Beneath the Banyan Tree

Beneath the Banyan Tree
The old banyan tree stood tall at the edge of the village, its roots sprawling deep into the earth like veins of memory. To most, it was just a tree. But to Aarav, it was the beginning of every story that ever mattered—especially the story of his mother, Meera.

Meera had raised Aarav alone. His father, a migrant worker, had vanished into the folds of a distant city when Aarav was still in her womb. She never heard from him again, and she never spoke of him either. In the quiet corners of their modest home, built of mud walls and a thatched roof, Meera crafted a world of stability with her two hands and unbreakable spirit.

She rose before the sun and returned long after it had set. She toiled in others’ fields, scrubbed strangers’ laundry, and took up odd jobs at the market. Still, she always made time to tell Aarav stories under the banyan tree when her work was done—stories of kings and warriors, of clever foxes and talking birds. But there was one tale she never told: her own.

Aarav grew up observing his mother, not just listening to her words but learning from the silences in between. He saw how she stitched his torn school shirt in the candlelight, fingers raw from work but movements tender. He noticed how she smiled when he brought home good grades, even though she couldn’t read the words herself. And he realized that each time she served him the larger portion of rice, she had already eaten her share—of hunger.

Meera didn’t complain. She didn’t expect the world to be fair. But she fought for her son to dream, even if she had long stopped dreaming for herself.

One monsoon afternoon, Aarav returned home drenched and breathless, holding a letter. He had won a scholarship to a university in the city. His hands trembled as he handed it to her.

Meera didn’t read it. She just looked into his eyes and smiled, the kind of smile that carries both pride and ache.

“You’ll go,” she said softly.

“But Ma… the fees, the travel, the expenses—”

“I’ve been saving,” she interrupted, walking to a small wooden box tucked behind the spice jars. From it, she pulled out a cloth pouch, worn but heavy. Coins, notes, even the small ones she never let him see her put away. “This is for you. For your wings.”

“But how?” he asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

She shrugged. “A mother finds ways.”

Aarav didn’t argue. He couldn’t. That night, under the banyan tree, they didn’t share a story. They sat in silence, and it said everything.

City life was loud, unfamiliar, and relentless. Aarav stumbled through its chaos at first—trying to belong, trying to succeed. But in every moment of doubt, he heard Meera’s voice in his head: “A mother’s love isn’t loud, but it never leaves you.”

He studied hard, often late into the night. He worked part-time, skipped meals, and kept going, driven by the thought of Meera still waking up in the dark to earn a few more rupees. Her sacrifices whispered through every challenge he faced.

Years passed. Aarav graduated with honors. He secured a job at a well-known firm. For the first time in his life, he had more than enough. Yet, he felt a strange emptiness. He hadn’t gone home in over three years. The village had become a distant memory. But one evening, as the rain tapped against his office window, he remembered the banyan tree—and her. The next morning, he boarded the first train home.

The village hadn’t changed much, but Aarav had. He arrived in a crisp shirt and polished shoes, suitcase in hand. The air smelled of wet soil and guavas. Children ran barefoot down the lanes. His old neighbors waved in surprise, some unsure whether to call him “sir” or “beta.”

When he reached the house, he paused.

The thatched roof was newer, the mud walls freshly plastered. There were flowering pots by the entrance, and a small radio played old songs inside. Meera stood near the stove, her back slightly bent, but her movements as graceful as he remembered.

She turned—and gasped.

“Aarav,” she whispered.

He dropped the suitcase and ran to her, falling to his knees, hugging her tightly.

“I missed you, Ma.”

She didn’t cry, but her hands trembled as she held his face. “You came back,” she said, as though she had doubted it in her loneliest hours.

That evening, they sat beneath the banyan tree again. The same silence wrapped them, rich with unspoken words.

“I want to take you to the city,” he said. “A better life. You deserve comfort.”

She chuckled. “My comfort is here. This tree, this soil—they remember me. The city doesn’t know my name.”

“But you gave everything for me.”

“And I would again.”

Aarav looked at her, really looked. Her hair had more gray strands. Her hands were rougher. But her eyes—her eyes were the same, full of strength.

“I’ll build you a house,” he said. “Right here. With bricks and paint and a proper roof.”

She smiled. “If it has a veranda facing this tree, I’ll live in it.”

Aarav kept his promise. A year later, a beautiful little house stood near the banyan tree. It had a garden, a bookshelf, a kitchen filled with Meera’s favorite spices—and a veranda where she told stories to the village children every evening.

She never stopped working completely, though. “Idle hands forget how to pray,” she would say, drying papads in the sun or stitching quilts for newborns.

Years went by, and Aarav brought her news of promotions, travels, and eventually, a woman he loved. Meera welcomed her like a daughter, folding her into the warmth she had folded around Aarav all his life.

One winter morning, she didn’t wake up.

There was no struggle, no pain. Just a peaceful end, like a leaf falling gently to earth.

The village mourned. So did the city that barely knew her. Aarav’s grief was silent and deep, but his gratitude louder still.

He buried her ashes under the banyan tree. No marble, no plaque—just a circle of white stones and a flowering jasmine plant.

Today, Aarav’s children play under that same banyan tree. He tells them stories—the very ones his mother told him. And sometimes, when the wind rustles the leaves just right, he swears he can hear her laugh.

Love, he now knows, isn’t always loud. It’s in the little things. In torn shirts stitched under candlelight. In rice bowls half-empty. In the rustle of a banyan tree's leaves at dusk.

And in the silent, steadfast heart of a mother who gives the world and asks for nothing in return.