The Jinn Who Cried from the Tree

The Jinn Who Cried from the Tree

In the village of Chakar, there was a banyan tree so large it covered half the old graveyard. Its roots slithered through the earth like veins, and its branches hung like arms stretched in silent prayer.

Children were told never to play near it.

> “Shadows live there,” the elders said.



Most obeyed.

Except for Sana.


---

Sana was nine. A quiet, observant girl with wide eyes and wild thoughts. Her parents were teachers, and she read books far beyond her age. But what made her different wasn’t her intelligence — it was her sight.

She saw things others didn’t.

Birds that paused in midair. A cat that blinked with three eyes. And on one dusky Thursday evening… a jinn sitting on the banyan tree.


---

She wasn’t scared.

He was tall, too tall. Sitting quietly, knees to chest, arms around them like a sad child. His body was black like burnt wood, but not burning. His face hidden in his arms. Long white hair hung over him like rain.

And he was crying.

Soft, long, echoing sobs.


---

Sana stood still. She didn’t run.

She came home and told her mother, "There’s a tall man in the graveyard tree. He’s crying."

Her mother scolded her for making up stories.

But Sana saw him again. And again.

Every Thursday evening — same spot, same posture, same weeping.

She started talking to him.

> “Why are you sad?”



He never replied.

> “Did someone hurt you?”



No response.

> “I can bring you a blanket.”



That day, the crying paused for a moment — then resumed.


---

One evening, she brought him a red scarf.

She placed it on a low branch.

When she came back the next day, it was gone.

That night, she dreamt of him for the first time.

He stood in her dream — no longer crying — and whispered:

> “You’re kind. No one has been kind for a long time.”



She woke up smiling.

But the story wasn’t going to stay innocent.


---

Soon, others in the village began hearing things.

The imam heard sobs during Fajr prayer. A farmer swore the tree wept when he passed at dawn. A little boy said a shadow called his name and asked, “Do you know how to forget?”

And then came the fever.

People who mocked Sana started falling ill. Not deadly — but deep, strange fevers with murmuring dreams and forgotten names.

A local healer whispered to Sana’s mother:

> “Your daughter has been chosen. The weeper sees her. And others don’t like that.”




---

Sana’s father forbade her from going near the tree.

So she started leaving little notes under a rock by the graveyard.

> “Are you okay?”
“Did someone leave you?”
“Can I help?”



The notes disappeared. One day, a reply came:

> “Yes. Yes. And maybe.”



Sana smiled for hours.

But that night, her dream turned cold.

She stood beneath the tree. The jinn was no longer weeping — he was screaming. Black tears flowed from his face. His eyes were hollow stars.

> “They’re coming,” he said.
“They don’t want me to be seen. They don’t want me to be healed.”




---

The next day, the tree was burning.

Someone — or something — had set fire to it. Villagers claimed lightning struck it.

But there were no clouds that day.

Sana rushed to the graveyard, sobbing. The fire had eaten the branches. The tree was still standing, but bare and blackened.

There was no jinn.

That night, she heard crying under her bed.


---

Her parents tried doctors. Maulvis. Herbalists. One tried to "lock the sight" in her eyes.

Nothing worked.

Sana became pale, thin, silent.

She didn’t speak for weeks.

Then one day, she whispered to her mother:

> “He’s not in the tree anymore.”



> “Where is he?”



> “In me.”




---

The village fell silent again.

But sometimes, children still heard weeping in the school hallways.

And once a month, on a Thursday, Sana would sit by the charred stump of the banyan tree — wearing a red scarf — and hum a melody no one taught her.

A sad, echoing tune… that made even the leaves tremble.