the man who slept under the banyan tree

 Mogulappa had been sleeping in the open fields ever since he was a child. Nestled under a sprawling banyan tree on his 2-acre land in Warangal district near Hyderabad, this solitary spot had, over the years, become his sacred space — a place where he felt most at peace. Now 56, a father of three daughters, Mogulappa was seeking a suitable match for his second daughter. He planned to sell one acre of his land to make ends meet.

Though farmlands in the outskirts of cities like Hyderabad were fetching higher rates, finding buyers wasn’t easy. Most people wanted investment-ready land they could visit and manage. For that reason, despite being a regular commuter to Hyderabad, Mogulappa found it hard to close a deal. 

By day, he worked as a cab driver, enlisted with a city-based agency. Each morning, he’d take an 8 a.m. train and reach his office by 9, ready for bookings. On days with early rides, he’d stay back at the office overnight. He met many people during his drives — and often, something within nudged him to bring up his land. It wasn’t a forced pitch; rather, a quiet knowing that someone out there would be the right connection.

For three months, he spoke about his land whenever his intuition guided him. But nothing came of it.

Then came an assignment — a ride with Shrishti, who was headed on a tour of Warangal. On the way, he once again spoke about his land, almost instinctively. Sensing his sincerity, Shrishti — though not a buyer — agreed to mention it to her network.

He took her to a mango orchard on the way, and they plucked ripe mangoes from low-hanging branches. Then, they walked toward the adjoining field. As she looked around, taking in the trees, the open skies, and the house nestled in solitude, something stirred within her. She had lived a fast-paced, professional life — but here, in the middle of nowhere, she could feel the depth of Mogulappa’s connection to the land.

The spot where he slept — under the grand banyan tree — seemed unassuming in the blazing sun. Yet, it exuded a calm, timeless energy. She asked if he ever felt afraid sleeping there, alone and without electricity.

“No,” he said simply. “These are my ancestors’ lands. I know they watch over me. I feel protected. There are no mosquitoes here, and I sleep deeply. This is where I feel most alive. My only worry is having to sell part of it.”
 

Shrishti smiled, quietly moved by his inner knowing — that deep, unshakable trust in something greater, something unseen.

And perhaps he was right.

Within weeks, Mogulappa found a buyer. But not just any buyer — someone who asked Mogulappa to continue caring for the land, even after the deal. He remained under the same banyan tree, still sleeping under the stars, still held by the land that raised him.

The land may have changed ownership, but the spirit of it — and the man who trusted his intuition — stayed exactly where it belonged.

(Names changed on request)