"Watching that gentle little soul, the old man felt a wave of happiness rise within him. Her innocence touched him deeply — as pure as the first stream that spills from a glacier before it meets the world, and as sweet as honey freshly taken from a honeycomb.
He smiled quietly, lost in his poetic thoughts, when the little bud suddenly tugged him back to reality.
"Grandpa, why do you call this place a nursery? There are only flowers here. But my school's nursery is full of little kids," she asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.
Her question lit up the old man's face. Nothing delighted him more than answering children — their minds were clear, honest, and unfiltered, the very qualities adulthood often loses.
With a bright smile, he said,
"That's a very good question, dear!"
"You sound like my dad, Grandpa," she giggled. "He always says my questions are good. But my teachers tell me they're stupid doubts and ask me to sit quietly."
"Oh dear…" the old man sighed, feeling both pity and admiration — pity for the school she attended, admiration for the home she belonged to.
He straightened up.
"Let me explain why the same word nursery is used for both plants and little children." He walked toward a plant glowing under the sunlight. "Look at this one. It needs plenty of sunshine to grow strong and bear fruits."
Then he pointed at another plant resting in the shade. "But this one hates sunlight. Too much of it, and it might wither away."
Turning to her gently, he continued,
"Each plant has different needs — some require a lot of water, others will drown if you give them too much. Some grow in black soil, others in sandy soil. Every plant has its own conditions in which it grows best."
He paused for effect. "And the same is true for children." The little girl frowned slightly, still confused. "I don't get it, Grandpa."
He chuckled softly.
"Listen, little one. You might be good at Math. Another child might shine in Arts. Someone might need help in Science, while someone else needs help in languages. Every child is different — with unique needs, unique strengths, and a unique way of growing. Just like different plants."
Her eyes lit up with understanding. "So you mean every child is like a different plant? One is a mango tree, one is a rose plant, and so on?"
The old man nodded, proud of her grasp. "Then why do the teachers in our school want us all to be the same?" she asked innocently.
The old man's smile widened. Her question struck right at the heart of truth. "Wonderful doubt, dear. Yes, you're absolutely right. Every child has different needs, but our society has learned to treat everyone with the same routine. They don't realize that one method of growing a plant can kill another."
He sighed deeply. "It's sad — people care for plants more carefully than they care for children. They want a mango tree to bloom roses and expect a rose plant to bear coconuts."
He looked at her warmly. "It may take a lifetime for society to understand this. But your parents have already planted you in the right soil, with the right care and the right love. I am sure you will grow into that majestic tree in the corner someday."
He pointed toward the tallest tree standing strong and proud. Her father smiled knowingly. But the little girl wrinkled her nose.
"That tree? But it's not pretty, Grandpa. I want to be like a rose plant — it's so beautiful! Why should I be that big, unattractive tree?"
"That tree," the old man said softly, "is not the kind of beauty people admire at first sight. It doesn't have bright flowers like the rose nor sweet fruits like the mango. It stands there silently, without showing off, without demanding attention. And maybe that's why most people overlook it."
He walked a few steps closer and continued, "But look carefully, dear. This tree gives more than all the pretty plants around it."
"The roots of this tree run deep into the earth, holding the soil together so the land doesn't break apart. When storms come, it stands firm. When strong winds blow, it bends but never falls. Because of its strength, many other plants around it survive."
He pointed to the shade beneath it. "On hot days, travelers sit under this tree to rest. Birds build their nests in its branches. Squirrels hide in its hollows. Countless little creatures make this tree their home — and the tree never complains."
He plucked one of its dry leaves and rubbed it gently between his fingers.
"This bark, these leaves — people use them for medicines, for healing fevers, for soothing wounds. Its wood is used for building strong doors, sturdy furniture, sometimes even temples."
He smiled softly.
"You see this tree everywhere — on roadsides, near wells, in farms — giving, giving, giving. It may not bloom with color," he said gently, "but it gives life to everything around it."
Then he added in a whisper,
"That's why I compared you to this tree. True beauty is not what looks attractive from the outside. True beauty is when your presence makes the world a better place. When you stand strong for others. When you give shade, comfort, kindness, and support — without expecting anything in return."
Placing his hand over her small head, he said,
"Someday, when you grow up, you will understand that this tree is far more beautiful than any rose plant. And I believe you have the heart to become just like it."
Her father smiled warmly, while the little one stood there adorably puzzled.
They then walked further into the charming little house nestled within the garden. It had two bedrooms, a simple kitchen, a cozy hall, and a lovely back veranda filled with plants arranged beautifully. The hall held a comfortable sofa and small portraits — one of Lord Jesus holding a sheep, and others of the old couple smiling together.
The old man guided them to the veranda and went inside to fetch his wife.
Meanwhile, the father and daughter chatted happily about all the trees and flowers they had noticed. Soon, the old man returned, followed by his wife carrying three cups of hot coffee and a glass of juice for the little one.
The old woman looked gentle and graceful in her light-colored saree, radiating calmness. She greeted them sweetly, took the little girl near her, and spoke with motherly affection.
The father and the old man drifted into a conversation about politics, while the old lady took the child around the garden. Together they gathered bright flowers, which she later packed lovingly to gift to the girl and her mother.
Talking endlessly, the little girl accompanied the old lady into the kitchen, chatting about everything she had learned so far. After years of living alone in that house, the old woman's heart felt full again — this small child had brought warmth and joy back into her quiet routine.
She offered the girl a thapala chekka, a South Indian snack, which the child tasted for the first time and instantly loved.
By lunchtime, they all gathered to enjoy a delicious Sunday meal — chicken curry, fish fry, and prawns tawa fry — dishes that instantly became the little girl's favorites.
After an afternoon filled with smiles, laughter, and stories, it was time to leave. The little girl felt a sudden ache, not wanting to go. The old woman packed food, flowers, and snacks for them with a heart full of love.
Seeing the girl's sadness, she gently invited them to visit every weekend if possible. They smiled, because it already felt like the most natural thing to do.
With warm goodbyes and grateful hearts, they headed home."
Apoorva closed the story with a soft smile, her voice lowering as though the night itself was listening. She turned toward her daughter, ready to see her bright eyes filled with questions — but instead, she found her little one already fast asleep.
Her tiny hands were curled near her cheek, her breaths slow and steady, her eyelashes resting like delicate feathers over her dreams. A faint smile lingered on her lips, as if the old man's words had followed her gently into her sleep.
For a moment, Apoorva simply watched her.
A warmth spread through her chest — the kind of warmth only a mother feels when her child drifts to sleep wrapped in stories, love, and innocence.
She brushed a soft strand of hair away from her daughter's forehead and whispered in her heart:
"Grow in your own way, my little one… just like that tree."
As she switched off the bedside lamp, the room glowed faintly with moonlight. Apoorva sat there for a few seconds longer, feeling strangely peaceful — as if the story she told just for her daughter.
She leaned down, kissed her child's forehead, and whispered softly,
"Goodnight, my little tree."