The Whispering Banyan
The village of Noorabad, nestled between golden wheat fields and a slow-moving river, was unremarkable to outsiders. But for its people, it was a world of its own—where gossip spread faster than the wind, where everyone knew everyone’s sorrow, and where a century-old banyan tree stood at the heart of the village, its roots twisting into the earth like ancient veins.
Under that tree sat Baba Shafi, the oldest man in the village. His beard, white as cotton, reached his chest, and his cloudy eyes held stories no one dared to ask about. He rarely spoke, except when children gathered around him in the evening, eager for his tales.
That evening, as the sun melted into the horizon, six villagers sat under the banyan: Naseema, a widow who still wore her husband’s watch as a memory; Jameel, the village tailor with a hunched back and sharp tongue; Faisal, a young boy with more questions than answers; Chaudhry Sultan, the village head with a belly as round as his authority; and Rahim, the quiet farmer who spent more time listening than speaking. Baba Shafi, as always, sat in silence, his wooden staff resting between his fingers.
Faisal, restless as ever, broke the stillness. “Baba, is it true the banyan tree whispers at night?”
Jameel chuckled. “Boy, it’s just the wind. You city-returned kids believe in foolish things.”
But Baba Shafi didn’t laugh. Instead, he exhaled deeply. “Not everything in this village is what it seems, beta.”
A hush fell over them. Even Chaudhry Sultan, who never took interest in village superstitions, leaned in slightly.
Baba Shafi finally spoke. “Many years ago, a woman named Meher lived here. Beautiful, like the moon on Eid night, but unfortunate. She loved a man who wasn’t meant for her. The village shunned her, and one night, she disappeared. Some say she ran away. Others… they say she never left.”
Naseema’s hands tightened around her husband’s old watch. “And the whispers?”
Baba Shafi looked at her, then at the banyan. “Some say if you listen closely, you can hear her calling for justice.”
Rahim, always the skeptic, shook his head. “Old tales. Meher must have left like any sensible person would.”
But Faisal, young and fearless, stood up. “I’ll stay under the tree tonight. Let’s see if Meher speaks to me.”
A nervous laugh spread through the group, but when they saw Baba Shafi’s face remain unmoved, their amusement turned to unease.
That night, Faisal lay beneath the banyan, staring at the vast sky. At first, there was nothing—just the sounds of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. Then, around midnight, the wind changed. It became heavy, thick with something unseen. And then, he heard it—a whisper. Faint, like a sigh carried on the breeze.
His breath hitched. His heart pounded. He wanted to run but found himself frozen. The whisper came again.
“Faisal…”
His name. Spoken so softly, so sorrowfully, that fear and sadness intertwined. He turned towards the tree, and for a fleeting second, in the dim moonlight, he saw something—or someone—standing beneath the leaves.
Morning came, and the villagers found Faisal sitting there, eyes wide, face pale.
Chaudhry Sultan, unamused, scoffed. “Well, boy? Did the ghost braid your hair too?”
But Faisal didn’t respond. Instead, he slowly stood, dusted off his clothes, and murmured, “Meher never left.”
From that day on, no one sat under the banyan tree alone after sunset. And though the whispers never stopped, they were no longer just a village tale.
