Whispers of the Banyan Tree

In the village of Antrikpur, time didn't move with clocks—it flowed like the wind, gently and unpredictably. The villagers often said the banyan tree at the village’s center had been there long before the first hut was built, long before the first name was spoken. They called it “Vriksha Devi”—the Goddess Tree.

It was beneath this tree that little Mira was found one monsoon morning, wrapped in a saffron shawl, barely a year old. No one knew where she came from, but everyone agreed that the banyan had chosen her. Amma Bina, the village healer and midwife, took her in.

Mira grew up with stories—wild, magical tales Amma whispered by firelight. She told Mira that the banyan tree was a portal, a bridge between the visible and the unseen, between now and before.

“But only those with open hearts and clear minds can hear its whispers,” Amma would say, tapping Mira’s forehead with a knowing smile.

By the time Mira turned sixteen, she was known for her strange connection to the tree. Birds flocked to her, and animals followed her quietly. When she sang under the tree, the wind would pause, and even the elders swore the leaves shimmered like silver.

But not everyone was enchanted.

Some villagers feared the tree’s power—and Mira’s closeness to it. They muttered about her being “otherworldly,” a child left by spirits, or worse, a dayan—a witch. Even the village priest, Pandit Devanand, kept a careful distance.

Things changed when the rains failed.

Three years in a row, the monsoon clouds passed Antrikpur by. The crops withered, the river thinned, and the sacred pond dried to a cracked basin. Desperation crept into every home.

One night, the banyan began to weep.

It started with a deep groaning sound—like roots twisting in pain—followed by thick sap that oozed from its trunk like tears. The next morning, Amma Bina was found unconscious at the foot of the tree. When she awoke, her voice was gone.

Panic spread.

A village meeting was called, and the blame fell swiftly on Mira.

“She brought this curse,” shouted one of the elders. “She listens to the tree. Perhaps she speaks through it!”

Pandit Devanand, always wary, added fuel to the fire. “The sacred texts warn us about unnatural bonds. If the girl is connected to this suffering, we must act.”

Mira stood silently, eyes wide but unflinching. Her only family—Amma—could no longer speak for her. She was told to leave the village by the next moonrise.

The night she was to leave, Mira sat under the banyan tree one last time. The village was quiet. The sky was heavy with unspoken sorrow. She pressed her hand to the bark.

“Why are you weeping?” she whispered.

And then, for the first time, the tree spoke—not in words, but in visions.

Her mind flooded with images: of the first people who came to the valley, of ceremonies held under the banyan long before temples were built. She saw children playing, lovers carving names into the roots, women burying sacred jars of seeds beneath its shade.

But then came the invaders—men with fire and greed. The villagers had hidden something within the tree—a seed, glowing and golden, a gift from the sky.

And then it was buried. Forgotten. Until now.

The tree’s roots were weakening. It needed help—not exile.

Mira woke from the vision gasping, tears mixing with the tree’s sap. She understood now. The tree wasn’t cursed. It was calling for healing.

That night, she didn’t leave the village.

She climbed the banyan instead.

Higher and higher she went, past nests and moonlit leaves, until she reached the heart hollow—an opening in the trunk that pulsed with an amber light. Inside, nestled in a bed of moss, was a golden seed, still glowing faintly.

Mira held it close. Her chest burned with an emotion too vast for words.

Then, with the tree’s whisper guiding her, she climbed down, found a patch of sacred earth beneath the main root, and planted it.

As she pressed the seed into the soil, a soft wind stirred. The leaves shimmered. Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked.

The next morning, it rained.

Not a gentle drizzle—but a torrent. The villagers came running out in disbelief, dancing in the mud, crying with joy.

Amma Bina, miraculously, spoke again. Her first words: “She saved us.”

Pandit Devanand, struck silent by the downpour, later admitted he had judged too quickly. The village slowly began to understand. The tree wasn’t cursed, and neither was Mira.

Years passed.

Mira never left Antrikpur. She became the village’s new healer, just like Amma. But more than that, she became its guardian—a bridge between people and nature, between old stories and new beginnings.

Under her care, a sapling grew beside the ancient banyan. It shimmered golden in the sun, its leaves lighter, more delicate. They called it Surya Vriksha—The Sun Tree.

And on quiet evenings, children would gather under it, listening to Mira as she passed on stories of the past, of courage, of kindness.

But she always ended with this:

“Some say trees don’t speak. That they’re just wood and leaves. But I say—they whisper. And if you listen with love, they just might share the secrets of the stars.”

The End