By: Sayan Roy

Life was very simple then.

It was summer. Winds were blowing gently throughout. Animals were playing around, birds sang from branch to branch, and in the middle of the forest, we stood — two small saplings, wide-eyed, eager, alive.

We danced in the breeze, stretched into the sun, and let the rain wash all over us. Our roots reached out beneath the soil, twinning together before we even realized it. It felt like a promise, the beginning of something.

He grew a little faster. I was weaker, smaller. But he never left me behind. When storms came, he leaned over me. When shade was scarce, he let me have mine. Seasons passed like stories. Birds built nests on our branches. Squirrels leapt from him to me and back again. We gave shelter. We gave joy. We enjoyed every moment together.

And then came the year I fell sick. Out of nowhere, the insects started burrowing deep into me. My leaves turned pale. My bark weakened. I was failing. I could feel myself slipping from the world. But, from the moment he realized I was attacked, he slowed down his own growth, drank less water, took in less light. He gave me what he had. Through our shared roots, I felt the strength again. And I survived.

Time passed, and the forest aged. Some elders fell down. But we stood. We grew tall, thick and wise. And then one day came the humans. They did not come as wanderers, but as destroyers. They did not care about the forest, they only saw timber and they took it. Trees fell all around us. We were among the last ones standing tall. Then, one day, they came again and took one of his branches.

Even the clouds cried that day: it rained the whole night. I wrapped my canopy around his cut, kept thinking about human selfishness but could not find any answer. We prayed the entire night that they would forget, but in vain.

The next day, they came again. They cut him down, this time completely. Into pieces. Small, jagged pieces. His roots clutched mine as he died, holding tight beneath the ground. “I’m still here,” he seemed to say. And then… he wasn’t.

I waited to be next. I wanted to go with him. But the saws did not return. I didn’t understand. Why not me? Why left me behind? I waited for days. Then weeks. The forest was silent. Empty. I did not grow. I barely breathed. I let my leaves fall early. I waited to die. I wanted to. But something in me, something of him, refused to let go. So, I lived for him.

Something strange happened after a few years. The human returned one day, but this time not with the saws, with measuring tapes. They fenced the surrounding land. I laughed silently, what they think, the fence can hold my sorrow, my longing grief.

So I grew — in rage. Not upwards. Outwards. I pushed against the silence. I cracked a stone. I broke fences. I became a forest by myself.

They came again — not with axes, but awe. They did not understand what I was.

They put a name on my bark:
“The Great Banyan”.
They called me the largest living tree in the world. They studied me. Walked around me for days. Took samples. Measured rings. Whispered in wonder.

“Over 250 years,” they said.

I wanted to tell them something.
Something simple.
Something true.

“I was never just one tree, I am the memory of two”.