Ancient things seldom feel the need to explain themselves.
From the first tendril the banyan felt it —
this one will claim the canopy as its own.
It said nothing.
Roots have patience that branches never learn.
But one quiet morning it spoke —
You will grow tall on me
and tell the world you built yourself.
The climber laughed.
Why would I do that?
You are everything to me.
The banyan had heard that before.
The seasons passed.
The climber grew loud with praise
at every gathering —
This tree! Where would it be without me?
The crowd applauded.
The banyan stood still.
Some tried poison.
Some tried the axe.
Some tried to prove it dangerous
to those who never looked closely.
The banyan said nothing.
It had seen drought before.
It had seen those who leave in summer
and return only for shade.
One winter the climber was gone.
As it always was.
As it always will be.