It's been seven years since my grandmother died.
Everything changed after that day.
And maybe... maybe it was all my fault.
Now, I sit beneath the banyan tree behind the Hanuman temple—the very one where we buried her. The tree's massive roots curl around the old stone courtyard, whispering memories I can't forget. I'm in my wheelchair, unable to walk ever since the accident. The wind brushes softly across my face. I stare blankly ahead, my hands resting on my lap, calm but broken.
A soft pair of gold earrings swing gently from my ears. My ponytail sits loosely, while the strands at the front of my hair cling to my cheeks, stuck with drying tears. I tilt my head toward the sky.
"Grandma," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I feel so lonely. I'm not the person I used to be. I can't run. I can't even walk without someone's help."
I force a small, awkward smile.
"Everyone treats me like I'm not normal. And maybe... they're right. I'm weak."
Wiping my face slowly, I whisper, "After all, I'm like this because of me. You're gone because of me... If I hadn't been so careless, maybe you'd still be alive. Will you forgive me for that?"
I close my eyes.
"If yes, then why won't you come back? You loved me so much, right? Don't you want to see me again? Please, Grandma... come back."
The wind picks up. Dust swirls around me. I shut my eyes tight, and just then, something brushes gently against my skin.
A glowing peacock feather.
It floats slowly, lightly touching my eyes before drifting away with the wind.
When I open my eyes again...
I'm no longer under the banyan tree.
I find myself in a strange, glowing realm where time feels frozen. Infinite banyan trees stretch across the skies, their branches filled not with leaves but with luminous peacock feathers. The ground is scattered with floating books, their pages turning midair. Glowing roots coil around them, while peacock feathers write unknown symbols on the pages like magic.
It was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.
A single feather drifts down from the tree above me and lands softly in my palm. I stare at it.
It's warm. Alive. Peaceful.
In that moment, I feel it—a reason to live. A light inside me. Ever since that day, my world changed.
It began to glow... like the peacock feathers.
---
Thirteen Years Ago
A woman screamed in pain in the hospital room.
"Calm down, ma'am! Stay strong! Just a little more!" the nurses encouraged her.
Then, a baby's cry filled the room.
The woman relaxed. The doctor smiled and gently handed the child over.
"Congratulations, ma'am. You have a daughter."
That was the day I was born. My brother was only five at the time. My father stood outside the room, nervous. My grandmother rushed in as soon as the doctor left. Tears filled her eyes as she saw me. She held my tiny hands and named me right there:
"Sira."
My father quietly left the hospital in the rain. He walked to the nearby Hanuman temple, knelt behind it, and planted a small banyan sapling.
Weeks later, when my mother was discharged, our family visited the temple. My grandmother worshipped the sapling. My mother, holding me in her arms, stepped forward. Grandma took my tiny hands, dipped them into water, and helped me water the plant.
"Sira," she said softly, "this is your tree. Take care of it."
That day, we welcomed two new lives into the family: me and the tree.
As I grew, so did my bond with Grandma. She fed me milk and biscuits with her own hands, took me on walks, and stayed by my side through everything.
One day, as I learned to walk, I stood up by holding a chair. I took one shaky step. Grandma cheered. Then I fell.
She rushed over, but I just laughed.
Even when I failed, I was happy. Because I was learning.
My tree was growing too. I watered it every day. One morning I asked, "Grandma, why do we water the tree every day?"
She smiled. "Because it's still growing, dear. Just like you. It needs food and love."
I nodded, serious. "When the tree gets big like yours, will I be tall like you too?"
She laughed and patted my head.
Three years passed. I was now ready for school. The day before, I was full of excitement—new books, a small ponytail on my head like a coconut tree, and a crisp new uniform.
"You look too cute," Grandma said with a smile.
The next day, she dropped me off at the school gate. I waved goodbye and walked inside with a big grin.
But after a few days, I started crying. I didn't want to go anymore. Maybe I was just scared. Everyone said it was normal.
On Sundays, I still watered my tree. It had grown large. I often slept under its shade.
One day, I saw a squirrel on its branches. I shouted, "Grandma! A squirrel!"
It jumped away, and a leaf fell into my mouth. I spat it out and Grandma laughed.
"Grandma, I water the tree daily. Why are the leaves falling?"
She sat beside me. "It's spring, Sira. Trees let go of old leaves so new ones can grow."
"Why not keep both?" I asked.
She gently touched my head. "To grow, we must let some things go. You'll understand one day."
I thought for a while. "Then... I'll throw my old toys and get new ones?"
She laughed and hugged me.
A few weeks later, I was crying again at school. I didn't want to go.
A group of boys stood nearby. One whispered, "Hey, look at her ponytail. Looks like a coconut tree, haha."
He sneered. "She told on me last week. I'll make her cry today."
"How?" the others asked.
He pulled out an earthworm from his pocket. The others recoiled.
"Just watch after school," he grinned.
The final bell rang. Children poured out of the school gates.
I walked out slowly, holding my bag.
Suddenly, the boy ran behind me, holding the earthworm high, trying to toss it at my hair.
I screamed and ran, tears blurring my vision.
Across the road, my grandmother stood, waiting for me. The traffic light was still red.
She saw me running, saw the boy chasing me, and stepped forward.
I ran out onto the road.
She shouted. Reached out.
But it was too late.
A truck.
Screeching brakes.
A crash.
My body hit the road and flew meters away. Blood spilled from my head and neck. My vision went black.
Grandma ran forward, heart pounding
She saw me lying there, lifeless. Her breathing became heavy. She clutched her chest.
And then—she collapsed beside me.
Just like that, everything faded.