bhaskar saikia

A forest never sleeps. Even when the wind stops and night falls, there’s a hum beneath the soil — a quiet communication we can’t hear but the trees can feel.

Scientists call it the mycorrhizal network — a vast underground web of fungi connecting tree roots, allowing them to exchange nutrients, warnings, and even signals of distress. A mother tree can send extra carbon to her shaded saplings; an injured tree can alert its neighbors about pest attacks. It’s as if the forest breathes as one living mind.

But there’s a deeper poetry in this science. I like to imagine that when trees share through these hidden threads, they are dreaming together. Their dreams aren’t made of images but of seasons, sunlight, and rain. They remember fires, adapt to droughts, and plan for spring.

Every fallen leaf, every whisper of wind through branches, is part of that living pulse. It teaches us that cooperation, not competition, sustains life. The forest thrives not because each tree grows alone, but because they hold each other through the invisible threads beneath our feet.

If you ever stand quietly in a forest, you might just feel it — that slow, patient heartbeat of something older and wiser than time.