There’s a Banyan tree in the corner of the schoolyard, its roots sprawling out of the earth like knots in an old scarf. It’s been there longer than anyone can remember, a fixture that has witnessed countless generations of children grow up. I remember sitting under its shade as a child, pretending to study, chatting with friends, or just staring at the leaves, hoping that somehow, the tree would offer some answers. The bark of the tree is rough, the aerial roots sufficiently thick to clamber up if you’re brave enough, but mostly, it’s where kids gather during lunch breaks – swapping secrets, laughing, fighting, and being, as only kids know how. 

I’m back now, after a few years, at twenty, not because I have any real business here, but because my mom still works at the school. I sometimes drive her home after her shift or hang around when she has meetings. And sometimes, like today, I end up sitting under that very banyan tree, half-reading a book I’ve already finished, watching the younger kids of Class 5, eleven years old, and somehow, still so small, taking their lunch-break near the tree. 

They don’t know me, of course. They don’t know I used to be one of them, barely a blink of time ago, and in some ways, I still am. They don’t see me as anything but a vague adult, someone too far away to talk to or understand. 

“You think she’ll talk about it again today?” A voice breaks through my thoughts. It’s a boy, smeared with ketchup from his sandwich, leaning towards the girl sitting next to him. She’s wearing a band-aid on her left knee.

“Maybe,” she says, a kind of certainty in her voice, as though she has been expecting this question. “She said we’re going to talk about it more this week.” 

The it they’re talking about isn’t a new game or a school trip. It’s something I wasn’t prepared for at their age. 

I glance at the classroom window. I don’t have to look twice to know who they’re talking about. Ms. Nisha, their teacher, has been running what she calls “workshops” about bodies, boundaries, and respect. It’s part of the school’s broader initiative – Comprehensive Sexuality Education. She has the kind of calm authority that makes even the most uncomfortable subjects sound like simple truths. 

When I first heard about it, I didn’t know what to think. The very idea that kids this young were being taught about things I’d barely known how to talk about myself at that age felt strange, like someone had pushed the envelope too far. My mom, who is a bit more conservative than me, didn’t seem entirely convinced either. “It’s just not the right time for them,” she had said when I asked. 

But here I am, watching these kids, feeling a strange mixture of nostalgia and curiosity. 

“What is it about, though?” the ketchup boy asks, twisting his sandwich in his hands, clearly unsure. 

“I don’t know,” the band-aid girl says, biting into her apple. She speaks with that strange authority kids sometimes have, like they know something they shouldn’t. “But I think it’s about… stuff you don’t talk about at home.” 

I catch myself smiling. There was a time when I didn’t know anything about it either – about how much silence can breed confusion, or how much people hide behind questions they can’t ask. I watch them now, wondering if they even realise how much they’re already teaching themselves. 

Ms. Nisha’s “workshops” are what everyone’s whispering about. I’ve overheard bits and pieces from the parents’ meetings, and while no one says it outright, there’s an undercurrent of discomfort. In the eyes of some adults, especially the older ones, the idea of introducing kids to these topics feels… premature. And maybe it is, maybe it’s too soon for eleven-year-olds to think about consent or boundaries or identity in ways that were never discussed when we were younger. But I don’t think Ms. Nisha sees it that way. I think she sees it as giving them the space to think, to ask. 

It isn’t just about sex, either. It’s about everything around it – about trust, about respect, about understanding that your body isn’t just something you occupy but something that belongs to you, and that your feelings, whatever they may be, deserve to be recognised. That’s not a lesson they’ll hear in every classroom. 

Later, when the kids file back into the school after lunch, the energy shifts. There’s a strange electricity in the air, as though something important is about to happen, but it’s also the kind of thing you can’t name yet. They’re still laughing, still teasing each other, but there’s a quietness under it all, a subtext I can’t quite catch. 

I glance at Ms. Nisha, who stands by the door to greet them. She doesn’t seem disturbed by the chatter. In fact, she doesn’t seem disturbed by much at all. Her calm is a kind of magnetism. She waves them into their seats without raising her voice. 

It’s clear she’s not here to shame them or lecture them. She’s here to give them words when they have none. 

That afternoon, the lesson goes a little deeper. It isn’t about the basics anymore; it’s about connection. About how things are felt as much as they are experienced. It’s about how we can take ownership of ourselves, our bodies, and our decisions – and it’s about how to listen. I catch a few words through the open window: “boundaries,” “consent,” “feelings.” Things that seemed so distant when I was their age, but now, watching Ms. Nisha guide them through the murky waters of understanding, I realise how necessary they are. 

I see the same kids I overheard earlier fidgeting, exchanging glances, trying to grasp concepts that their parents never spoke of. 

After the lesson ends, they flood back out into the playground, the subject of their discussion still hanging like mist in the air. They gather around the banyan tree, the kids in Class 5, laughing and chatting again, but somehow more aware. 

“Do you think it’s really okay to say no?” asks the band-aid girl, pulling a stray hair behind her ear as she looks at her friends. “Because I think I might have to tell my cousin something.” 

A moment of silence passes between them, and then the ketchup boy shrugs, suddenly unsure. “I think it’s okay,” he says. “Ms. Nisha said it’s okay.” 

They’re still learning, still figuring things out, but they’re talking, asking, feeling. It’s something I didn’t have at their age. They might not understand everything now, but in some way, they’re already ahead. 

That evening, I sit with my mom on the porch, watching the sky turn pink. I can hear her trying to decide if she’s going to bring it up. She finally does. 

“I heard some of the parents don’t like what Ms. Nisha is doing,” she says carefully. “They think it’s too much, too soon.” 

I think about the kids in the playground, and the way they seemed more sure of themselves than I did at eleven. I think about how they didn’t shy away from talking about things I’d always heard spoken of in hushed tones, how they seemed to understand that silence could be heavier than words. 

“I don’t know,” I say, after a long pause. “I think maybe it’s the right time for them. Not because they need to know everything, but because they need to know that it’s okay to ask.” 

The Banyan tree stands as it always has, its roots deep in the ground, its branches wide enough to hold everyone who needs it. But now, when I look at it, I see something more: it’s not just a place to hide or escape. It’s a symbol of the space we give ourselves and each other to learn, to grow, to understand. There’s no rushing it. The kids in Class 5 will take the time they need to figure it all out. And if they’re lucky, they’ll have people like Ms. Nisha around to hold space for them. 

Because the world isn’t going to wait for them to grow up. And maybe it’s better they start learning now. 

The tree doesn’t judge or rush them. It just waits. 

And maybe that’s enough. 

Cover Image: Photo by Demure Storyteller on Unsplash