When I was a young girl, my favorite hideout was treetops, where I used to sit or lie on the big branches of the neem tree for hours, dreaming. Reading fairy tales of some wonderlands. I had no dearth of time; my mother never asked me not to dream or read. My favorite storybooks were fairy tales—colors, beauty, magic, romance, prince charming. I could spend the entire day sleeping in a big branch of the tree. I was never bored or lacking imagination in creating a world of my own. Creating characters, stories, lands, emotions, scenarios—all of it. I was never alone in this wonderland.
Up in the branches, with the scent of neem leaves surrounding me and sunlight peeking through the leaves like glitter from another world, I was free. Free to be a princess or a warrior. Free to fall in love, to rescue or be rescued, to fly across skies or dive into oceans of stars. My wonderland had no boundaries—neither of geography nor of thought. It was a sacred space where my inner world bloomed louder than any outside noise.
Sometimes, I’d speak out loud to my characters—telling them what to do next, or asking them why they made the choices they did. Other times, I’d just listen—because in that world, even silence had stories to tell. Trees whispered, clouds drifted with messages, and winds carried secrets.
Looking back, I realize now that those solitary treetop afternoons were not idle or wasted—they were the foundation of everything I am today. The ability to imagine, to dream beyond my reality, to believe in beauty and hope even in the harshest of circumstances—these weren’t just childhood fantasies. They became tools for resilience. They helped me survive, thrive, lead, and believe—in others and in myself.
The little girl in the tree never really left. She still climbs into branches of thought, weave stories, dares to dream, and finds magic—everywhere.