If trees could speak, I often wonder—what would they tell us? What secrets have they been holding all these years?
Whenever I pass by a large, old tree, my thoughts begin to wander. Who planted this tree? How long has it been standing here—rooted, patient, observing? It looks so old, so majestic, that a part of me wishes it could speak. Not just speak—but recount the stories it’s gathered over its lifetime.
We humans, with our brief span of 60 to 80 years, are often eager to share our wisdom and experiences. We write books, record memories, tell our tales with pride. But imagine the stories a tree could tell—a being that has stood for centuries, silently witnessing the unfolding of countless lives. Maybe, like us, it also wants to share what it has seen.
There is one tree in particular that lives in my memory—a grand tree on the side of a busy street in Chandigarh. Its thick trunk and aerial roots hanging from its branches made it look like the beard of a wise old man. It reminded me of the kind old wizards we see in movies—gentle, powerful, full of hidden knowledge.
How many springs has this tree felt? How many winters has it endured? How many monsoons have washed its leaves clean, only for dust to settle again? How many sunsets has it watched in silence while the world hurried on, never stopping to notice its quiet gaze?
It must have seen children grow into adults, then grow old and fade. It must have known the laughter of youth, the whispers of lovers, the sobs of heartbreak, and the silence of loneliness. Perhaps it once stood in the heart of a happy village where people admired its shade and beauty. Maybe children used to swing from its roots, or elders sat beneath it to share stories in the evening light.
But time has changed the world around it.
Now, it stands on a noisy street where cars rush by and people don’t even look up. No one seems to notice it anymore. It has been forgotten—like many things from the past that still remain, but are no longer seen.
And yet, there it stands.
Unmoving, undemanding, and wise.
I often think about the kinds of conversations it might have had with the wind, the birds, the passing animals. Maybe it listens more than it speaks. Maybe it carries memories not just of people, but of the earth itself. The shifting soil, the seasons, the silent beauty of time passing without any need for control.
As I stood before it, looking up at its wide branches and quiet strength, I felt something shift inside me. I wondered—will I, too, become a part of its memory? Just another passerby, a curious soul who paused long enough to look up and wonder?
Maybe I was the only one who had stopped that day. Maybe that moment, however small, meant something.
And maybe, just maybe, long after I’m gone, someone else will stand where I stood—drawn by the same quiet magic—and feel the same question rise within:
If trees could speak… what would they say about us?
This story is not just about a tree—it’s about time, memory, and the quiet things we often forget to notice. In a world that moves fast, the tree reminds us to slow down, to look, to wonder. Maybe the wisdom we seek doesn’t always speak out loud. Sometimes, it stands quietly by the roadside, waiting for someone to listen.
Let this be a reminder that everything around us—old trees, silent streets, forgotten corners—holds stories. All we need to do is stop for a moment and ask:
What would it say, if it could speak?