Under the Banyan Tree

Ravi was born in the small village of Dharmapur, nestled between rice paddies and mango groves. The village had no cinema, no mall, and only one dusty road that led in and out. But it had a banyan tree in the center, whose roots had kissed the earth for over 300 years, and under which the whole village gathered each evening.

Ravi’s days began with the sound of roosters and the scent of hot chai. His mother would wake him before the sun had fully risen, and he would help her grind spices or sweep the courtyard before heading off to the local school. It wasn’t a big school—two rooms and a tin roof—but it held enough chalk and stories to make young minds wander.

Though Ravi was no top student, he loved learning. Especially from the world outside.

After school, he would run barefoot to the fields, where his father toiled among the rice stalks. Sometimes Ravi helped; other times, he just sat in the shade, watching the clouds drift like boats on the horizon. The buffalo would grunt in the distance, egrets danced across the water, and dragonflies buzzed through the reeds.

Evenings were the village’s heartbeat.

As the sun dipped below the hills, people gathered under the banyan tree. Elders told stories of gods and kings, while children played games with pebbles and sticks. The women shared gossip and laughter. Ravi often sat next to his grandfather, who smoked his pipe and recited poetry from memory.

Life was simple. But it was full.

Festivals were the highlights of the year.

During Pongal, Ravi helped mold cow dung cakes for the sacred fire and strung marigolds into garlands. He danced with his cousins during Holi, his skin bright with color and joy. On Diwali, the village lit up like the stars had fallen from the sky.

But it wasn’t all celebration.

There were dry seasons when the fields cracked, and hunger lingered in the corners of homes. There were floods when the river swelled beyond its banks. Ravi learned to be patient. To carry buckets. To fix broken fences. To share even when there wasn’t much.

One year, a volunteer group from the city visited Dharmapur. They brought books, medicine, and solar lanterns. One young man named Arjun gave a talk about college and careers. He spoke of computers and cities where buildings touched the clouds.

Ravi listened wide-eyed.

He hadn’t thought much about life beyond the hills. But that night, he asked his father, "Do you think I could ever go to a big city?"

His father smiled, weathered and kind. "Only if you carry this village with you."

That stuck with him.

In the years that followed, Ravi studied harder. By the time he was sixteen, he had outgrown the school. With the village’s help, he earned a scholarship to study in the district capital.

He left on a monsoon morning. The village saw him off at the bus stop. His mother wept softly. His father handed him a small bag of seeds.

"Plant these wherever you go," he said. "So you never forget your roots."

Life in the city was fast. No roosters crowed at dawn. No banyan tree waited for stories. Ravi missed the smell of wet earth, the sounds of cowbells, the rhythm of the monsoons.

But he didn’t give up.

He studied agriculture and sustainable energy. He made friends. He wrote letters home. And in his tiny hostel room, he kept the bag of seeds.

Years later, Ravi returned.

Not as a visitor, but as a man with a plan.

He brought solar panels. He started a rainwater harvesting project. He taught children to code, and elders how to use mobile health apps. And near the school, he planted a small garden from his father’s seeds.

The banyan tree still stood tall.

And now, a new bench had been placed under it, with a plaque:

"For Ravi, who remembered where he came from."

Ravi never forgot.

Because the village taught him that simplicity isn’t about lacking.

It’s about living fully with less.

And under that tree, surrounded by laughter, sun, and soil, Ravi found the kind of richness no city could match.

A life shaped not by speed, but by roots.