In the heart of a lush Indian jungle, where the sun barely kissed the forest floor and the air buzzed with life, nature thrived in its most vibrant form. Birds sang in spontaneous chorus, insects drummed the rhythm of the day, and langurs leapt like acrobats between branches. Deep in the underbrush, a deer darted — swift, desperate — chased by a tiger with eyes like molten gold. Not far behind, a leopard, wise enough to stay out of the fray, melted into the shadows.
But amidst all this drama, beneath the rustle and roar, something quieter, more hopeful happened.
A few teak seeds, brown and inconspicuous, fell to the forest floor. Nudged by wind and rain, they nestled into the earth. Days passed. Then, in a miracle as old as time, one by one, they began to germinate.
Not all made it.
Some seedlings, fragile and slow, never broke through the soil. Others, just as they peeked into the world, were nibbled away by hungry deer. But fate was kind to one — our little sapling — who stood sheltered behind a rock. The deer fled, startled by a distant tiger’s growl, sparing our hero and a few others.
Nature, however, never rests. Torrential rains came. Thunder growled. The jungle turned into a roaring river of mud and chaos. When the storm passed, only nine saplings stood tall.
Time, the forest’s oldest friend, passed gently. The saplings grew into slender trees. Years rolled into decades. They became giants — proud teak trees with thick trunks and lush canopies. Each one was a living city, home to countless creatures: ants weaving silent highways, birds building cozy nests, beetles drilling their tiny empires.
Our teak, now mighty and wise, loved listening to stories shared by the wind, birds, and neighbors. One such tale was of a young weaver bird — a spirited little fellow with a bright yellow belly and an even brighter attitude. He danced tirelessly to impress a shy female. When he finally did, and their eggs hatched, one chick, more curious than the rest, kept trying to reach the topmost branch. Its mother, ever watchful, chirped, “Not yet, my little sky-chaser. Let your wings find their strength.”
The tree smiled (as only trees can), sheltering them all in its broad, generous arms.
Another tale came from an old friend nearby — a story of a jungle cat. With the stealth of a whisper, it had crept up this very tree and pounced upon a squirrel that never saw it coming. “That was a wild day,” the friend chuckled through rustling leaves.
And so, the trees stood, whispering tales to each other, laughing with the wind, playing with sunlight, and watching over their tiny kingdoms.
They were just treeing around… happily.
To be continued…
