The Banyan and the Sapling

In the quaint village of Devapura, nestled beside the serene banks of the Godavari, lived Raghu, a soft-spoken schoolteacher known for his wisdom and patience. At thirty-two, he had recently married Meera, a spirited classical dancer from Pune. Their match, though arranged, had blossomed into a tender companionship.

But Raghu’s joy was quietly corroded by the insecurities of his aging parents, Shankaraiah and Lak and Lakshmiamma.

For years, they had poured their lives into raising Raghu, their only child. His marriage, though blessed by them, introduced a silent tension into the household. Meera, educated and independent, represented a new world—one they feared might leave them behind.

Every morning, Lakshmiamma would mutter, “She doesn't ask what I want for breakfast anymore,” even when Meera had already done so. Shankaraiah, once jovial, grew suspiciously quiet around Meera. Raghu began to feel like a rope pulled in opposite directions.

When Raghu suggested they move into a slightly bigger house on the outskirts—closer to the school and with space for Meera’s dance practice—Shankaraiah's voice trembled, “So you want to leave us behind? Like old sandals?” The words stung more than Raghu expected. That night, Meera cried quietly, wondering if she was to blame for his growing burden.

One evening, a village drama troupe came to perform an ancient myth of Shravan Kumar, the devoted son who carried his blind parents on pilgrimage. After the show, Shankaraiah bitterly commented, “Sons these days wouldn’t even carry a glass of water, let alone their parents.”

Raghu finally broke. He sat beside them and said, “Appa, Amma… you see Meera as a storm. But she’s a stream—gentle, nourishing. If I try to please everyone while ignoring my own heart, I will become barren. I am not choosing her over you. I am trying to grow with her.”

Silence. Lakshmiamma looked at Meera, who stood in the kitchen doorway, her eyes moist but kind. That night, she brought out the oil lamp and placed it between them all during dinner—a quiet symbol of peace in many Indian homes.

Weeks passed. Meera invited Lakshmiamma to accompany her to a temple dance performance. They laughed. Shared recipes. Shankaraiah, reluctant at first, began walking with Raghu to school, telling old tales like he once did when Raghu was a boy.

The banyan tree in their courtyard stood tall and strong, sheltering the new sapling Meera had planted beside it—a metaphor none of them missed.

Moral:

Tradition and change need not compete—they can coexist if watered with empathy. A son's duty is not to split himself but to integrate the roots of the past with the promise of the future.