Description

Banyan Tree Whispers

The Banyan’s Breath 

There’s a tree in the middle of the village.
Old as silence.
Wide as a secret. 

Its roots curl like question marks across the earth, and its branches stretch like arms that remember how to hold the sky. 

Most grownups walk past it without noticing.
But children know.
Children feel things others have forgotten. 

They know this tree breathes. 

Not with lungs. Not with sound.
But with something slower.
Deeper.
Quieter than a whisper, and older than words. 

The banyan doesn’t speak like people do.
It breathes stories. 

In rustles and hushes.
In shadows and sunlight.
In the slow fall of a single leaf that knows exactly who it’s meant for. 

That’s how it begins.
A leaf, drifting down like a sigh, lands in a child’s palm.
And the breath of the banyan—its memory, its knowing—becomes a tale. 

Not a tale to memorize.
A tale to feel.
Like the hush before you forgive someone.
Like the breath that steadies your hands when you’re about to say “I’m sorry.”
Like the pause when something inside you shifts, and you finally understand. 

Each child who visits the banyan leaves with a story.
But they always return. 

Because once you’ve felt the banyan’s breath,
You carry it with you—
Like wind tucked into your shirt,
Like a question that never quite leaves,
Like love. 

So come. Sit. Be still.
A story is already on its way.