The morning sun rose slowly over the quiet countryside, casting a warm golden light over the endless stretches of rice fields. A soft mist hovered low over the crops, catching the sunlight and making the field look like it was glowing. Birds chirped somewhere in the trees, and the gentle breeze stirred the tall stalks with a peaceful rustle.

  Vihaan sat under the wide shade of a banyan tree, his back resting against the thick roots. His eyes were fixed on the field in front of him, watching as his father moved through the rows of rice with practiced hands. He wore a faded white kurta and old brown cotton pants, both damp from sweat and mud. The sun was already warm, but his father didn’t stop, bending and standing, his arms moving steadily like he had done this work a thousand times over.

  Beside Vihaan, Arya lounged lazily with one leg stretched out and the other bent, his eyes locked onto his phone. The screen reflected on his face, and his fingers tapped and scrolled without pause. The noise of some video or music leaked faintly from his earbuds. Unlike their father, Arya had no connection to the land. He preferred the small glowing screen in his hands to the world around him.

  Vihaan didn’t say anything. He rarely did unless someone spoke to him first. He was more comfortable watching, taking everything in, thinking quietly. Their dad often teased him for being too serious, too silent, but Vihaan didn’t mind. It was just the way he was.

  Their father stood up straight and stretched his back with a groan, then turned to look at his sons under the tree.

  “Arya,” he called, not harshly, but with a firm tone. “Enough with the phone. Come help.”

  Arya didn’t even look up. “Just five more minutes, Baba.”

  "You said that fifteen minutes ago."

  Vihaan glanced at Arya, expecting the usual. Their dad would ask again, Arya would argue, and eventually, he’d get up with a sigh and do just enough work to avoid another lecture.

  But today, something changed.

  “If you both help me finish early,” their father said, brushing sweat from his forehead, “we’ll go to Anant Vriksh this evening.”

  Arya’s head snapped up. “Wait, seriously?”

  Vihaan looked at his dad, eyebrows slightly raised. Even he hadn’t expected that. Trips to Anant Vriksh were rare these days. The tree wasn’t far, but climbing it took time, and their dad only took them when the work was done well.

  Their dad gave a half-smile and nodded. “But only if we finish before sunset.”

  Arya groaned like it was a big favor but stood up and shoved his phone into his pocket. “Fine. But you better not change your mind.”

  Vihaan didn’t need convincing. He was already on his feet, brushing dirt from his pants.

  The three of them stepped into the field, the morning warmth rising around them. The rice plants tickled against their legs as they walked between the narrow paths. Their father moved with his usual calm energy, guiding them through the work. Vihaan followed his dad’s lead, copying the way he held the sickle, the way he bundled the stalks. Arya stumbled a few times, complained more than once, but he kept going.

  “Why do we still do all this by hand?” Arya muttered after a while, swatting away a mosquito. “Other people use machines.”

  “Because machines don’t teach you respect,” their dad answered without looking back. “You learn something when you work with your hands.”

  Arya rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like how bad I am at it.”

  Their dad chuckled. “You’ll get better. You just have to stop running from it.”

  Vihaan kept working quietly, his hands moving slowly but surely. His father noticed and gave him a small nod of approval.

  “You think too much, Vihaan,” he said after a while. “What’s on your mind?”

  Vihaan shrugged. “Nothing. Just… watching.”

  “That’s not nothing,” their dad replied. “Watching is important. But don’t get lost in it. The world’s not just for looking at.”

  Vihaan nodded but didn’t say anything more. He didn’t feel lost. Just curious.

  They worked for the next few hours, under the growing heat of the sun. Arya took breaks whenever he could get away with it, but he didn’t sneak back to his phone—not yet, at least. Vihaan stayed beside his father, trying to match his pace, learning in silence.

  As the sun climbed higher into the sky and the work finally neared completion, the thought of Anant Vriksh became more and more real. Even Arya seemed to be getting excited.

  Vihaan felt something stir inside him—a small thrill. The tree always made him feel something he couldn’t explain. Like it was calling him back.

  And soon, they’d be on their way.

  By the time they finished, the sun was already leaning west, casting long shadows across the field. The rice stalks they’d harvested were neatly bundled in the corner, and their father wiped his forehead with a cloth, his shirt clinging to his back. The work was done, and for once, Arya hadn’t vanished halfway through.

  Vihaan sat back down under the banyan tree, stretching his arms with a quiet sigh. His muscles ached, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind that felt earned.

  Their father looked at both of them, gave a small nod, and said, “Good. You kept your end of the deal. Let’s head home and get ready.”

  Arya grinned. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “You say that every time,” their dad said with a slight smirk.

  They made their way back through the narrow trail leading to the edge of the field where their home stood. It wasn’t a large house, but it was solid—normal bricks and cement house. darkened by years of sun and rain, a sloping roof made of clay tiles, and a front porch that creaked underfoot. It wasn't colored because of the financial situation at that time, but it slowly had grown on them, so it wasn't changed. It had the kind of warmth that only time could build.

  Inside, Arya rushed to the blue water drum in the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face, muttering about how much he hated sweating. Vihaan followed more quietly, washing his hands and arms before drying off on a worn cotton towel.

  Their father disappeared into the back room while Vihaan moved to the small open kitchen. He opened the wooden cupboard, took out a cloth bag, and began packing food for the journey: a few flatbreads wrapped in banana leaves, boiled eggs, dried mango slices, and a small pouch of peanuts. He also packed some vegetables and a small plastic container full of wheat flour, since he planned on cooking in the tree. Simple, but enough for the climb and the night. Arya walked past, peeking into the bag. “Don’t forget the jaggery,” he said, rummaging in the corner shelf for the small tin.

  Vihaan added a couple of pieces without saying much. It was one of the few things Arya actually looked forward to when they visited the tree.

  Their father reappeared a moment later, now wearing a fresh cotton kurta and tying a cloth satchel around his waist. “Ready?”

  Arya gave his dad his empty school backpack. His dad packed everything inside the backpack.

  Vihaan nodded, already slipping on his sandals. Arya took a little longer, complaining about blisters from the fieldwork, but eventually followed.

  The sun had lowered further, bathing the path ahead in a warm amber glow. The air had cooled slightly, and the scent of earth after a long day of heat still lingered. They locked up the house, double-checking the back door, then stepped onto the dirt trail that led into the trees.

  The walk to Anant Vriksh wasn’t short, but it had always been familiar.

  The path curved through thickets of bamboo and stretches of wild grass. The deeper they walked, the denser the trees became. Tall trunks rose like pillars, and the canopy above dimmed the light, scattering it into patches on the forest floor. Crickets began to sing, and somewhere in the distance, a cuckoo called.

  Arya walked beside Vihaan, swatting at mosquitoes every few steps. “You’d think with all the trips we’ve made, Baba would’ve told us everything about the tree by now.”

  “He has,” Vihaan replied. “Just not all at once.”

  Arya groaned. “Exactly. He’s always so vague.”

  Their father, walking just ahead, heard them but didn’t turn around. “Some things aren’t meant to be explained,” he said calmly. “You understand them better when you experience them.”

  Arya rolled his eyes. “So mysterious.”

  Vihaan didn’t respond. He knew better than to expect a clear answer. Every visit to Anant Vriksh felt like it added another layer to the story. Their father never gave away everything at once. It was always a piece here, a detail their—like he was waiting for them to be ready to understand it all.

  The trees began to shift. The forest floor turned darker, the leaves overhead larger and older. The air changed too—cooler, heavier. Even Arya stopped talking for a bit, just walking quietly beside his brother.

  They were getting close.

  And Vihaan could feel it.

  The trees thinned suddenly, opening into a quiet clearing.

  And their it stood.

  The Anant Vriksh. The Infinite Tree.

  A giant unlike anything else in the forest, its trunk was wider than a village, Houses near the tree trunk looked like ants. Bark smooth but weathered like stone touched by centuries. Thick roots curled across the earth like the limbs of sleeping giants, disappearing into the ground and reappearing meters away like buried rivers.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Its leaves were unlike the others—long, wide, and a deep green with hints of silver along the veins. They shimmered under the fading light, catching even the dimmest sun like tiny mirrors. The entire tree gave off a soft glow, not bright enough to be unnatural, but enough to make it feel… alive.

  Arya stopped walking. “Every single time,” he muttered. “It still feels unreal.”

  Vihaan didn’t say anything. He just stared, taking it in again like it was the first time. Something about the tree always made the air feel different—thicker, quieter, as if the forest itself held its breath in its presence.

  Their father stood beside them now, arms crossed, looking up. “Go on,” he said. “You know the way.”

  They all walked in a big hole on the tree trunk, which looked like a cave entrance. The inside was empty. Just dust and leaves. Their were no stairs, at least not in the normal sense. The tree had platforms—four in total—resting spots built generations ago by their ancestors. Each one was tied to the trunk with thick wooden beams and supported by vines so old they’d become part of the tree itself. The climb was done with the ladders inside the trunk. It was kinda dark and just had enough light for them to see.

  Arya groaned, stretching his arms. “This is the part I hate.”

  “You say that every time,” their dad replied, stepping back and letting them go ahead.

  Vihaan stepped forward and grabbed the ladder, checking the grip. The bark was cold under his fingers, smoother than expected but still easy to hold. Arya followed beside him, muttering complaints under his breath.

  The first part of the climb was the easiest. They’d done it so many times now, the rhythm came naturally. Pull, step, pull. The ladder creaked slightly with their weight, but they held firm.

  After about twenty minutes, they reached the first platform.

  A flat wooden floor circled a portion of the tree, wide enough for them to sit comfortably. A low railing wrapped around the edge, carved with old symbols—some faded, others still sharp. A few wooden seats sat in the corner, weathered by years of wind and rain.

  Arya flopped down onto one of them, panting. “Still better than working in the field,” he said between breaths.

  Vihaan sat beside him, swinging his legs over the edge. The view from here was already impressive. They could see the tops of nearby trees, the path they’d taken, and the river glinting far in the distance like a silver snake winding through the green.

  Their father joined them shortly after, calm as ever. He didn’t even look tired. “Take five,” he said. “Then we move again.”

  They sat in silence for a while. The wind up here was cooler, brushing against their faces and rustling the leaves above. Birds chirped somewhere nearby, hidden in the higher branches.

  Vihaan ran his hand over the carvings on the railing. Some of the symbols were familiar—ones he’d seen in books their dad kept locked in the trunk at home. Others looked like patterns, maybe decorative, maybe something more.

  “Who carved these?” he asked quietly.

  “Our bloodline,” their father replied, not even opening his eyes. “Every generation adds something. A name, a mark, a memory.”

  Arya traced one of the symbols with his finger. “I wanna add one someday.”

  Their dad gave a small smile. “Then you’d better earn your place.”

  The second part of the climb was tougher. The tree’s curve grew steeper, and the platforms were spaced wider apart. But neither of the brothers complained now. Their was something about being here that always quieted the usual back-and-forth. Maybe it was the height, or the air, or just the sheer size of what they were climbing.

  They reached the second stop, smaller than the first but offering a clearer view of the sky. Vihaan could already spot the first stars beginning to blink into existence above the horizon.

  “Do you think anyone else has ever climbed this?” Arya asked, sitting down again.

  Their father shook his head. “Yeah, a lot of them climbed this. Our ancestors”

  Vihaan tilted his head. “What did they do here?”

  “Some things,” he said slowly, “like they build the platforms, the tree house at the peak.”

  Arya frowned. “Why did they make this?”

  Their father glanced at the sky “To see what’s above”

  Vihaan looked back at the path they’d taken, at the forest stretching out below. It was hard to believe that something this massive could be invisible to others. And yet… he believed it. He always had.

  Their father tapped the platform gently with his palm. “This place is a part of us. Always has been.”

  They sat for a little longer, then stood. The climb would take them to the third stop—where the real resting space was, where generations of their family had spent quiet nights under the stars.

  And where, this time, something unexpected was waiting.

  The air was cooler here, filtered through the thick layers of ancient bark. A faint glow illuminated the interior—moss and strange fungi clung to the walls, casting soft light in pale green and gold hues. The climb wasn’t like any ordinary tree. This wasn’t an open climb on the outside—no branches or leafy canopies. This was a journey through the tree itself, up a tunnel-like core carved over generations by those who came before.

  Wooden ladders, bound with thick rope and wedged into place against the curved walls, formed a continuous path upward. Every few meters, the ladders paused at small circular platforms—a chance to rest, to catch their breath, to admire the living walls that surrounded them.

  By now, they had passed two such stops. Now, they were approaching the third.

  Arya grunted as he climbed. “Remind me again why we couldn’t just build an elevator in here?”

  Vihaan chuckled from just below. “Because our ancestors weren’t engineers, that’s why.”

  “Figures,” Arya muttered. “Could’ve at least left a zipline…”

  Their father’s voice echoed gently from beneath them. “You two better not be racing again.”

  “We’re not!” Arya called down, though Vihaan was definitely climbing a little faster now.

  The third stop came into view—a round platform built into the inner walls of the trunk. It had a small bench, a rack to hang supplies, and carvings on the wood that told old stories in simple symbols. The boys clambered onto it and sat down with a relieved sigh.

  Their father followed not long after, hoisting himself up with practiced ease.

  Arya wiped sweat from his forehead and leaned back. “Baba, can I ask something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why do you always climb after us? And when we go back down, you always go before us.”

  Vihaan looked up, curious too.

  Their father grinned, resting a hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Simple. If you fall while climbing up, I’ll be their to catch you. And if you fall while going down, well—I’ll be the one you land on.”

  Arya laughed. “So basically, you’re our crash pad?”

  “Exactly,” their dad said proudly. “A very wise, very strong crash pad.”

  Vihaan smiled quietly at that, but inside, the words stuck with him. It wasn’t just a joke—it was how their father had always been. Always behind them, just in case. Always in front when things got uncertain.

  After a short break and a sip of water, they continued upward. The ladders creaked softly beneath their feet as they ascended into the dim glow above.

  And then—the fourth stop. The final platform.

  The top.

  They emerged onto a wide wooden floor, built into the very heart of the tree’s crown. This was their treehouse—not the childish kind with swings and secret clubhouses, but a full structure, sturdy and lived-in. It had thick wooden walls, a slanted roof patched with woven leaves, and a narrow window facing the horizon.

  Inside, their were shelves lined with old tools and rolled-up maps, a firepit with stones around it, and a corner where sleeping mats were rolled up and stored.

  Arya dropped his bag and stretched. “We made it. Finally.”

  Vihaan stepped to the edge of the platform and looked out through the open window.

  The sky was turning indigo now, stars beginning to blink into existence. And far, far below, the world looked peaceful… for the most part.

  At the peak of Anant Vriksh, the world felt still.

  The boys rested on the wooden floor of the treehouse, their backs against the wall, sipping from steel flasks of cool water. The air was crisp, and the faint rustle of leaves brushing against the outer bark gave the space a calming rhythm. Up here, everything felt distant — the troubles of the world below reduced to faint whispers.

  Arya lay flat on the wooden boards, catching his breath. “Remind me why we don’t just live up here full-time?”

  “Because we’d still have to climb down for water,” Vihaan replied, wiping his face with a cloth and taking another sip. “And you’d get bored without a phone signal.”

  Their dad chuckled, stretching his legs. “I’ve thought about it,” he said. “Your grandpa once stayed here a whole month. Said the tree helped him clear his mind.”

  After a moment of stillness, he stood up and began unpacking the supplies.

  A few flatbreads wrapped in banana leaves. Boiled eggs. Dried mango slices. A small pouch of peanuts. He set them aside carefully. From the bag’s lower compartment, he pulled out some fresh vegetables and a container of wheat flour. Lastly, he reached into the corner shelf and took out a small tin.

  “Jaggery’s here, Arya,” he said.

  Arya grinned, sitting up. “Perfect. Now it’s a real meal.”

  Their father stepped outside to the small covered cooking space built along the edge of the platform. He struck a match and started the fire under the clay stove, placing a flat pan over it. The scent of warming flour soon mixed with the crisp air.

  Arya wandered toward the narrow window while Vihaan sat quietly, watching the flames flicker.

  Then Arya froze.

  He squinted. “Hey… Baba… Vihaan… is that—?”

  Vihaan joined him at the window. His eyes followed Arya’s pointing finger.

  The fields far below were gone.

  In their place: water.

  Dark. Endless. Silent.

  It shimmered beneath the moonlight, reflecting broken images of trees and rooftops. Closer now, Vihaan could make out floating debris — stalks of wheat, banana leaves, pieces of homes.

  And then he saw something else.

  “...Is that a cow?” Arya whispered.

  It was. And nearby, people—lifeless bodies drifting, caught on branches, or pinned against the remains of fences.

  “Baba!” Vihaan called out.

  Their father stepped inside, wiping his hands. “What?”

  “Come look. Now.”

  He crossed over quickly, and the moment his eyes met the view, his breath caught. “No…”

  The water was still far below — somewhere around the 600-meter mark — but it was rising. Slowly, steadily, eating up the world they had always known.

  For a moment, their father didn’t move. His eyes darted, following the edge of the floodline, calculating, unsure.

  Then he looked at them. At Arya, whose face had gone pale, and at Vihaan, still trying to process it.

  His eyes lingered on them longer than usual, and for a brief moment, something like fear flickered across his face.

  He opened his mouth, as if about to say something—maybe to admit he didn’t know what to do—but stopped himself.

  Then he exhaled slowly, closed his eyes just once, and when he opened them again, they were steady.

  He stood straighter, eyes sharp.

  “We don’t panic,” he said. “We think. First, we check supplies. Water, food, tools. We ration. We reinforce the windows and rooftop. This tree’s old, but it’s strong. We’ll be fine.”

  “But how… how did this even—is it a flood? And how so much water?” Arya tried.

  “I don’t know,” their father said, voice low. “But right now, we survive. Understand?”

  Both boys looked at their father and nodded.

  Outside, the night deepened. The wind had stopped. Not even the birds were calling.

  Vihaan looked out once more.

  The water had risen again. Now it was just a few meters below the tree’s peak. And then, finally… it stopped.

  A heavy silence fell over them.

  And in that stillness, only one question remained:

  Why?