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I want to talk about an old banyan tree that stood right at the entrance to the alley where I grew up — it's still there now, actually, though it's fenced off these days because the roots had started cracking the pavement. It's an enormous tree, with these thick aerial roots hanging down from the branches that as a kid I genuinely thought looked like some kind of curtain, and the trunk is wide enough that three or four of us could barely link hands around it. It grows right on the corner where our street meets the main road, which meant it doubled as an unofficial meeting point — 'under the banyan tree' was basically an address in itself when I was growing up. What I like about it isn't really visual, though it is an impressive-looking tree; it's more that it's one of the only fixed points from my childhood that hasn't changed while everything around it has been rebuilt, repainted, or knocked down entirely. Shops have come and gone underneath it, the road's been widened twice, and yet the tree just keeps standing there, slightly indifferent to all of it, which I find strangely comforting. Whenever I go back to visit my parents, I always end up walking past it deliberately, just to check it's still there, and there's something almost embarrassingly sentimental about how relieved I feel every single time it is.