Under the Banyan Tree

The old banyan tree stood at the edge of the village, its roots hanging down like ropes and its branches spreading wide enough to keep the summer sun away. That was our school.

Every morning, we carried our jute sacks, swept the dust beneath the tree and sat in rows. Class Two and Class Three shared one teacher. His wooden chair stood under the shade, with a bamboo stick leaning against it.

Beyond the tree were fields, buffaloes tied to wooden posts and narrow paths where women walked home with water pots. Sometimes a cow wandered into our classroom. Sometimes a tractor passed and filled the air with dust. We stopped only long enough to watch it go. I loved school.

Numbers came easily to me. I would finish my Class Two sums and then quietly look at the Class Three book.

That was how I noticed Mahesh. He was the Class Three monitor and one of the best students in the school. His shirt was usually faded, and his hands were rough from working in the fields, but he was quick with numbers.

I wanted to beat him. One morning, I picked up my jute sack and moved it into the Class Three row.

Our teacher looked at me. “I can do these questions,” I said. He smiled, opened the register and moved my name.

Mahesh looked at me but said nothing.

After that, we competed over everything—who finished first, who answered more questions, who got the highest marks.

For me, school ended when the teacher dismissed us. For Mahesh, the day continued in the fields.

By afternoon, while I sat at home with my books, he was carrying bundles, watering crops or working beside his father.

The difference slowly appeared in our marks.

Then, one year, I left the village and went to city for further studies. Mahesh stayed.

The banyan tree, the jute sacks and our little competition became memories. Life in the city moved quickly, and I rarely thought about those mornings.

Years later, I returned to the village.

The road seemed narrower than I remembered. The school still stood under the banyan tree, but the walls had cracked and the old wooden chair was gone.

Near the tea stall, someone called my name.

I turned. It was Mahesh. For a moment, I did not recognise him.

His body had become thin. His face looked much older. The bright eyes I remembered had sunk deep into his tired face.

He smiled. There was a smell of alcohol on his breath.

We stood there talking about the village, the school and people who had left.

He was doing daily-wage work now. I looked at his hands. They were still rough.

I remembered the two of us sitting under the banyan tree, fighting over sums in our notebooks, each trying to finish before the other.

I had thought I was simply better. Only much later did I understand that we had never been sitting at the same starting line.

I had carried my books home. Mahesh had carried his life.

We stood there for a while then he smiled again and walked towards the tea stall.

I watched him go.

The banyan tree stood quietly behind us, spreading its shade over the empty schoolyard.

For a long time, I could not look away.