A Sage who spoke with the Forest
Markendeya Yeddanapudi
The Sage Who Spoke With the Forest
Deep within an ancient forest—so old that even the stones remembered their first rain—lived a sage named Arunan. He had no hermitage, no hut, no carved staff or sacred possessions. His home was a circle of soft earth beneath an enormous sal tree, whose branches sheltered him like a patient elder.
Arunan had not chosen the forest; the forest had chosen him.
The First Conversation
One morning, when the sun rose like a quiet breath on the horizon, Arunan felt a delicate tug in his chest. A leaf had fallen onto his palm. Not dropped—placed. He heard, not with his ears but with the tender space between thoughts, a whisper:
“You have come with listening inside you.”
Startled, he looked around—but the forest was still, unmoving. Yet the voice, though soft, was unmistakable. It was the voice of the sal tree.
Arunan bowed gently.
“I do not know your language,” he said.
The leaves rustled, though the air was still.
“You knew it before you had words.”
And from that moment, the discourse began.
Lessons of the Wind
Over the next seasons, Arunan learned that each element spoke differently.
The wind was the philosopher—restless, curious, always asking questions. It circled Arunan in spirals, whispering riddles:
“If a path disappears, does the traveler end?”
“If silence is full, what is emptiness?”
Arunan answered not with speech but with breath—slow, attentive, receptive. The wind understood breath; it was, after all, made of it.
The Roots Speak Slowly
The roots were the oldest teachers.
Their language was not heard; it was felt—like a quiet pulse under one’s feet.
For days, Arunan would sit with his palms on the earth, waiting. Roots never spoke in haste.
When they answered, it was with truths that felt as solid as stone:
“All nourishment is a return.”
“To hold is to let go with trust.”
Their wisdom sank into Arunan’s bones.
The Animals Hold Councils
The deer came to him first, cautious yet unafraid.
“You are the one who listens,” they said through their great dark eyes.
Birds perched on his shoulders and delivered news of distant trees.
A fox debated ethics with him—its arguments sharp, logical, and surprisingly polite.
Even the snakes spoke to him, their voices low and smooth, like the sound of cool sand.
In time, the forest accepted him not as visitor but as participant.
A Conflict in the Canopy
One evening, a disturbance rippled through the wind. Birds shrieked warnings; insects fell silent. The canopy trembled with worried murmurs.
Arunan climbed a low rock and listened.
A great banyan and an aged mahua were in heated dispute. Their branches, interwoven for generations, had begun to pull apart in competing thirst for sunlight. Their conversation was thunderous, vibrating through the whole forest.
Arunan stepped forward.
He placed one hand on each trunk.
He breathed once, long and steady.
The trees felt the intention, not the action.
“You have decades of shared life,” Arunan whispered.
“Let your roots speak to one another.”
The banyan and the mahua descended into silence. Their roots began exchanging chemical messages—slow, ancient, deeply sincere. As the communication deepened, a new equilibrium formed: one tree leaning slightly, the other sharing moisture through underground pathways.
Harmony returned.
The Forest Gives Him a Name
Many years passed. Arunan’s hair grew white, but his eyes remained bright with the luminous stillness of someone who lives among beings that never rush.
One twilight, while the first fireflies were waking, the forest called him by a new name:
“Sunear—
the One Who Hears the Light.”
He accepted it with a bowed head.
The Final Teaching
As Sunear grew older, the forest realized he would not remain forever. Humans are brief sparks, even the wise ones. One dawn, the sal tree spoke again—the same voice that had first welcomed him.
“When your body returns to us, will your listening end?”
Sunear smiled softly.
“No. Listening is not a skill of the ears.
It is the nature of the soul.”
The forest grew quiet, absorbing this truth.
And when he finally lay down beneath the sal tree for the last time, the forest did not mourn. It simply widened, making space for him the way a river makes space for a fallen leaf.
For the discourse continued—
not between a man and a forest,
but between a forest and one of its own.
If you want, I can also write:
🌿 a sequel about a child who discovers the Sage’s legacy
🌿 a mythic origin story for how the Sage first awakened
🌿 a philosophical dialogue between the Sage and a single tree or river
🌿 a full novella in this world
Rajaram Krishnamurthy
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