The Teacher and the Fire Beneath

The roots of the banyan tree curled like ancient fingers, gripping the earth with stories older than memory. Its great canopy cast a generous shadow over the dusty courtyard of Padmapur's only school-a modest open-air space where learning danced between slate boards and sunlight. Each morning, Arinay, the young teacher, would arrive early to sweep the leaves and arrange the mats. He loved the stillness before the laughter.

Padmapur was small, wrapped in hills, surrounded by fields where women sang and men ploughed. But this tree-this school-was a universe of its own. Beneath it, chalk met imagination, letters came alive, and silence was taught to speak. Arinay believed in simple truths, the kind that took root slowly and flowered with time.

That day, he taught a lesson about trees and memory. He asked the children what they thought trees remembered. "Stories," said one. "Bird songs," said another. A boy named Rohan whispered, "Pain." Arinay paused. He nodded.

As the children scribbled on their slates, Arinay looked beyond the banyan. He saw smoke curling from a kitchen, a farmer walking with oxen, a woman collecting neem leaves. It was life, peaceful and unshaken.

But the banyan knew better. Its leaves trembled, not from wind, but from something unseen-a warning. In a few days, the world would change. And this tree, this teacher, these children would all be tested.

But for now, chalk dust danced in sunbeams. And the teacher smiled.