The Stillness Between Two Trees

Every day, along my usual running path, I pass a quiet, two-story house that feels like it’s been paused in time. Its gate, once sturdy and proud, now rusts gently under years of sun and monsoon. Ivy creeps through its bars, as though nature is reclaiming what was once hers. Towering on either side, two majestic Parijatha trees stand like sentinels — their fragrance spilling into the air like a silent hymn. And nestled humbly between them lies an old blue Ambassador car, swaddled in a thick green tarpaulin.

That car — it’s been there for years. Unmoving. Undisturbed. Sleeping.

I first noticed it as I ran past on cooler mornings, my skin warm from exertion and my breath chasing the breeze. The car looked almost holy in its stillness — a relic resting not in abandonment, but in peace. The dust had blanketed it like a soft shroud. Its tires, long deflated, seemed welded to the earth itself. No signboard explained its story. But its silence was loud. It spoke of journeys taken, of laughter echoed in its cabin, of hands that once gripped its steering wheel with purpose.

There was a time when it must have roared down highways, its engine humming songs of freedom and purpose. And now? It lies between the Parijatha trees like a retired warrior — worn, weathered, but not forgotten. Not by me.

The trees — oh, they love it. I can tell. Every morning, their white blossoms rain down softly, as if blessing the old car. The flowers drift slowly, some clinging to the tarpaulin like affectionate children, others dancing to the ground in the quiet air. The breeze carries the divine scent of Parijatha, and for a moment, my mind stills. The world stills. It becomes a pocket of sacred calm in the middle of my hurried day.

And yet, just outside the gate, hangs a small, rusted “To Let” board. I used to ignore it. But now it haunts me. A warning. A whisper that nothing lasts.

What if someone moves in tomorrow? What if they clear out the garden, cut down the trees, and tow the car away like scrap? What if they never know that the car is part of something larger — a quiet, beautiful bond between machine and nature, stillness and life?

The very thought breaks my heart.

Because beneath that tarpaulin lies more than metal and rust. It holds stories — moments. Children must have played in its back seat. Someone’s first date may have begun there. A family’s emergency trip to the hospital. A thousand mundane errands. A million memories now buried in silence.

But people forget. As the world moves on, they forget that the car ever existed. I’ve heard joggers run past it without a glance, school kids giggle near the gate without noticing. Even I sometimes forget — until a fallen flower or a rustle of breeze brings it back to me.

And one day, I might forget for good. When my hair turns grey and my memory fades like a foggy mirror, this car — this entire house — may vanish from my mind. I may walk past it, not even realizing what once stood here. That’s how forgetting works. That’s how we work.

Isn’t it the same with people?

Once irreplaceable at work, at home, in someone’s heart — and then, slowly, gently, inevitably, we’re replaced. Grieved for a while, remembered on anniversaries, framed in a dusty photo in some forgotten corner. Then life continues. The gate rusts. The trees bloom. The roads widen. And we become just another pause in someone’s memory.

But moments — ah, the moments — they stay.

The sound of birds chirping in the Parijatha branches. A spiderweb stretching across the car’s silencer, shimmering in the morning sun. Puppies sleeping under its belly. Mushrooms growing near its tires. The scent of flowers falling slowly, and a breeze cooling my sweat-soaked skin as I run past — those moments are real. They live. They breathe.

That car, in its silent meditation, teaches more than most people I’ve known. It shows the beauty of stillness, the strength in surrender, and the grace in just being. While we race through life, measuring value in noise and motion, it rests — steady, serene, surrounded by life — and reminds us of the quiet art of noticing.

The truth is, the present is all we really have. Not the house. Not the car. Not even the memory. Just this — this moment, this flower drifting down, this breath, this step.

And perhaps that is enough.