Under the Banyan Tree
Lakshmi was the kind of girl every village elder admired — quiet, respectful, and always lost in her books. Her world was small: her home, the college that was 5 km away, and the little river where she sometimes sat to think.
Ravi, on the other hand, was the complete opposite — mischievous, talkative, and known for climbing trees and skipping classes. Yet, deep inside, he carried a kind heart that few noticed.
They both studied in the same degree college, just outside their small village in Telangana. They never really spoke — until one rainy morning changed everything.
Lakshmi had missed her usual bus. The roads were muddy, and the skies threatened rain. She was waiting at the small bus stand, drenched, when Ravi rode by on his father’s old bicycle.
He stopped.
“Come… I’ll drop you. College ki late avthav otherwise,” he said casually.
She hesitated. But seeing no other option, she sat sideways on the carrier, careful not to touch him.
That 15-minute ride was quiet. Except for the raindrops and Ravi occasionally singing an old Ilaiyaraaja song softly.
From that day on, something changed.
They began talking. Slowly. A smile here, a shy glance there. Ravi started reaching college early. Lakshmi would bring him tamarind rice sometimes. They studied under the big banyan tree during breaks, sharing notes and laughter.
One afternoon, while she explained an economics topic, he stared at her.
“Nee laugh chustunte, college kuda silent aipothundi anipistundi,” he said.
She blushed, looked away, and whispered, “Chaduvukondi First.”
He smiled. “Nee voice vinadam kuda oka lesson la feel avutunnaa.”
Months passed. The whole village knew they were “close.” Some aunties gossiped. Lakshmi’s parents warned her.
But their love was never about secret meetings or bold confessions. It was in the way he’d bring her warm roasted peanuts in winter. In the way she’d cover his notebook with a plastic sheet so it wouldn't get wet. In how he’d always ride slow when she was on the bicycle.
One evening, under the banyan tree, she looked at him seriously and said:
“If my parents fix my marriage soon, nuvvu cheptava vallaki?”
He took a long pause and said, “Cheptha… kaani first degree ayipokunda ninnu tension lo pettanu anukuntunnanu.”
She didn’t say anything.
But that night, she cried — because she knew that was love.
In their final year, Lakshmi’s father began looking for matches.
Ravi, with trembling hands, went to her house.
“Uncle… nenu degree ayyaka job kosam try chesthunnanu. Lakshmi ni pelli cheyyalani cheptunnanu.”
Her father didn’t say yes immediately. But he didn’t say no either.
He said, “If you truly respect her, prove it with your life, not just words.”
Two years later, Ravi got a job as a school teacher in a nearby town. He returned to the village, in a simple white shirt, holding a small ring in a red box.
Under the same banyan tree, he bent down and said, “Lakshmi… neetho chaduvukunna, neetho navvina… ippudu nee tho jeevitam nerchukovala anipistundi.”
She smiled, eyes filled with tears, and said:
“Nuvvu eppudu nannu safe ga college ki teesukellavu… ippudu life lo teesukellav ani naku nammakam undi.”
They got married in the village temple, with flowers, blessings, and the entire college gang attending.
And even today, when it rains and school is closed early, Ravi still picks up Lakshmi — now his wife — on his old bicycle.
Because true love doesn’t need luxury. Just understanding, respect, and small rides under rainy skies.