This is a quiet story about change, uncertainty, and growth.
Told through the relationship between a young plant and an old banyan tree, it explores how life moves through seasons — heat, rain, fog, and light — and how lasting steadiness is not found by controlling what happens outside, but by learning to grow inward.
It is not a story with advice or conclusions.
It is a story meant to be read slowly.
Where It Begins
In a quiet stretch of land, a small plant began its life beside an old banyan tree.
Morning felt generous.
Light arrived gently.
The world seemed to say, you are welcome here.
But as the sun rose higher, warmth turned into fire.
The soil tightened.
The plant felt naked, unsure.
“I cannot bear this,” it murmured.
“I am not made for such heat.”
The banyan did not respond.
It did not turn away either.
It simply stayed.
When evening came and the heat loosened its grip,
the plant sighed in relief.
So this is how life should feel, it thought.
Kind. Manageable.
But life does not ask what we prefer.
The rains arrived.
At first, they felt like mercy — cool, rhythmic, alive.
Then they stayed.
Days passed without light.
The ground grew heavy. Breath grew shallow.
“I can’t see the sun,” the plant said, afraid.
“I don’t know when this will end.”
Silence again.
Then came the fog.
Not violent.
Not dramatic.
Just endless uncertainty.
Cold mornings.
Blurred days.
Nothing to hold on to.
The plant began to tremble.
“I don’t think I belong here,” it whispered.
“Everything keeps changing.
How did you grow so large… so steady… when nothing stays the same?”
The banyan spoke — slowly, as if choosing each word with care.
“My child,
I did not grow by arguing with the sky.
When the heat burned, I went deeper.
When the rain refused to leave, I held my ground.
When the fog erased direction, I trusted what I could not see.
The seasons shaped me,
but they never became my home.
My roots did.”
The plant fell quiet.
For the first time, it stopped scanning the sky for answers.
It turned inward —
to the dark soil,
to the silent work below the surface,
to the place where growth happens without applause.
And slowly —
without certainty,
without assurance —
it began to grow.
Life does this to us.
It brings seasons we didn’t prepare for.
Heat that overwhelms.
Rains that linger.
Fog that refuses clarity.
Peace does not come from fixing the weather.
It comes from beginning the inner journey —
from learning how to stay rooted
when everything outside keeps moving.
Avyaktaha exists to hold space for this return.
Not to guide.
Not to coach.
Not to offer answers.
Only to sit in stillness with you —
until you can hear yourself again.
The roots we speak of here are not ideas to hold.
They are lived slowly — in the midst of ordinary life.
I am Guru —
a designer by profession,
a seeker by nature.
Like the young plant, I once looked outward for certainty.
Like the banyan, I am learning — still learning —
to grow inward.
This space is not about becoming someone new.
It is about remembering
what has always been there.
