Eternal He Says | Tebuireng Online

I was once the tree most often talked about by the wind.
My leaves are lush, hanging everywhere, like luxurious curtains that can’t be bought.
My hanging roots stretched downwards—not only gripping the ground, but also marking my territory.

The birds sing among my branches.
Children play in my shadow.
The old men sitting in my trunk said:

“This tree is sacred. Its shade is like a place to come home to.”

I don’t grow greatness.
I just kept quiet… and greatness grew by itself. They come, kiss my trunk, pray under me, sometimes even hang a small wish on one of my strong hanging roots.

I never refuse.
Certainly not.
Because in my heart, I began to believe that I deserved to be worshiped in secret.

I’m not just a tree. I’m a symbol.
I’m not just a root. I’m the foothold.
I’m not just a shelter. I’m the reason people feel protected.

My days are filled with unspeakable praise.

“The lushness is amazing.”
“Its roots are like prayers reaching up to heaven.”
“If this wants to talk, maybe we’ll all listen.”

I never talk.
But in my silence, I was bragging.

Then I started to ignore it.

I didn’t pay attention to the ground which was starting to dry out.
I sipped more water, even though the plants around me were wilting.

I rejected the small fungus that wanted to grow on my trunk, because I was afraid my skin wouldn’t look smooth anymore.
I let the smoke blow into the pores of my leaves, because I said: “I’m big. I can take it.”

***
I grew up… but didn’t realize it:
what grows is no longer me, but my arrogance.

And one day,
I’ll know
that untreated roots,
can rot…
even on the most worshipped tree.

***
That day, the afternoon wind passed without saying hello.
Usually it creeps slowly, tickling my leaves gently.
Sometimes it sings, sometimes it just sits quietly at the base of my roots.

But that day just passed.
There’s no rustle.
No greeting.
There are no small touches that usually make me feel important.

“Maybe he’s tired,” I said to myself.

But the next day it was the same.
And the next day.
And the following week,
The birds began to choose the small guava tree on the edge of the fence.
Even ants no longer want to explore my skin, which used to be as busy as a morning market.

I still stand majestically.
Still high. Still sturdy.
But slowly I started to hear… the sound of falling.

My leaves fall one by one, without wind.
Not because of the season. But because… the roots inside me started to rot.

I know it.
But I remained silent.
Because I believe:
“A tree as big as me, won’t fall just because of a few small wounds in the ground.”

Until one day, a little boy passed by and said to his mother:
“Mom, that banyan tree looks scary now, doesn’t it…
before it was like a protector, now it’s like… wanting to drag people down.”

His mother didn’t answer.
He just pulled his son away.
And for the first time,
I feel like my shadow is no longer shady, but dark.

I want to say:
“I’m still the same. I’m still the old banyan!”

But who wants to hear the defense of a tree that never speaks when worshiped?

I can only shed more leaves,
low self-esteem,
and drop the thought that I will be immortal.

***
I started to feel lonely.
Not because the world is moving away.
But because I… always stand too tall to greet anyone.

And when I start to rot…
no one realized that I needed to be asked:
“Are you okay, tree?”

Because no one ever thought that a tree as big as me… could be destroyed too.

***
I’m still standing.
Still a tree. Still wishing. It still looks sturdy when viewed from a distance.
But I know: my insides are empty.

My skin started to peel.
My trunk started to become infested with termites—small creatures that used to be afraid of me.
I once bluffed them with just root vibrations.

Now… they are digging a house in my body.
And I have no more reason to forbid them to stay.

I lost my bush.
Not because of the storm.
Not because of the season.
But because of something quieter than all that: God who quietly plucks my leaves.

One by one.
No sound.
Didn’t leave a message.
Didn’t give a warning.

I tried to struggle.
But I’m just a tree.
I could only stand and watch my honor fall in the form of dry leaves.

“Why didn’t you yell at me?”
“Why don’t you destroy me?”

I want to be punished big time.
Because that makes more sense.
Because big punishments can be proud of as part of a big narrative.

But God didn’t give me that.
He gave me something much more poignant:
Slow disappearance.
Omission.
Exclusion without deportation.

Every morning I see new creatures playing under another tree.
Small tree.
Who used to look at me in awe.
Now… I’m the one looking at them from afar.

And the most painful thing is:
No one mentioned my name anymore.
No one said, “Wow, it’s shady.”
No one remembers that I was the center of this park.

Do you know what hurts more than being hated?

Forgotten.
Slowly erased from the memories that once praised you.
Not being an enemy… just being irrelevant.

And I know…
God never hated me.
That’s precisely why He allowed me to abandon my own pride.

I grew too tall.
Too sure.
Too big to ask.
Too great to contemplate.

Now I learn…
It turns out that fate is not always a bolt from the sky.
Sometimes it comes in the form of consistent silence.
In the form of attention that does not return.
In the form of air that passes by without greeting you.

***
Today, no one glanced at me.
Nobody stopped by.
There is no one who hangs hope on my trunk.

And maybe…
that was the first time I saw myself
without voices worshiping me.

For the first time… I’m a tree.
Not the center.

Not a symbol.
Not a hiding place.
Just… a tree that lost itself.

***
I didn’t fall.
Even though when I lost all my branches, I hoped that God would just tear down my stems.
Let’s finish.
So that there are no remaining memories of who I used to be.

But not.
God let me stand with an almost empty body.
Not as a curse.
But as a lesson I had to see for myself, without anyone as a witness.

After the silence was no longer painful, I started to feel one thing:
inheritance.

Relieved that no one praises me anymore.
Relieved that there is no one left to take cover, not to know.
Relieved because I finally know,
All this time I lived as a shadow of what people thought of me.

Now, I’m starting to grow inside.
There are no more branches sticking out to be praised.
It’s no longer the leaves that compete to be the most leafy.
I plant my roots deep, not to dominate the land…
but for the first time: trying to get to know the land.

The land I’ve been treading on…
without me ever asking:
“Are you tired of supporting me?”

I used to think that loss was destruction.
But apparently, loss is God’s way of separating me… from what I am not.
From insincere praise.
From this picture I built something like a sand tower.
From a false self that only lives when someone else is looking.

One afternoon, a small bird landed on my scarred trunk.
It was silent. Not afraid. Not impressed.
He was just… resting.

And I don’t regret it anymore.
Because I know, I can still be home—
even in my imperfect form.

***
Now I know:
I don’t have to be tall to be useful,
it doesn’t have to be lush to provide shade,
it doesn’t have to be glorified to be a lesson.

I just need to be honest.
That I was once arrogant.
Never hard.

Ever thirsty to continue to be admired.
And now I’ve learned… being an ordinary person is the highest form of sincerity.

Because when the praise is gone,
and I still choose to stand—
that means, I really want to live…
not just appear as a symbol of life.

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Writer: Muhammad Caesar Rifyal Siddiqui
Editor: Rara Zarary