The old man was very sad because of this—because of how the world had changed so quickly around him, leaving him behind like an old photograph in a dusty attic. His name was Mr. Dutta, and he had lived in the same small village for over seventy years. The trees, the fields, and the quiet streets had once been filled with life, familiar voices, and the laughter of children, but now all of that seemed like echoes from another world.
What made him most sad wasn’t just the passage of time, but the loneliness it brought. His wife had passed away five winters ago, and his two sons had long since moved to the city, chasing jobs, dreams, and lives too fast to look back. At first, they would call every Sunday, their voices crackling over the phone with excitement about promotions, new apartments, and their children’s school achievements. But as months turned into years, the calls came less frequently. Then, they stopped altogether. The silence hurt more than words could express.
The village too had transformed. What once was a close-knit community was now filled with strangers and locked doors. Younger families moved in, but they kept to themselves, busy with their gadgets and fast lives. The corner tea stall, where Mr. Dutta used to share stories with friends over steaming cups, had shut down. His old companions had either moved away or passed on. Now, he sat alone on the porch each evening, watching the sun set behind the banyan tree, his only remaining companion.
The thing that hurt him the most, though, was the neglect. It wasn’t just that he missed his sons or the company of old friends. It was the realization that he had become invisible to the very people he loved most. He had raised his sons with love and sacrifice, skipping meals so they could study, working double shifts so they could go to better schools. Yet now, in his final years, he was forgotten—an afterthought in the busy rush of modern life.
One day, he received a letter—an official notice stating that his ancestral home would be demolished for a new road project. That was the final blow. This house wasn’t just bricks and wood; it held his entire life. It was where he was born, where he had married his beloved, and where his children had taken their first steps. Losing it felt like losing the last piece of his identity.
And so, the old man was very sad because of this. Because everything he held dear—family, friends, memories, and even his home—had slowly slipped away. What remained was a heavy heart and the soft rustling of wind through the empty branches of the banyan tree.
