THE LAST SAPLING

It was the year 1924 when young Amar placed a tiny sapling into the soil, his fingers caked with dirt, his heart swelling with purpose. His grandfather, a wrinkled yet sturdy man, patted his shoulder and said, "Someday, when neither of us is here, this tree will stand, shading those who come after."

Amar didn’t fully understand then, but he nodded, pushing the soil around the roots, anchoring it to the earth. The tree was just one among hundreds his family planted, a tradition passed down for generations. The land was harsh, but their trees stood like silent warriors, battling the scorching sun and the merciless winds.

Decades passed. Amar grew into a man, raising his children with the same values. The sapling he had planted as a boy stretched its branches skyward, offering refuge to birds, sheltering weary travelers, and yielding fruit for the village. He told his son, Ravi, the same words his grandfather had once whispered to him.

But times changed. Industrialization crept in. The village grew into a town, and soon into a city. Ravi, now a young man, watched as trees fell to make way for roads, factories, and towering buildings. "Progress," they called it. The air thickened with smoke, rivers darkened, and the land hardened under concrete. The grove Amar’s ancestors had once nurtured dwindled.

Then, one summer, the drought came. The wells dried up. The heat was unbearable, and the land cracked like parched lips. People spoke of leaving, of seeking greener lands, but there were none left. Ravi, desperate, turned to the last few trees that remained—the ones his father had planted. The ground beneath them, though not lush, still held moisture. The leaves still rustled, whispering stories of a time when shade and cool breezes were not a luxury.

Realization hit Ravi like a storm. They had razed what had once sustained them. The wisdom of the past had been dismissed as old-world thinking, but it was the very lifeline they had severed.

Determined to correct the mistake, Ravi rallied the remaining villagers. They planted saplings, not just in their village but beyond, reviving the lost green. Years later, his own daughter, Meera, grew up watching the new trees flourish. The land began to heal, welcoming back the rain, the birds, and the laughter of children playing in the shade.

One day, an old and frail Ravi sat beneath the towering tree his father had once planted. He whispered to Meera, "When we won’t be here, these trees will be." And she smiled, placing a tiny sapling into the soil, her fingers caked with dirt, her heart swelling with purpose.