June 4, 2025

Debashish often stared at the wide banyan tree visible from his house. Its thick presence and broad leaves made it look like a natural shelter, even as heavy raindrops poured over it. Whenever he walked beside the tree, he could see the distant shore of the Teesta River. His daily routine was to sit near his veranda, gaze at the tree, and continue his writing. He was well-recognized as a writer.

Previously, while living in Kolkata, his works were initially published in magazines. As his writing grew popular among people of all age groups, a publisher approached him and turned his works into a novel, allowing him to earn enough for his solitary life.

Debashish had inherited some property from his father in Kolkata, but he longed for a quiet, peaceful place where he could focus on his writing and spend the rest of his life.

A distant relative on his father's side, Chandra, often visited him. Even though Chandra was a daily-wage labourer, Debashish never questioned the purpose of his frequent visits to the city.

On one such visit, Debashish casually asked Chandra about his village and expressed his desire to visit the place. He also inquired if there was any land available for purchase, thinking of selling his city property and relocating for a quieter life dedicated to writing.
Chandra nodded and promised to inquire and inform him during his next visit.

There were deeper reasons behind Debashish's decision to move. Along with his growing popularity came jealousy from his relatives. His three sisters, who had been married off with their father’s modest government job income, often resented him. After the death of his parents, Debashish’s passion for study and writing had made him miss the conventional age for marriage, leaving him alone in life. Still, he needed someone trustworthy if anything went wrong — and Chandra, despite his modest background, seemed perfect for that role.

Chandra's wife, Rutu, and their young child had once visited too, bringing a warmth to Debashish’s lonely existence.

During Chandra’s next visit, he excitedly informed Debashish that his landlord, who owned a few acres of land and a house, was looking to sell. Their own hut was nearby, making it convenient if Debashish decided to move.

Eager, Debashish planned a visit.

Sonapur, a small village located two kilometres off the main road, had the kind of land Debashish dreamed of — lush with valuable trees and nestled beside the Teesta River. The road connectivity was poor, and there were only a few small shops near the bus stop for daily essentials.

The place was splendid, exactly as Debashish had imagined. Although the landlord initially quoted a high price, after some negotiation, they struck a deal.

Now, Debashish had the task of selling his property in Kolkata. After considerable effort, he managed to transfer the ownership under his name.

With some minor renovations to his new house, Debashish created a special corner facing the natural scenery where he could sit and write.

Chandra was extremely helpful, but after the relocation, Rutu began to take even more care of Debashish. Chandra’s frequent outings continued, leaving Rutu to manage the household most of the time.

Debashish’s new daily routine became active and refreshing — a morning walk, tea and newspaper reading at the bus stop stall, breakfast prepared by Rutu, long hours of reading and writing, a riverbank stroll in the evening, and late-night writing sessions.

The few books he wrote in his new home carried a special freshness and deeper focus — and they became bestsellers.

Rutu, too, took a growing interest. She often stayed longer even when Chandra was away. Debashish would explain the sequences of his stories to her, although Rutu didn’t fully grasp the depth of his intellectual work. Still, she listened patiently, nodding along.

One morning, as Rutu served breakfast, her saree pallu accidentally slipped, revealing her cleavage. Debashish was momentarily struck by her beauty but quickly masked his emotions.
Rutu noticed his blank expression and assumed he was simply lost in deep thought.
In truth, the incident inspired Debashish to brainstorm a new story.

Rutu, however, felt disappointed that Debashish showed no real affection for her. Spending time with a noble man who didn’t admire her beauty made her feel incomplete.
She began to deliberately let her pallu slip at times, hoping to catch his attention — but instead, those moments only fuelled Debashish’s imagination, helping him weave richer, deeper the story.

A writer’s passion and observation of human emotions and nature are essential qualities. With his skill, Debashish could transform brief, unspoken experiences into expansive, emotional stories.

Good stories offer readers many benefits — they ignite and expand imagination, deepen the understanding of relationships, inspire lifelong motivation, improve concentration, and offer an escape from daily stress.

Autumn and winter quietly passed by.

Sometime later, back in Kolkata, a teenage girl named Divya had just completed her 12th grade with excellent marks. Being the only daughter of an SP (Superintendent of Police), she requested her father to help her get the autograph of the famous writer, Debashish.

Her father agreed and tried to locate Debashish’s address.
He first contacted the publisher who had once released Debashish’s stories. However, the publisher informed him that they had lost contact with the writer six months ago — his last known story had been The Banyan Tree.

Perplexed but determined, the officer continued the search.

Eventually, through persistent efforts, he managed to find the address of Debashish’s village — Sonapur.

One day, SP Chattopadhyay took his daughter, Divya, to visit the village where Debashish had once lived.

On the way, Divya bought the last available copy of Debashish’s novel, The Banyan Tree, from a market stall.
Since the novel was quite lengthy, she decided to read it little by little. Already familiar with Debashish’s earlier works, Divya knew his writing was never something to be missed.

As she read The Banyan Tree, she found the pages wonderfully absorbing.
What captured her imagination most was the vivid description of a grand banyan tree — and a mysterious woman mentioned in the story.

When they reached the village, Divya and her father stopped at a tea shop. Upon inquiring about Debashish, the tea seller informed them that the writer had not been seen for the past six months.

Curious, they approached Chandra for more information.
Chandra explained that Debashish had left for the city, saying he had "some matters to settle," and had entrusted the care of his house to them.

Deciding to visit Debashish's house, they were warmly welcomed by Rutu, who offered them refreshments.
She said, "He left saying he would be back soon, but it’s been six months now. He hadn’t lived here very long — maybe just two years. We assumed he stayed with us only to complete his writings."

Meanwhile, Divya gazed at the beautiful scenery surrounding the house.
She stood silently, staring at the great banyan tree — the very same one described so vividly in the book The Banyan Tree.
It felt surreal to see it in real life.

Before leaving, Divya handed Rutu a letter with her contact information, requesting her to inform Debashish to call them if he returned.

On the way back, Divya couldn't stop thinking. She continued reading more of the novel, deciding to finish it part by part because of its length.

SP Chattopadhyay, sensing something unusual, decided to file a missing person complaint for Debashish.
He also began inquiring with Debashish’s sisters who were residing in the city.

One evening, as Divya continued reading the novel, she was dumbstruck.
As she flipped through the pages, a chilling realization struck her: the story seemed to hint at the writer’s own disappearance.

Was he a fortune teller?
Did he possess foresight?
Or did he unknowingly predict his fate through his story?

In the novel, a sudden twist revealed that the writer — living in a remote village — had ignored the romantic advances of a woman.
Her real intention, however, was to entrap him and seize his property and wealth.
Unknown to the writer, her husband was a habitual criminal who often travelled to the city to sell stolen goods.

The story took an even darker turn.
One evening, the woman, feigning affection, threw herself at the writer.
When he rejected her advances, she struck him with a metal object.
Her husband joined in, and together they ended the writer’s life — burying his body near the banyan tree, where no one would find it.

Reading these pages, Divya screamed and immediately called her father, sharing what she had discovered.
The horrifying scenario described in the novel matched reality too closely.

Sometimes, a writer develops a vision so intense — a deep awareness of the characters and bad intentions around them — that they unknowingly pen real events before they unfold.

Perhaps the day Rutu had dropped her pallu, it had sparked something inside Debashish — an inner warning about her true nature.
Maybe he had brushed it off, believing it was just imagination, and tragically, fate caught up with him in the worst possible way.

The great banyan tree had witnessed it all.
And through his last novel, the buried secrets came to light.

Eventually, Chandra and Rutu were exposed and arrested.
Their child was sent to a care centre.