Shadows of the Banyan Tree” 

Part II: The Letters of the Past

( c) All right reserved by the author

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Continued from part -I

The next morning, Arun sat by his window, the tin box on the table before him. The soft morning light spilled over the faded letters and photographs he had uncovered the previous night. Each item seemed to hum with the weight of untold stories. He sipped his tea, a mixture of curiosity and hesitation brewing within him.

Finally, he picked up the first letter, unfolding the fragile paper with care. The ink had faded but was still legible, each word a portal to a time long gone.

“Dearest Meera,

Today, as I stood under our banyan tree, I thought of the promises we made. This tree, with its roots so deep, reminds me of us—grounded, yet yearning to reach the skies. I hope you are well. I hope you still believe in us.”

The letter was signed simply: Prakash.

Arun leaned back in his chair, the letter trembling slightly in his hand. He reached for another and began reading:

“Meera,

The world is changing faster than I can comprehend. They’ve asked me to lead a group to organize protests in the neighboring district. But my heart hesitates, torn between duty and the life I want to build with you. Sometimes, I wish we could leave all this behind and start anew somewhere far away. Underneath our banyan tree, I feel safe. I feel yours.”

The letters painted a vivid picture of a man caught between love and revolution. Arun felt an ache in his chest, as though he’d stumbled upon a reflection of his own struggles.

He spread the photographs out on the table, studying each one carefully. In one, a young woman sat on a low branch of the banyan tree, her face tilted toward the sunlight. Her saree billowed in the wind, and her laughter seemed almost audible. Beside her stood a man, his hand resting protectively on the branch, his eyes focused on her. Arun felt as though he’d intruded on a private moment, yet he couldn’t look away.

“Who were you, Prakash and Meera?” he murmured. “And why were your stories buried here?”

That afternoon, he decided to share his discovery with Anjali. She was the only person in the village who could match his inquisitiveness. Anjali had been his closest friend growing up, and though life had taken them on different paths, their bond had remained intact.

When Arun arrived at her home, Anjali was sitting on her porch, typing furiously on her laptop. She looked up and grinned. “Arun! To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

“I need your help,” Arun said, holding up the tin box.

Anjali’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “What’s this?”

“Something I found near the banyan tree,” Arun replied, setting the box down on the table. “Letters. Photos. A story, I think.”

Anjali untied the ribbon and began leafing through the letters. Her expression shifted from intrigue to awe as she read. “This is incredible, Arun,” she said softly. “These letters are like a window into another era.”

“They’re haunting me,” Arun admitted. “I feel like I have to know who they were.”

Anjali leaned back, tapping a finger against her chin. “You know, this could be bigger than just a personal curiosity. Imagine writing about this—turning it into a feature story. It could even help save the banyan tree if we can tie it to the village’s heritage.”

Arun hesitated. “But we don’t know the whole story. What if we’re missing something crucial?”

Anjali smiled. “That’s the beauty of stories like this, Arun. The gaps are where the magic happens. We don’t just tell what we know; we imagine what could have been.”

They decided to start by gathering information. Arun suggested speaking to the village elders, who might remember something about Prakash and Meera. Meanwhile, Anjali promised to research historical records to see if the couple’s names appeared anywhere.

Before leaving, Anjali handed Arun a letter. “This one’s my favorite,” she said. “It’s heartbreakingly beautiful.”

That evening, Arun sat under the banyan tree, reading the letter Anjali had chosen.

“My dearest Meera,

As I sit beneath our banyan tree, I can’t help but wonder if the roots beneath me feel the same pull as I do. A yearning to stay grounded, yet an ache to reach farther than ever before. I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but I promise this tree will always be my witness. And if you ever doubt me, come here. Close your eyes. You’ll feel my presence in its shadow.”

Tears pricked Arun’s eyes. He folded the letter and placed it back in the box, his resolve strengthening. He would uncover their story—not just for himself, but for the banyan tree that seemed to carry their legacy in its roots.( To be continued)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI,ASSAM ,INDIA

06/01/2025