The Promise Beneath The Banyan Tree
1066 Words
Chapter 3 – The Promise Beneath the Banyan Tree
Noorpur, Punjab
April, 1947
Spring had painted Noorpur in shades of gold.
The mustard fields stretched far beyond the eye could see, dancing gently with every passing breeze. The village awakened slowly, as it always did. Roosters announced the morning, women swept the courtyards outside their homes, and farmers prepared their bullock carts before the sun climbed too high.
Nothing seemed different.
Nothing suggested that history had already begun knocking on the doors of Punjab.
For Joravar Singh and Afsana, however, the world was still wonderfully small.
It was just another holiday.
And holidays belonged to them.
As soon as breakfast was finished, Afsana appeared outside Joravar's house, hands resting on her hips.
"Don't tell me you're still asleep!"
A voice answered from inside.
"I'm awake!"
"That doesn't sound convincing."
A few moments later, Joravar stepped outside, still trying to straighten his slightly crooked turban.
"You never have patience."
"I do," Afsana replied.
He smiled.
"You've been shouting my name for the last minute."
"Exactly."
They both laughed before beginning their familiar walk through the village.
The dusty road felt almost like an old friend. Every turn reminded them of a memory.
"There," Afsana pointed toward a broken fence.
"You fell there."
Joravar frowned.
"I slipped."
"You cried."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I had dust in my eyes."
"You had tears in your eyes."
He shook his head dramatically.
"You're impossible."
"And you're terrible at lying."
Their laughter echoed through the quiet morning.
Soon they reached the old banyan tree.
Its enormous branches spread across the ground like welcoming arms, offering shade to anyone who passed beneath it.
To the people of Noorpur, it was simply an old tree.
To Joravar and Afsana…
It was their place.
They sat against the thick trunk, enjoying the cool shade.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh wheat, while birds sang somewhere above the leaves.
Finally, Afsana broke the silence.
"What do you think you'll become when you grow up?"
Joravar scratched his head.
"I already know."
"Oh?"
"I'll own the biggest farm in Noorpur."
She smiled.
"The biggest?"
"The biggest."
"And who will do all the work?"
"My workers."
"You'll have workers?"
"Of course."
Afsana laughed so loudly that even a pair of sparrows flew away from a nearby branch.
"You can't even wake up without your mother calling you three times."
"I'll improve."
"When?"
"When I become rich."
She wiped a tear of laughter from her eye.
"I'll remind you of this day."
Joravar looked at her.
"What about you?"
Her smile softened.
"I want to become a teacher."
"A teacher?"
She nodded.
"So every child in the village can read and write."
"You already sound like Master Abdul Rahman."
"I'll be kinder than him."
"He isn't that strict."
"He gave you extra mathematics yesterday."
"That's because he likes me."
"No," Afsana grinned.
"That's because you forgot your homework."
Joravar sighed dramatically.
"Why do you always remember my mistakes?"
"Because someone has to."
They sat quietly again.
The wind rustled through the banyan leaves.
After a long pause, Afsana asked another question.
"Joravar…"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think we'll still be friends when we're old?"
He looked at her, confused.
"What kind of question is that?"
"I was just wondering."
He shrugged.
"Of course we will."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because you're stuck with me."
She smiled.
"And what if life changes?"
"It won't."
"What if it does?"
He thought for a moment before replying.
"Then we'll still find each other."
There was such certainty in his voice that Afsana couldn't help but smile.
Children often believed promises were stronger than time.
Neither of them knew that sometimes…
Time wasn't the greatest obstacle.
History was.
Joravar suddenly stood up.
"I have an idea."
Afsana looked curious.
"What now?"
He picked up a small pointed stone lying near the roots of the tree.
Walking closer to the trunk, he carefully scratched two letters into the rough bark.
J
Then—
A
Afsana stared at him.
"You'll get us into trouble if someone sees."
He stepped back proudly.
"Now everyone will know this is our tree."
"Our tree?"
"Our meeting place."
She walked beside him and gently touched the freshly carved letters.
"They're very small."
"So?"
"So you'll probably be the only one who can even read them."
He smiled.
"That's enough."
For a few moments they simply looked at the initials.
Then Afsana quietly said,
"Let's make a promise."
"What promise?"
"No matter how busy life becomes…"
She looked up at the spreading branches.
"…we'll come back here every year."
Joravar extended his little finger.
"Promise."
She hooked her finger around his.
"Promise."
Neither child realized how heavy such a simple promise could become.
The afternoon drifted by peacefully.
They raced across the fields.
Skipped stones across the village pond.
Argued over whose turn it was to climb the low branches of the banyan tree.
By evening, the sky had turned orange.
As they walked home, they noticed a small crowd gathered near the village square.
A tired man had arrived from another town.
Dust covered his clothes, and exhaustion rested on his face.
The elders listened carefully while he spoke in a low voice.
Joravar and Afsana slowed their steps, trying to hear.
"We've heard…" the traveler said quietly, "…that things are no longer peaceful in some places."
The elders exchanged uneasy glances.
Someone asked,
"Are the rumours true?"
The man lowered his eyes.
"I hope they are only rumours."
No one spoke after that.
The cheerful sounds of the village seemed strangely quieter.
Afsana looked at Joravar.
"What do you think they're talking about?"
He shook his head.
"I don't know."
For the first time that day…
Neither of them laughed.
As they reached the road where they always separated, Afsana smiled.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Joravar replied.
She walked away, disappearing into the narrow lane.
Joravar stood there for a moment before looking back toward the old banyan tree.
The tiny carved letters could no longer be seen from where he stood.
But he knew they were there.
Waiting.
Just like their promise.
Above them, the evening breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying a silence that neither child understood.
Far beyond Noorpur, history had already begun its journey.
It simply had not reached them…
Yet.
- Writer
