The Woman Who Called Herself Vrishabhavathi

A Metro journey, a disregarded river, and a conversation Bengaluru desperately needed.

There are journeys that end when you reach your destination.

And then there are journeys that continue long after you have stepped off the train.

This is one of them.

Vrishabhavathi 

A Morning Like Any Other

Metro ride

The other day, I was travelling to my office.

Whenever work takes me to the other end of Bengaluru, towards Global Village, there is one companion I never complain about—the Bengaluru Metro.

On most days, it saves me from spending hours in traffic that never seems to end.

That morning was no different.

I boarded the train and found myself standing near the door, holding that familiar steel handle that thousands of commuters hold every single day.

After Majestic, the crowd gradually became thinner.

On the other side, the trains heading towards Whitefield are usually packed like festivals.

The Kengeri side somehow breathes a little easier than Whitefield or the Electronic City side during the morning, but the opposite by evening.

For the first time that morning, I could actually look outside.

I have always enjoyed watching Bengaluru through the Metro windows.

It tells stories that roads never do.

Buildings.

Flyovers.

Apartment towers.

Concrete after concrete.

Every few seconds, a lonely water tank would rise above the rooftops.

It stood there almost like a watchman reminding everyone that water once mattered here.

A few old trees somehow survived between endless blocks of cement.

They looked tired.

Yet they were still standing.

The Stream That Refused to Disappear

Stram that RefusStreamed to disappear

As the train crossed Deepanjali Nagar and headed towards Pattangere, just before the RV College station, my eyes caught sight of something below.

A narrow water channel.

At first glance, it looked exactly like another sewage drain.

Dark water flows through the channel.

Here and there, concrete walls that say, 'This is modern human-built architecture .'

The kind of sight every Bengalurean has sadly become used to.

But as the train moved a little further, I noticed something unusual.

Hidden beneath the filth were natural rocks.

The curves did not look man-made.

The land looked ancient.

Almost as though a real stream was struggling to breathe beneath everything we had built over it.

I found myself wondering...

"How did a natural stream become this?"

Before my thoughts could go any further, I noticed someone standing beside me.

The Woman With Tears in Her Eyes

Tears in her eyes

She was quietly crying.

Not loudly.

Not asking for help.

Just tears flowed as she stared out the window.

There was something about her that felt different.

She carried no laptop bag, which is common in Bangalore metro.

No phone, a must-have for daily life.

No earphones, without which people look like they don't have a job to do.

No hurry.

Her face carried an age that could not be measured in years.

For a few moments, I hesitated.

Then I asked softly,

"Ma'am... are you alright?"

She slowly turned towards me.

Her eyes carried the pain of centuries.

She smiled faintly.

"You noticed."

I looked confused.

"Most people don't."

"Why are you crying?"

She looked outside once again.

Then she said something that completely changed my journey.

"My name is Vrishabhavathi."

I smiled politely.

"That's a beautiful name."

She smiled.

"It wasn't just a name."

"I was once Bengaluru's river."

When a River Began to Speak

When a river began to speak

For a second, I thought I had misunderstood.

She looked at me as though she already knew.

"No... You are not dreaming."

"I have simply come because someone finally looked down from the Metro instead of into a mobile phone."

Silence filled the space between us.

Then she began telling her story.

When Bengaluru Knew How Water Flowed

When Bengaluru knew how water flowed

"I was born near the feet of Basava."

"People now remember the giant Nandi statues."

"Very few remember that I began there as clear flowing water."

She spoke of children playing on her banks.

Women collecting water.

Farmers are waiting for the monsoon.

Birds are nesting beside her.

Fish swimming beneath the surface.

"I was never as mighty as the Ganga or the Cauvery."

"But I gave life to everyone who lived beside me."

She smiled.

"I knew a young city called Bengaluru."

"It was not built with glass."

"It was built with wisdom."

Kempegowda Understood What We Forgot

What we forgot 

Her eyes brightened.

"When Kempegowda dreamed of this city, he understood something today's planners often forget."

"He never fought nature."

"He worked with it."

She spoke about valleys.

Natural streams.

Rainwater.

Hundreds of interconnected lakes.

Overflow channels.

What we now call Raja Kaluves.

"We simply called them home."

She spoke of forests.

Peacocks.

Otters.

Turtles.

Jackals.

Fish.

Countless birds.

"The monsoon had somewhere to rest."

"Groundwater had somewhere to sleep."

"The lakes spoke to each other."

"The rivers breathed."

When Growth Forgot Gratitude

Growth forgot gratitude

Then her smile disappeared.

"People discovered another kind of gold."

Factories.

Industries.

Layouts.

Technology parks.

Flyovers.

"The Silicon City was born."

"I was happy."

"Cities must grow."

"People deserve opportunities."

"I never hated development."

Then she looked directly into my eyes.

"But development forgot gratitude."

"It forgot limits."

"My floodplains became layouts."

"My streams became drains."

"My lakes became real estate."

"Storm-water channels carried sewage."

"Factories emptied poison into my body."

"Every day I carried what nobody else wanted."

She paused.

"Slowly..."

"People stopped calling me a river."

"They called me..."

"Kengeri Mori."

Those two words felt heavier than everything else she had said.

Imagine giving water for centuries...

Only to be remembered as a drain.

The Forgotten Sisters

Forgotten Sisters

She spoke of her sisters, too.

Arkavathi.

Kumudvathi.

The eastern valleys feed Bellandur and Varthur.

"When rivers lose their paths..."

"Lakes lose their purpose."

"Then people wonder why lakes catch fire."

She wasn't blaming anyone.

She was simply remembering.

"The saddest part isn't pollution."

"It is forgetfulness."

"You forgot we were alive."

She Saw Memories. We Saw Buildings.

Memories vs Buildings

Outside the Metro, another apartment tower rushed past.

She pointed.

"A wetland."

Another place.

"A grove."

Another.

"A stream."

Another.

"A nesting ground."

Then she turned towards me.

"You see buildings."

"I still see memories."

The Last Question

Last Question

The announcement interrupted us.

"Next station... Kengeri."

I realised I had crossed the station where I was supposed to get down.

But somehow I didn't care.

I wanted her to continue.

She stood up.

I quickly asked,

"Can we still save you?"

She smiled.

"That is the wrong question."

The doors opened.

Without turning back, she said,

"Ask instead whether you can save yourselves."

"Rivers always find a way."

"It is civilisations that disappear."

The doors closed.

The train moved.

Only then did I realise...

She had never walked out.

She had simply vanished.

The Journey That Never Ended

Journey that never ended

A few minutes later, I finally got down at Kengeri Satellite Town.

I boarded another Metro back towards the office.

The journey lasted only a few minutes.

But my mind was still travelling with her.

Even after reaching work...

Opening my laptop...

Joining meetings...

Her words refused to leave me.

Urbanisation is not the enemy.

Progress is not the enemy.

The enemy is the belief that nature exists only until we need the land beneath it.

Every civilisation believes it has endless time.

Every city believes growth has no limits.

But everything has an expiry.

Even uncontrolled urbanisation.

When rivers die...

Groundwater follows.

When wetlands disappear...

Floods arrive.

When biodiversity vanishes...

The silence that replaces it cannot be engineered back.

By the time we realise what has been lost...

Nature may no longer be waiting for our apology.

Every Time I Cross That Bridge

Every time I cross that bridge

Sometimes I still travel on that Metro route.

Every time the train crosses that narrow channel near Pattangere, I look outside.

Most passengers continue scrolling through their phones.

Some are sleeping.

Some are talking.

I simply look down.

Searching.

Hoping.

Wondering...

Who was that woman?

Was she only my imagination?

Or did Bengaluru's forgotten river finally find someone willing to listen?

Now let me bring a few details on the river ( Infographics)

Rivers of Bengaluru

My  Note

This is a work of magical realism inspired by the history of Bengaluru's rivers, lakes and vanishing wetlands. While the conversation is fictional, the ecological decline of the Vrishabhavathi River and Bengaluru's interconnected water systems is very real. Sometimes, stories can help us hear what facts alone cannot.

 

Father…!! You Understand His Presence Only                        When He Is Not There

Father..!! 

The Fathers Who Loved Without Saying It

Today, while scrolling through social media, I saw too many Father’s Day posts.

Photos with fathers.

Old memories.

Stories.Some funny, some emotional.For a few minutes, I just kept scrolling.

Then I thought… why not write one? After all, if there is one person who deserves a Father’s Day post from me, it has to be my Hero.

My Appa.

But where do I start?

Do I talk about the father who never openly showed affection?

The father who would hand over his earnings to my mother and trust her to manage the entire family?

Or do I talk about the first and last beating I got when I was around 12 years old?

No…

My father is much more than that.

People often say that when you become a father, you start understanding your own father better.

I think that is true.

Especially for people like us whose fathers belonged to the generation before the 80’s.

They were different.

Not bad.

Not uncaring.

Just different.

They grew up in a world where men were expected to be tough.

A father was supposed to earn, solve problems, take responsibility and move on.

Emotions were kept inside.

Tears were hidden.

Love was rarely spoken.

Many of them would probably cry only when nobody was around.

And if something was troubling them, they would carry it alone.

My father was one among them.

He never openly told us he was proud.

He never came and hugged us.

He never sat and explained how much he loved us.

But today when I look back, I can see it everywhere.

In his actions.

In his sacrifices.

In the small moments which I never understood as a child.

Sometimes I feel ego was their biggest problem.

Not the ego we talk about today.

The kind of ego that never allowed them to bend.

Never allowed them to openly appreciate.

Never allowed them to say “I love you.”

But deep inside, they cared more than anybody else.

I am damn sure if my father had lived longer and crossed his sixties comfortably, he would have become the best grandfather.

Unfortunately life had other plans.My daughters never got the chance to know him.

And that is one thing I will always miss.My father was great.Not because he was perfect.

But because of the way he loved us.Let me tell you why.

The Tricycle That Cost More Than Money

The Tricycle

One of the oldest stories in our family is about a tricycle.

My mother still tells this story whenever she gets an opportunity to embarrass me in front of relatives.

I must have been around four or five years old. At that time we were not financially strong.

Lower middle-class family. My parents were still trying to establish themselves. Every rupee mattered.

And there I was. A stubborn fellow. I wanted a tricycle. Not tomorrow. Not next month. Immediately.

And because I did not get it, I decided I would not eat. Breakfast skipped. Lunch skipped. Now my mother was worried.

Today when I think about it, I feel bad for troubling them so much. But as a child, all I knew was that I wanted that tricycle. Finally my mother convinced my father. And somehow, the same day, I got one.

At that age I thought I had won. Today I see it differently. Today I see a young father struggling to earn, trying to build a life for his family, managing expenses and still finding a way to make his son’s silly dream come true. That tricycle was not just a toy. It was a father’s love. A love he never expressed in words.

The ₹150 Lesson I Never Forgot

Lesson i never forgot

Let me tell you another story.This happened when I was in high school. One Saturday I was in my father’s workshop. He was busy with work and did not have time to pay the electricity bill. He handed me the bill and some cash. I don’t remember the exact amount. Maybe around ₹150. For those days, it was not a small amount. The electricity office was hardly a few streets away. 

Simple job.

Go.

Pay the bill.

Bring back the receipt.

That was it.

I kept the money in my front pocket and started walking. Everything was fine. Until I reached the counter. I searched my pocket. Nothing. Checked again. Nothing. The money had disappeared.I still remember that feeling. My heart started racing. There were no mobile phones in those days. No way to call and inform. I walked back almost one and a half kilometres searching every inch of the road.

Nothing. The money was gone. Now I had a bigger problem. How do I face my father? The fear was not about the money. The fear was about disappointing him. Finally I did what every scared child does. I ran to my mother. I entered from the other side of the house so that my father wouldn’t see me. With my heart pounding, I told my mother that I had lost the money. Even today I feel mothers are the bridge in most families. Whenever children are scared, confused or in trouble, they automatically run to their mother. Not because fathers are bad. Not because fathers are strict. It is just how families work.

Mothers become the bridge. When my father came home for lunch, I sat in another room pretending to do homework. But honestly, I was not reading a single word. My ears were fully focused on what they were discussing. Finally, my mother told him. “Your son lost the money you gave him.” I was ready for the worst. The response shocked me. “It’s okay.” That was all. Just three words. Later when I stood before him with my head down, he patted my back and said, “Hope you learnt.” That’s it.

No shouting.

No anger.

No lecture.

Today when I think about it, I realise he understood something I didn’t. I had already learnt the lesson.

There was no need for punishment.

Fever, A Scooter Ride, and a Father’s Care

Father's care

Another incident is still very fresh in my memory. I was in college. One day after attending a couple of classes, I came back home. I was not feeling well. By afternoon my fever became very high. I was wrapped inside two or three blankets and lying on the bed. When my father came home for lunch, he saw me. He didn’t say much. That was normal. Few words. That was his style. A little later, I got up to walk towards the dining area. Suddenly everything went blank.

I fainted.

The next thing I remember was hearing my mother’s voice.

Panic.

Fear.

“Entha aaythu maga…”

After a few minutes when I regained consciousness, I found myself sitting between my father and mother on our scooter.

My father was driving us to the hospital.

Again, no dramatic words. No emotional display.

Just action.

That was his way of caring.

When Life Tested Him, He Simply Stood Strong

Life Tested

There was another difficult time when my brother met with a serious accident while crossing the road.

His leg was badly injured. At that time my mother was away taking care of my grandmother who was unwell. The responsibility completely fell on my father.And he handled it. Just like he handled every crisis in life.Quietly. Without creating panic. Without showing fear. Looking back now, I realise fathers often carry burdens silently so that the family can stay calm.

The Day I Saw Pride in His Eyes

Day i saw pride

As time passed, I completed my studies and started attending interviews. Life was becoming difficult.

My father’s health was no longer good. There was not much income coming in. My brother was still studying. We were surviving with whatever savings were left. Even a small setback during that period could have affected the entire family. People will always say they are there for you. But when real problems come, you quickly learn how few people actually stand beside you. Then came the day I got my job offer. I still remember that journey back home. My father came to the bus stand to pick me up.

We travelled back together. Very few words were spoken. But throughout the journey I kept looking at him. And for the first time I could clearly see it. Pride. He never said it. Men from his generation rarely did. But I knew. His eyes said everything. That day I felt I had done something meaningful for him.

The Grandfather My Daughters Never Got to Meet

Never Got to Meet

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been if he was still here.

I never wanted anything extraordinary.

I simply wanted to make my father and mother proud.

I wanted to buy things for him which he never bought for himself.

I wanted him to enjoy life without worrying about money.

I wanted him to spend time with his grandchildren.

I wanted to see him teaching them things.

I wanted to see him become the grandfather I know he would have been.

With a small farm around, I am sure he would have happily spent his evenings there.

Looking after plants. Talking to neighbours. Playing with grandchildren. Enjoying a slower life.

Simple dreams. Nothing more.

Appa, There Is Still One Thing Left To Say

Appa

Today I see parts of you through Amma. Sometimes when she says something or reacts in a certain way, I see you. And I miss you. More than words can explain.

Appa…

If there is one thing I want to tell you today, it is this.

I loved you.

Maybe I never said it enough. Maybe we belonged to a generation where such things were never spoken openly. But I loved you. And I still do. If I ever get another life, I have only one request.

Let me live it with my complete family around me for as long as possible. One day, sooner or later, we will meet again. And when we do, I just want to hug you. Nothing else. Just a hug.

And tell you how much I loved you.

Before You Close This Page...

Before you close this page

For everyone reading this… If your parents are still around, spend time with them.

Please don’t let ego win. Life is much shorter than we think. Sometimes they may say things that hurt us. Sometimes they may be stubborn. Sometimes they may insist that their way is the right way.

It’s okay.

Pause for a moment.

Think again.

Call them.

Visit them.

Sit with them.

Have that conversation.

Because one day we will give anything for just one more cup of tea with them, one more argument, one more piece of advice, one more ordinary day.

Don’t wait for that day to realise their value.

Happy Father's Day, Appa

Miss you Appa… Always.

Amma: The God We Ever Knew

                             Amma: The God We Ever Knew

                                       Before we understood prayer… we already knew her love.

The God We Ever Knew

Some words mean more than just the sounds we say.
They are places we return to when life becomes _______________.

Amma. Maa. Mother. Amme. Abbe.

The words might be different, but the feeling always stays the same.

Before we understood what the world was and is , we understood her voice.

Before we learned how to pray, we knew her touch.

Before we ever imagined God sitting somewhere above the clouds, we had already seen one moving quietly through our home in a faded saree, carrying everyone’s worries as if they weighed nothing.

Maybe that’s why people say a mother is the closest we get to God. Not because she’s perfect, but because she keeps finding hope even when life gives her almost nothing.

The Magic We Never Noticed

The Magic We Never Noticed

When we were children, life felt automatic.

The food was on the plates at the right time, without notice. School uniforms were washed and folded before you even thought of it. Water bottles were cleaned and filled. Medicine arrived before the fever fully settled. Somehow, everything worked just like a wish.

We never stopped to ask how.

That’s the innocence of childhood. We think homes take care of themselves. We don’t see the woman behind every comfort quietly holding everything together with tired hands and sleepless eyes.

We didn’t notice the dreams she set aside so ours could grow.

It’s only later, when we have our own responsibilities, that we understand something important.

A mother is not just someone living inside a house.
She is the reason the house still feels alive.

The Generation That Suffered Quietly

The Generation That Suffered Quietly

Our mothers came from a generation that hardly talked about pain.

They didn’t know how to say they were tired in their minds. They didn’t take breaks. They just kept going.

Most of their tears were hidden in the kitchen, behind the noise of pressure cookers and boiling tea.

They skipped buying things for themselves so we could study better. They carried stress, fever, disappointment, and fear without letting it spill into the house. Even on difficult days, they smiled because they wanted us to believe life was stable.

Looking back, that smile seems heroic, yes heroic, which covered a lot of sacrifices that we don’t even  know and will come to know.

Not because it was fake.
But because it lasted through everything.

When The World Moved Forward, She Stayed Back To Hold Us Together

She Stayed Back to Hold Us Together

There’s a hard truth many of us realize late in life.

We only see our parents as they are now. We don’t see the years when they were just getting by.

While people around her moved ahead in life, buying homes, celebrating achievements, travelling, and building security, my mother stayed in one place trying to protect her family and her two children from falling apart.

She stood strong against every problem that came our way.

Not for herself.
For us.

Life kept testing her in unexpected ways. Every time things seemed stable, another problem showed up quietly.

Still, she kept going.

I sometimes think mothers from that generation never had the luxury to ask if they were happy. Survival consumed their entire life.

And in the middle of all that struggle, she raised two children.

Her children.

She raised us with great sacrifice, sleepless nights, silent prayers, fears she never shared, and a strength she might not have known she had. One of us slowly grew stronger. And just when her hard work started to pay off, life took away the person she wanted to share it with.

That part of life always hurts me when I think about it deeply. Sometimes life waits until a person reaches the shore, only to take away the one they wanted beside them most.

But even after that, she didn’t stop living for us.

By then, her dreams were no longer about herself. They were about us.

The Day You Realise Your Mother Is Growing Old

The Day you realise your mother is growing old

Then one day, life changes again.

You suddenly notice grey hair that was never there before. The same hands that once carried the entire family now struggle to open medicine bottles. The woman who moved fearlessly through crowded streets now walks carefully across roads.

And you feel a heaviness inside.

Because for the first time, you realise your mother is not invincible.

She is human.

She is growing old.

That realisation changes every son and daughter forever.

But Mothers Never Really Change

But Mother Never Really Change

Even now, after everything life has put her through, her habits remain the same.

She still asks, “Did you eat?”

She still waits for phone calls.

She still notices sadness hidden inside a simple “I’m fine.”

That is the thing about mothers. Their love never grows smaller with time. If anything, it becomes quieter and deeper.

Maybe that’s why it feels so comforting to hear one simple message from her:

“Reached safely ah?”

No matter how old we become, part of us will always remain a child waiting for that message.

Before I End This

Some people spend their whole lives searching for peace.

Sometimes… it is sitting quietly beside your mother while she asks simple things like,

“Did you eat?”
“When will you come home?”
“Why are you looking tired?”

If your mother is near you right now, sit beside her for a while.

Not later.
Not after work.
Not after life becomes less busy.

Now.

Because we often forget that the people who love us the most are growing older while silently continuing to care for us the same way they always did.

And the truth is…

No matter how old we become, part of us still waits for her voice, her food, her concern, and the comfort that only she can give.

A mother never asks for greatness from her children.

She doesn’t expect perfection.

She only wants to see her children happy, healthy, smiling, and standing strong in life.

I may not be the perfect son.
I may still have more to give her.
I may still fail in many ways…

But one thing will never change.

My respect for my mother is greater than any prayer I have ever said.

God may have given me life.

But she is the one who filled that life with meaning, warmth, strength, and love.

And honestly…

One of the greatest blessings in my life is that I can still call out one word —

“Amma.”

Happy to be in this world because of you, Amma.

Happy Mother's Day, Amma...!!  

You know what… even if I miss calling her, she calls me back the next moment—first asking if I’ve eaten, then about everything else in my life… and somehow, the conversation always turns more towards my wife and kids than me 😊

The Fallen Giant: A Powerful Life Lesson from a Wild Mango Tree

 

      The Fallen Giant: A Lesson from a Wild                                            Mango Tree

A Lesson from a Wild Mango Tree

It’s the weekend. Finally.

After the late-night grind of a long Friday, I felt a strange kind of relief. My brain was tired, drained, and done for the week. But the mind… the mind was still wandering somewhere, searching for peace.

That week had ended with some good work completed. And while one part of me had already started worrying about Monday, another part wanted to escape. So I got on my bike.

As I’ve said in many of my blogs, a bike ride is where I do my best thinking. That is where many answers come to me. That is where noise becomes a little less noisy.

While riding, I was thinking about my hometown and our farm, where there had been some good news recently. I’m not sure how many of you know about those tiny mangoes we find in and around the Western Ghats. We call them Wild Mangoes. Small fruits… but full of character.

This particular tree was not just another tree in the farm. It was a world by itself. A massive canopy of branches and stems. When you stood near it, you felt like a small ant. It would take at least three people joining hands to circle its trunk.

And that tree had started fruiting heavily again after two long years.

Thousands of mangoes.

As I rode, I was already smiling to myself, planning to call my mother and tell her to prepare the famous pickles we had been missing for years.

The day passed. The next day, I even discussed it with my mother. We planned to make plenty of pickles and share them with relatives and neighbours.

The Boon of the Western Ghats

Boon of the Western Ghats

Before I get to the heart of the story, let me tell you a little more about this tree.

A Wild Mango tree is a boon to the Western Ghats. Any tree fruiting this heavily is probably a great-grandmother in tree years — maybe 60 or 70 years old, maybe even more. Trees like these are not just trees. They are blessings. They protect the land, hold the soil, give shade, and feed countless birds, insects, and animals.

The taste of the fruit is mouth-watering. The dishes made from them are something else. Once you taste them, you keep waiting for that season again. And the beautiful thing is — even if you find many Wild Mango trees near each other, no two taste exactly the same.

The tree I am talking about stood more than 70 feet tall, rising above almost everything around it. Since our farm is in a hilly region, you could see two giant trees from the entrance itself, standing like guardians and welcoming you with a cool breeze. Out of those two, this one was the tallest — standing there as if it were saluting the Brahmagiri Hills.

Its canopy was like a green empire. It decided who got sunlight and who had to stay in the shade. From its height, it almost looked like it was watching over the smaller plants, the young saplings, the seasonal crops… with a kind of quiet authority.

And I still remember the life under that tree.

There was always sound there.

Birds coming and going. Wings fluttering. Small fights. Sharp calls. Sudden movement between leaves. Even when the farm looked quiet from outside, that tree was never truly silent. It had its own world running above our heads. If you stood under it for a while, you would hear that life before you even noticed it. In many ways, that sound belonged to the farm itself.

Maybe that is why the tree never felt like wood and leaves alone.

It felt alive.

It had survived years of rain, heat, wind, and dry seasons. It had stood through so much that it almost gave the feeling of permanence. Like it would be there forever. Like some things are simply too strong to fall.

The Midnight Call

place that always had shade… now open to the sky

Later that weekend, I got a call from my neighbour.

He told me there had been heavy summer rain. Strong winds. Several trees had come down.

And one of them… was our Wild Mango tree.

Usually, when you get a late-night call from your hometown, your heart already knows it is not good news. Even before you say hello, your mind starts preparing for something bad.

That is exactly what happened.

The moment I heard it, I felt as though I had lost someone who had been with us for years. Someone who had silently seen generations come and go.

As my neighbour described the scene, I could imagine it clearly.

The sky didn’t just turn grey. It became dark, bruised, and restless. The wind was no longer a light breeze. It turned into a force—heavy and angry. It was the kind of wind that doesn’t move quietly through the land, but comes as if it has something to prove.

That giant mango tree must have fought.

I could almost hear its branches groaning. Its massive limbs thrashing in the storm. For years, it had stood there as the strongest thing around, carrying that image without question. But this time, the ground beneath it had changed. The soil had softened under relentless rain. The roots, the very thing that held all its greatness together, could no longer hold that giant weight against that raging wind.

And then, with one unbearable moment, it gave way.

By dawn, the king was on the ground.

And after hearing that, I could not sleep.

I kept imagining that place in the farm.

A place that always had shade… now open to the sky.
A place that always had the sound of birds… now suddenly still.
A place that always looked permanent… now broken in one night.

I imagined branches torn apart. Tiny mangoes scattered in the wet mud. The smell of fresh, broken wood in the air. I even thought of the birds — maybe they came in the morning, circled once, and did not understand where their world had gone.

That thought stayed with me the most.

Because when something that looked eternal disappears overnight, the silence it leaves behind is louder than the fall itself.

When Strength Meets Time

Strength Meet Time

The next day, my mind kept returning to that fallen tree.

Not just because it had fallen.

But because it felt like something more had fallen with it.

A message.

Because life is also like that.

There are people who stand like that tree. Strong voice. Strong position. Money. influence. Confidence. Support. The kind of people who slowly begin to believe they are untouchable. And sometimes, we also believe it. We look at them and think, this man can never fail. This family will never see bad days. This person is too strong to break.

But life does not check your height before testing you.

Time does not care how powerful you look.

One loss. One health issue. One betrayal. One mistake. One bad season. Sometimes that is enough to bring even the strongest-looking person to the ground.

And then life does the opposite too.

The person nobody noticed yesterday may rise tomorrow. The one people ignored may become the strongest soul in the room. The one who had nothing may one day stand with more courage than the one who had everything.

Hero to zero.
Zero to hero.

Life has a strange way of moving people around without asking permission.

The Silent Lesson

Silent Lesson

That is why life must be lived with balance.

When you have everything, do not behave as if you built the sky. What you have today may not stay with you forever.

And when you do not have much, do not sit in shame as if your story is finished. Even dry land waits for rain. Even broken seasons change.

That fallen mango tree taught me something silently.

Strength is beautiful. Growth is beautiful. Standing tall is beautiful.

But pride is dangerous.

The moment we start believing, “I am the strongest. I need nobody. Nothing can happen to me,” life quietly smiles.

Not to insult us.
Not to humiliate us.
But to remind us.

We are all standing only because time is allowing us to stand.

That tree was tall. Maybe the tallest in the farm.

But the day it fell, height had no meaning.

And maybe that is true for human life too.

Do not be arrogant when life is giving you shade.
Do not feel destroyed when life throws you to the ground.

Seasons change.
Position changes.
Strength changes.
Fortune changes.

What should remain is humility.

The tree is no longer standing in the farm.

But strangely, after falling, it began standing inside my thoughts.

Even now, when I think of power, success, ego, struggle, and survival, I remember that Wild Mango tree. Not just as a tree that once stood tall — but as a life that taught me something after its fall.

Sometimes, the tallest things fall not to end their story…

but to teach ours.

I’ll park my story here for now.

This incident left me with many more thoughts, many more messages, and maybe I will speak about them in future blogs.

But for now, I leave you with this:

Has life ever shown you that strength alone is not enough?
Has something ever fallen in front of you… only to leave behind a lesson that never left your mind?

Disclaimer: This story is inspired by real-life events. Any interpretation is personal, and any resemblance to situations is purely coincidental.