Srinidhi Ranganathan

The train pushed deeper into the night. The window reflected only darkness now, no lights, no towns. Just an endless black void.

His grandmother, old and wise like the hills themselves, smiled and pointed to the ridge beyond the meadows. “Because, my child, it is the hour when the mountain butterflies come flying home. And God, in His kindness, paints a path for them to follow.”

The old gardener sitting beside it smiled at him. “It’s a peepal tree,” he said. “A mighty tree one day, but just a baby now.”

“You are my brave boy,” she would say, ruffling his thick curls as she poured the water into a large clay pot. “The forest speaks of your courage.”

A nostalgic tale of a young boy’s summer in 1970s Calcutta, where he discovers the magic of childhood, the beauty of small moments, and the depth of love shared between generations.