The old banyan tree loomed over the street—a witness to decades of secrets. Leela gazed at its tangled roots, recalling her mother's stories of childhood in a war-torn village, stories she learned at bedtime, echoes of pain that felt familiar even if she hadn't lived them herself. Under its shadow, Leela would sometimes see stray dogs fight, hear the cries of neighbors, the perpetual hum of arguments, heartbreak, and resilience.Leela's earliest memories were stitched from shards: her father's absence after the accident, her brother's fury after endless nights of bullying, the silence that marked each family dinner, and the harsh words of relatives who bore their own wounds. School offered little refuge—her grades slipped, teachers misunderstood her fear. She was twelve when her best friend left town without an explanation, the emptiness a weight she'd carry for years.But trauma, she later realized, was not just one event. It wove through generations. Her grandmother survived forced migration, swept into labor camps after war. Her mother inherited nightmares—stories passed down like heirlooms, unspoken yet ubiquitous, reshaping the family's language and love. Leela saw it in herself, the anxiety in crowds, the haunting of sudden loud sounds.Years later, Leela worked at a crisis helpline, absorbing others' burdens—calls from strangers grieving suicide, violence, illness. She became a vessel for the pain of the city, sometimes unable to distinguish her own voice from the turmoil she held for others.In the banyan's tangled shadows, every fracture was remembered: a history of bruises, betrayals, hopes, and quiet moments of kindness. As Leela reached adulthood, the deepest wounds were those invisible to the world but written plainly in every relationship—each echo beneath the banyan, a story longing to be told.
