Whispers of the Old Banyan

Whispers of the Old Banyan

At the edge of our village, where the golden paddy fields melted into the shadows of a dense forest, stood an ancient banyan tree. Its gnarled roots sprawled like the arms of a wise old giant, and its canopy whispered secrets to anyone who dared to listen. Every full moon, my grandmother—whom we called Ma-Thakuma—would sit beneath it, her silver hair glowing under the lunar light, and weave stories that made the night come alive. I was Rimi, barely ten years old, with wide eyes and a heart hungry for wonder. Those nights were my sanctuary, where the world felt bigger, softer, and full of magic.

“Rimi, come close,” Ma-Thakuma would say, patting the woven mat spread on the cool earth. My cousins and I would scramble to her side, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of crickets. Her voice, warm and weathered, carried us to places we’d never seen—kingdoms in the clouds, rivers that sang, and stars that whispered their own tales. But one story, told on a particularly luminous night, stayed with me forever.

It was a crisp evening, the kind where the moon hung so low it felt like you could touch it. Ma-Thakuma’s eyes twinkled as she began. “Long ago, there was a prince named Arjun, not much older than you, Rimi. He wasn’t like other princes, all pomp and pride. No, Arjun loved the night sky. He believed the stars held secrets, and if he could just find the right one, it would lead him to a hidden kingdom—a place where dreams became real.”

We leaned in, our breaths held tight. She described how Arjun would climb the highest hill in his kingdom, armed with nothing but a tattered map and a heart full of hope. The map, she said, was drawn by a mystic who claimed the stars were alive, each one a guide to a different destiny. “One night,” Ma-Thakuma continued, “Arjun saw a star brighter than the rest, pulsing like a heartbeat. He followed it, through forests and across rivers, until he reached a clearing where the air shimmered like liquid silver. There, he found a door in the sky—a portal to the hidden kingdom.”

“What was it like?” I blurted, unable to contain my excitement.

Ma-Thakuma smiled, her eyes reflecting the moonlight. “It was a place where time didn’t exist. Trees sang lullabies, rivers glowed with the light of a thousand fireflies, and every soul who entered could live their deepest wish. But there was a catch—only those pure of heart could stay. Arjun, with his kind soul, was welcomed. He became the keeper of the kingdom, guarding its secrets for those brave enough to seek it.”

She paused, gazing at the sky. “Look up, Rimi. The stars are talking tonight. Can you hear them?”

I tilted my head back, the vastness of the night swallowing me whole. The stars seemed to wink, as if they knew something I didn’t. “What do they say, Ma-Thakuma?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“They say,” she replied, her voice soft as a breeze, “that if you listen with your heart, you’ll find the answers to all the world’s mysteries.”

That night, I fell asleep under the banyan, my head in Ma-Thakuma’s lap, dreaming of Arjun and his starlit kingdom. In my dream, I chased a glowing star through a forest of silver trees, its light guiding me to a place where the air sparkled and the ground hummed with life. I woke to the soft chirping of birds, the dawn painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. Ma-Thakuma was still there, watching me with that mysterious smile of hers, as if she knew where I’d been in my dreams.

Years passed, as they do, stealing moments and people along the way. Ma-Thakuma grew frailer, her stories fewer, until one day she was gone, leaving behind a quiet that felt louder than her voice ever had. The village changed too—electric lights replaced oil lamps, and the chatter of smartphones drowned out the crickets. But the banyan tree stood unchanged, a silent witness to time.

Now, at twenty-five, I found myself drawn back to that tree on every full moon. I’d sit on the same woven mat, now frayed at the edges, and let the memories flood in. The world had grown heavy—work, responsibilities, the constant hum of life—but under the banyan, it all melted away. The stars still shone, and though I couldn’t hear Ma-Thakuma’s voice, I felt her presence in the rustle of the leaves.

One such night, as I sat lost in thought, a strange thing happened. A star—brighter than the others, just like in Ma-Thakuma’s story—seemed to pulse. I blinked, sure it was my imagination, but it pulsed again, steady and deliberate. My heart raced. Was it a sign? A coincidence? Or was the universe, as Ma-Thakuma believed, trying to tell me something?

I stood, my feet moving before my mind caught up. The village was asleep, the only sound the soft crunch of leaves under my sandals. I walked toward the forest, the star’s light guiding me like a beacon. The air grew cooler, thicker, as if charged with something ancient. At the edge of the forest, where the banyan’s roots tangled with the wild, I stopped. The star was directly above, its light spilling onto a patch of ground that shimmered faintly, like the air before a storm.

I knelt, my fingers brushing the earth. It was warm, alive, as if it held a heartbeat. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I swear I heard Ma-Thakuma’s voice. “Listen, Rimi. The stars never lie.”

I didn’t find a door in the sky that night, nor a hidden kingdom. But I found something else—a sense of peace, a connection to the girl I used to be, and to the woman who’d taught me to dream. Maybe the kingdom wasn’t a place but a feeling, a spark that lived in the stories we told and the love we carried.

Now, whenever the full moon rises, I return to the banyan. I sit, I listen, and I tell Ma-Thakuma’s stories to the children of the village, who gather just as I once did. Their eyes shine with the same wonder, and I know her magic lives on. The stars still whisper, and I’m still learning to hear them.