15/06/2025
Where the Fields Whisper
As the golden hour settled over the village, the rice fields shimmered like waves under sunlight. On the edge of the field, where a gnarled tree curved gently toward the path, she sat — wrapped in a soft saree that danced with embroidered flowers and earthy colors. Her name was Anika.
The tree had been there since her childhood, leaning just enough to serve as a bench when the world felt too heavy. It knew her secrets. It had heard her laughter at ten, her sobs at seventeen, and her quiet reflections at thirty-five.
That evening, Anika wasn’t just enjoying the breeze. She was saying goodbye.
Her parents’ home — the red-roofed house just beyond the trees — was sold now. Her siblings had all moved abroad, chasing dreams in colder cities. She had stayed behind, not out of duty, but out of love. She had tended to the fields, the stories, and the soil. But now it was her turn.
Tomorrow, she would board a train. Not to escape, but to expand. To teach art in a small city college, where no one knew her history — where she could be more than just "the girl who stayed."
She wore her mother’s saree, her grandmother’s bangles, and her favorite oversized sunglasses — a shield against the sun, and the tears she didn’t want to explain.
As the village road hummed with the sound of a passing bicycle, Anika smiled. She wasn’t just leaving. She was carrying her roots into the future.
And the tree? It would remember her — always.