The storm had ravaged the forest. Trees that had stood tall for decades lay uprooted, their massive trunks sprawled on the ground like fallen soldiers. Branches littered the ground. Amid this devastation, something small and fragile clung to life—a sapling, no bigger than a human fist. Born from a wandering seed buried in poor soil, it had somehow survived the fury of the storm.
But its struggle for existence had just begun. Around it, weeds clustered, stealing water and competing for every sliver of sunlight. Their roots tangled with that of the sapling. Each day, the sapling stretched higher, desperate to catch a golden ray, twisting its frail stem.
One afternoon, a dog wandered near, nose twitching. The sapling trembled as heavy paws crushed its tender leaves. Pain surged through its fragile stem, yet it endured. Days later, when the dog returned to trample it again, fate intervened. A bee buzzed past and stung the intruder’s nose. Yelping in pain, the dog fled. The sapling, scarred but alive, felt relieved.
Then came summer. The sun blazed mercilessly, baking the soil until it cracked like broken pottery. The sapling drooped, its leaves curling inward, thirsty for rain. When at last the monsoon came, the rainwater seeped into its roots like a blessing. Life flowed back into its veins. And the sapling survived.
Nearby, a banyan tree spread its vast canopy, casting a suffocating shadow. Being phototropic, the sapling bent sideways, inch by inch, growing crooked. Still, it managed well. Storms passed, animals prowled, and droughts returned—but the sapling’s resilience to survive helped it to hold on.
Years went by. The once-fragile sprout had become a sturdy little tree. Birds now perched and nested in its branches. Squirrels scampered across its trunk, playing hide-and-seek. Where it had once begged for space, now it offered shelter.
Unlike the weeds that had withered away, the sapling had taken root deeply,
One day, a woodcutter entered the forest. His axe bit into the weak and dying trees, felling them one after another. The young tree shook with fear as it watched its neighbors fall. But when the woodcutter’s eyes rested on it, he frowned. Its trunk was crooked, bent awkwardly toward the sun. With a grunt of disapproval, he turned away. What had once seemed like a deformity had become its salvation.
Soon the forest grew quiet again, the little tree swayed in gratitude. It remembered the storm that had nearly crushed it, the weeds that had strangled it, the scorching summers, the trampling dog, the shadow of the banyan, and now, the woodcutter’s axe.
It had bent, broken, healed, and endured. Against all odds, it had survived.
The sapling’s journey was not just about growth—it was about persistence: life belongs to those who refuse to give up.
Charles Darwin – “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.”
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