The peepul tree that towers over my house and garden had been shedding its leaves with a reckless abandon only nature can afford. For days, I watched, sipping my morning coffee, as the once-proud canopy thinned into a gaunt skeleton, each bare branch waving forlornly in the breeze.
It was during one of these reflective moments I fancied I heard giggles! I looked around. The neem tree and the flamboyant gulmohur, standing tall in my garden, seemed to be exchanging amused whispers. Was it my imagination, or were they laughing at the peepul’s sorry state?
"Look at him!" the neem seemed to say, rustling its thick green leaves.
"Stark naked!" the gulmohur chortled, tossing a fiery bloom to the ground.
The peepul, however, remained silent, dignified even in its bareness, much like an elderly professor whose students have played a prank on him, but who refuses to stoop to their level.
Then, as days turned into a week, something magical happened. Where dry twigs once pointed accusing fingers at the sky, there now emerged the most delicate, almost translucent leaves. They caught the morning sun in their fine green fingers, glowing like living stained glass.
"Daddy, look at the peepul!" cried my daughter one morning, her voice full of wonder. "The leaves are like fairy wings!"
And they were.
I stood under the tree, admiring its transformation, when a mischievous thought crossed my mind.
“Tell me, dear Peepul,” I said aloud, “were you embarrassed when your leaves fell, when the neem and the gulmohur mocked you?”
The peepul rustled, as if chuckling softly. Then I heard—or perhaps imagined—a quiet voice:
"Not at all," said the peepul, with a twinkle in what I assumed was its botanical eye. "I knew exactly what was coming."
I nodded sagely, as one does when talking to wise trees. But the peepul wasn’t done.
"Bob," it continued, bending a branch closer as if sharing a secret, "isn’t there a little lesson here for you to write about?"
"A lesson?" I asked, smiling politely, little realizing that apart from shading my house, the peepul apparently also peeped into what I wrote.
"Ever thought," said the peepul, "that when God strips you of old habits, old addictions, and crutches you lean on, it’s painful because you’re being prepared for something beautiful? Just like my leaves, your soul too is being clothed anew—translucent, vibrant, and full of life!"
I looked up at the peepul, feeling oddly humbled. Yes, it hurt when old ways are ripped away. It feels humiliating, lonely, bare. And yes, others laugh as you stumble about, unsure, exposed.
But in time—oh, in time—the new leaves come.
And when they do, they are more beautiful than anything you had before.
So today, I raise my cup of coffee and murmur, “Cheers!” to the peepul tree. And to the new leaves we are all growing, often without even realizing it…!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
