The other evening, my five-year-old daughter was sitting on the floor, eyes fixed on the TV. Bright colours flashed across the screen, characters shouted and danced — everything loud, fast, and busy. She was completely engrossed, but then she turned to me, almost out of nowhere, and asked, “Mama, what did you watch when you were little?”

I paused, then smiled. “We didn’t have shows like this,” I told her. “We had stories. Books. We read about trees and trains and people who lived in the hills.” She looked curious, as if trying to picture a world that didn’t come with a remote.

Later that night, instead of turning the TV back on, I pulled out The Cherry Tree by Ruskin Bond. “Let me read you a story I loved,” I said. She wriggled next to me on the bed, arms around her favourite stuffed toy, and we began.

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It was simple: a boy, a garden, a seed that slowly grew into something more. There were no villains or cliffhangers. Just a soft, patient story. I thought she might get restless. But instead, she listened. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Her little hand rested on mine the whole time.

And when the story ended, she looked up and said, “Can we plant a tree too?”

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That’s what Ruskin........

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