bhaskar saikia

In one quiet corner of my homestead stands a Japanese maple—slender, graceful and deeply meditative in its presence. Each year, it sheds its leaves in winter, leaving behind a bare, delicate frame. It never fails to catch my attention, this ritual of letting go. The once fiery foliage falls away, one leaf at a time, until all that remains is a silhouette of what it used to be.

All through the cold months, I watch it stand still. I don’t water it much. It seems asleep, or perhaps simply waiting—silent, patient.

But with spring’s approach, something stirs. Small buds begin to form, quietly at first, like whispers on the wind. And now, in these past few days, I’ve witnessed something beautiful: the new leaves are sprouting exactly where the old ones once were. Right at the same points where the tree let go, where loss was visible—there, growth is happening.

It’s a simple thing in the plant world, perhaps even expected. But to me, it feels profound.

Pain, loss and surrender aren’t endpoints. They’re markers—places where life paused, only to begin again. And isn’t it fascinating that nature doesn’t randomly grow anew, but chooses to bloom at the very spots it once had to let go?

This Japanese maple teaches me quietly: growth often comes where pain was once inflicted.

When something breaks you, when you lose something precious, when life strips you bare like a winter wind—perhaps that’s not the end. Maybe, like the tree, you are simply being readied for something softer, greener, and fuller to return. And not just anywhere, but right there—right where the ache was.

Nature has always known how to heal beautifully and with precision. Maybe we can learn to do the same.

So here’s to spring. To beginnings at the edges of endings.
And to all of us who are still learning to grow again—leaf by leaf.