Roots

I gripped his shoulders as the motorbike sputtered to life, coughing smoke into the humid air. He drove along a dirt path, passing flooded paddy fields and slender palm trees. The steady rocking of the bike lulled me to sleep, and I rested my head against his shoulder like I used to as a child.

“We’re here,” Ramesh murmured in Telugu. 

Dark trunks and crowns of emerald leaves stretched to the horizon, filling my view. Between them were rows of black soil and tangles of roots. My eyes squinted, unsure if it looked the same as twenty years ago. Mirroring Ramesh, I slid my sandals off and stepped into the serene orchard. The ground molded into the curves of my feet, cool and firm, unwilling to let me go. But something in the soil hesitated, as if knowing I was not the girl it once loved.

“This land has been waiting for you, Sindhu,” his deep voice cut through the silence, trembling just enough for me to notice.

I looked at Ramesh - unable to meet his clouded eyes - and soaked in the place I barely recognized. All around me were the mangos the color of gold, each larger than my outstretched hand, illuminated by shafts of warm sunlight. They were everywhere—on the tips of brown branches and hidden behind covers of green.

With my every step, the orchard stirred from its slumber, conjuring a world of the past. Gleeful yells of cousins I once knew rang out as they raced up tall trees, and the sweet aroma of nectar perfumed the air. I smiled, imagining that this whimsical world was still mine. I pretended to once again know every corner of this orchard, to share my deepest secrets with it, to love it the way I must have as a little girl.

Somewhere far away, a voice cut through my daydream. 

“Remember it?”

I wavered, disoriented as the memory faded away. The orchard stilled. 

“What?”

Ramesh stepped closer, his lips tugging up. “The tree,” he said expectantly.

His smile faltered as he studied my blank expression. I looked at him, not understanding the hurt behind his eyes.

He said it again, softer, finger limply pointing. “Your tree, Sindhu … the one you used to take care of.”

My gaze held his, confused.

“You forgot?”

Ramesh’s last word was not a question. It was a realization. He swallowed hard at my silence and clenched his jaw like he was holding something more than words. At that moment, he seemed to realize who I had become, who had replaced the Sindhu he once knew. When he finally spoke, his breaking voice was barely above a whisper.

“When we planted the orchard, there was one sick tree. It wouldn’t grow for months. The workers said it would never grow, that they would pluck it out. But you didn’t let them.” 

He glanced at me, searching my face in vain for any hint of remembrance. 

“You begged them to let it live. You watered that tree and cared for it every day. And somehow, it survived.”

Naked silence hung between us.

His words echoed in my mind, resurfacing forgotten memories. A small girl, petting a sick sapling, talking to it in a language of no words. A young woman—eyes filled with purpose and heart with doubts—hugging a massive trunk, bidding it goodbye.

Ramesh waited for that child within me to return. He waited until finally, he could not. His shoulders, toned from decades of tending the orchard, trembled as silent sobs escaped his lips. I stepped back slowly, unable to bear the truth: that I no longer held within me the girl he had loved so deeply. That was what had kept me from returning all these years. Not time. Not distance. But fear. Fear that I had changed — and fear of facing those who still loved the person I used to be. My eyes dropped, landing on a jumble of jagged lines: my initials, etched in the bark with the messy script of a child.

I looked up at that massive tree now, standing taller than any other in the orchard. My memories didn’t tell me what had made me love it with such passion, why I had once felt comfort in its cool shade. More than that, what unsettled me was the simple truth—I no longer held within me the girl who had carved my name.

My palm brushed over the tree, letting its ridges cut my skin. Had time washed away its memories of me, as it had mine of it? I rested my head against the giant being, nestling into its curves. I listened. Not with my ears, but my heart. My chest rose and fell against the strong trunk that held everything I’d left behind. I pleaded silently for it to make me remember. But, even if it was yelling, wailing, I could not hear its language.

It understood this and seemed to pulsate under my palms, beating in rhythm with my heart. We leaned against each other, not understanding, but feeling. It didn’t reach for me, nor I for it, but its warmth seeped into my skin, steady and unquestioning.

Then another warmth: strong, but faltering. I sensed Ramesh’s hand nervously hovering over my shoulder. I leaned into it and felt my brother’s arms around me. They no longer wrapped around me, shielding me from the world. But they held me strong, not letting me fall, silently telling me he was there.

“Even if you don’t remember, Sindhu, I can never forget.”

It wasn’t just Ramesh saying it. His voice came from all around—the wind, the soil, my tree. They would never forget who I once was.

He stayed close, brushing his hand gently beside mine over the bark. I wondered if it was telling him something, if he could hear the words I couldn’t. Maybe, in my absence, it had grown to understand him, and he, it.

Ramesh stepped away slowly, eyes lifting to the branches above. He brushed one to the side, then looked at me. Not asking. Just waiting. I followed his gaze and spotted it glowing between the leaves. Slowly, I reached up and plucked the tree’s offering. Without thinking, my nails tore through the soft skin of the mango, yellow fibers bursting through the seam. As its sweet nectar trickled messily over my face and arms, I filled my mouth eagerly with the ripened flesh. I handed Ramesh a piece, and he chewed slowly, looking between the tree and me. 

I saw him breathe differently, as if a burden had been removed from his shoulders. He looked at me, not searching for the little sister I had been, but the woman I was now. Then he smiled, a smile so true I forgot it ever existed. It was the same smile that comforted my childhood fears and encouraged my dreams, but also masked his burdens and silent sacrifices. I smiled back.

The leaves gently rustled and the sunlight warmed our faces. At that moment, it all felt real. Maybe we three weren’t who we once were, but we were here—now, together. That would always be enough.