence*

When Vihaan's train stopped at the village station, the sound of silence echoed in his ears. He took off his hearing aids and picked up his bag and started walking. The Peepal tree standing on the side of the road called him—not with its voice, but with its leaves swaying in the wind. *"It was waiting for you,"* he realized.

The door of the house was hanging crooked. Inside, mother's paintings surrounded her—in one picture, father was playing the harmonium, and the leaves of the Peepal tree were dancing to his tunes. Vihaan picked up the brush and opened the bottle of red colour. *This must be the raga that mother used to hum... when father disappeared.*

In the evening, sitting under the tree, he was flipping through his mother's diary. Suddenly, his fingers touched something cold and pointed on the ground - a broken harmonium key. As soon as he clenched it in his fist, a current passed through him. Waves of colours rose before his eyes: *blue* - like the depth of the ocean, *red* - like the flames of the sunset. And then... a voice. No, *a touch* that shrunk into his palm.

"Do you also see these marks?"

Vihaan turned around and looked - a girl was standing there, with bells on her feet and curiosity in her eyes. Her lips moved: "I am Meera. This tree... it is not just a tree."

*The Language of Colours*
*Flashback*
*"Touch the colours,"* said mother holding 12-year-old Vihaan's hand in her palm. *"This blue... this is the sound when the raindrops fell on your father's harmonium."*

Vihaan mixed blue colour on the canvas. His fingers felt a cold shower that passed through his wrist to his heart.

*Present*
Meera opened the brass box dug near the roots of the tree. Inside was a tape recorder and a photograph of his father. "Listen," she put on Vihaan's hearing aids.

When the tape was played, there was silence. But as soon as Vihaan closed his eyes, a tune started flowing in his veins—*Ree, Ga, Ma...* He picked up the brush and painted the same notes on the canvas: from blue to red, from green to gold.

"This is *Raag Deepak*!" Looking at the picture, Meera said, "It is said that by singing this song, the lamps would light up on their own. But why did your father hide it?"

Vihaan typed: *"Maybe because it was dangerous."*

* Hidden Notes*

The voice of the village head echoed in the gathering of the villagers: "This tree is drying up our well! It will be cut down tomorrow morning."

Vihaan and Meera started digging the roots of the tree in the darkness of the night. Amidst the smell of soil and the stickiness of sweat, they found the mouth of a cave. Inside, there were glowing markings on the walls—*Colorful map!*

"This is the path of the underground rivers!" Meera said in the light of the lamp, "The tree was purifying them. The water of the well is poisonous, so the tree stopped it!"

Just then a voice echoed from the back end of the cave—"Son..."

Vihaan turned around and saw his father's shadow emerging on the wall. He had a harmonium in his hand, and a warning in his eyes: *"I hid not the Raag Deepak, but its *seventh note*... that brings fire."*

*The Secret of Raag Deepak*

Before dawn, Vihaan and Meera showed the villagers the map. "The tree is not your enemy, it is your protector!" Meera insisted.

But the sarpanch laughed and said: "All this is sorcery! Cut the tree!"

Vihaan turned on the tape recorder. The tune of **Raag Deepak** started, and a source of water gushed out from the roots of the tree! The villagers were surprised—the well started filling up.

"This tree... it is alive!" An old man touched the tree with trembling hands.

* New beats*

One year later...

"Rang-Sur Kala Kendra" was built in place of the Peepal tree. Vihaan's paintings and Meera's dance now tell the story of that tree. One day, a deaf child comes—the same curiosity in his eyes. Vihaan hands him a brush: *"Listen, these colours will become your voice."*

Just then there was a rustling of leaves from behind. A root of the tree had sprouted a new seed.

* Incomplete notes, complete story

Vihaan picked up his father's harmonium. The seventh note was still hidden on it—a secret that might remain buried forever. But now he did not need to know it. He looked at Meera, who was watering the new seedling.

*"Some stories look good only when they are incomplete,"* he thought, *"because they have scope for new beginnings."*