There was a majestic fig tree along the road to school. I could see the sunlight streaming in through its thick canopy from my classroom. I loved it the most in fall. During autumn, the leaves would litter the ground, burying the concrete altogether. It became a habit to jump into the pool of leaves, stepping on the extra crunchy looking leaves and scattering them around. We would play till late into the sunset before speeding off on our two-wheeler, hands free from the handles without a care.

You said it was the most beautiful in winter, when its leaves were all shed and the tree barren. You loved the tiny crystals forming on its branches. We would have an intense snowball fight before lying exhausted on the cool white, tired but gratified. The winter sun was my favourite.

He was the most carefree, easily climbing the tall tree like it was no mean feat. We would just listen in envy as he described the view to us with his bombastic words. Once, when you did manage it, you said the view was a far cry from what he had described. Your legs were shaking so badly, and you were clutching tightly onto the thick branch.

The tree is still there, in its magnificent glory. I see a group of students walking past, laughing merrily, and I think of the countless times we’ve been together. I think of how we fooled aro