The desert and the river - part IV: The banyan tree and the monsoon rain

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The little owlet that had taken shelter in her quiet, gnawed trunk peaked out of his hole enquiringly as the first cool zephyr alarmed her glossy leaves into a rustle, informing of his approach. The pair of chirpy squirrels stopped chasing each other through her branches and thought of hiding in a dark, private corner. The parakeets were suddenly quiet - waiting expectedly. The song in her heart died down, and she clung to the Earth with all her roots, waiting for the worst.

He came rumbling from over the hill, too drunk with the heady delights of a couple of hours of thunderous orgy - the ravaging of the hill-side with wind, rain and sleet - quite confident that the trees in the forest must have secretly enjoyed the storm after a whole year of boring quietude. But he was stopped short by the vision before him. Here was a tree that reminded him of childhood! He reached out gently to explore, at first, this magnificent and shy tree that appeared to be quite content without him; her dark, shady recesses almost inaccessible; her branches, just a moment ago, so alive with happiness.

The gentle kisses of the first few drops came as a pleasant surprise, the pitter-patter almost welcome. She shyly shook herself free of tension, the squirrels emerged from their secret hiding place, the parakeets broke out into chatter, the owl gave a hoot or two before turning comfortably back into his hole again. She would make friends with him if he promised to behave.

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