Under the Night sky

 Long ago, in the heart of Central India, where the jungle whispered secrets that only the souls of the forest could understand, stood a majestic Sal tree. Towering and wise, the Sal had rooted itself in the earth for over a hundred years. Its gnarled branches stretched out like arms that had witnessed countless monsoons, scorching summers, and mist-laden winters.

 One twilight, as the orange sun dipped low behind the hills, a regal tiger padded silently into the clearing beneath the Sal tree. A great beast with stripes like molten gold, the tiger was old. Alone after many years of companionship with his own kind, he sought solace in his final years among the trees.

 The Sal tree, sensing the tiger’s need for solitude, rustled its leaves softly in welcome. The tiger settled, easing his weary muscles against the cool earth and roots, and for the first time in many moons, he felt truly rested and comforted. As night deepened and stars blinked into the velvet sky, a soft glow began to flicker in the underbrush—fireflies.

Hundreds of them emerged, tiny lanterns of joy dancing in spirals of green and gold. They had long admired the Sal tree and the powerful tiger, and with the gentle song of the Sal and the peaceful silence of the tiger, the fireflies chose to draw near.

 They floated up like sparks of living light, weaving through the Sal’s branches and tracing its outline. They circled the tiger too, illuminating his whiskers and the depths of his glowing eyes. Fascinated, he lifted his head and watched, mesmerized. In their shimmering dance, he saw the forest and the river beyond ablaze with life. Lighting everything in their path like floating lamps, they transformed the forest into a temple where the interconnectedness of all living beings was the one true religion.

 Sighing with pride at the beauty of his land, and as the tree whispered to him the stories of old, the tiger touched the bark of the tree with his scarred nose, acknowledging the tree's wise spirit. No longer burdened by the hunt or the weight of solitude, he closed his eyes, the stillness of the forest wrapping around him like a final lullaby. In that quiet, sacred moment, the tiger found peace—not in conflict or conquest, but in surrender to the silence, illuminated only by the flickering lanterns of the wild.