Death of a Tree
Its been too long that I ve
put my pen to paper or my fingers to my keypad. So well, here goes... why
today? I muse... and i realise that everyday as i drive to work, i witness
murder... i still don’t know why i reacted today.... i have been seeing it
everyday... in different forms though.
Incident 1
Every summer, i see branches
of huge trees being chopped off. It is the routine I think. The tree is being
readied for the monsoons. It will flower better, it will bear more fruit, it will
broaden its canopy, it will rise higher. I look at the person wielding the axe.
He looks like a surgeon who will prune and enhance the bounties of the tree. I
look closer and to my horror realise that the surgeon is in fact a butcher. He
doesn’t prune, he hacks and hews. He doesn’t nip, he lops it off. The mighty
tree is now dwarfed, and so it will stay. Every summer, we will appoint a
butcher, not a gardener. Every monsoon, the indomitable spirit of the tree will
try to flower and bear fruit and rise. But every summer, we will hack it back.
At the end of ten odd years, we will finally decide that since the once
magnificent mango tree is now an ugly stump, it encumbers my driveway, obstructs
my wires and cables and blocks my view.
Let it Go!
Incident 2
The swarthy Neem is a brawny
50 year old, nearly 30 feet high with a lush canopy. The wizened old geezer
with his strong, black trunk, delicate, luminous, green leaves, emanates the
rare splendour of age and grace. He stands with nonchalant pride, right outside
Mr. D’s main gate. Mr. D is a diminutive professor of zoology in the most
prestigious girls college in the city. Everyday, the studious professor wakes
up to the chirping of the birds housed in the swarthy Neem, plucks a twig of
the most tender of leaves to chew on for ancient wisdom deems it healthy.
Professor D’s house is a
simple two storied affair that he has lived in since birth. His father had
built it nearly 60 yrs ago, when the city was still a town. The studious Mr. D reminisces
with tenderness at how he added the first floor with the permission of his late
father, how he and the Mrs. started their marital journey in the then modern
precincts of their middle class haven.
Thirty five years of their
life together, the swarthy Neem was always a part of it. The plastic buntings
used as decorations for Junior D’s birthdays, the star shaped lantern for each
diwali, the shamiana for Junior D’s wedding celebrations, the rope for the
moneyplant creeper, the modern string lights for the naming ceremony of Junior’s
daughter, the swarthy Neem has held it all together with his strong black
branches. He has experienced each joy, witnessed all sorrow, shielded the house
from the harsh, dry summer, the heavy rains, always been there for Mr. D and
his family.
The family and the tree
thrived in each other’s company. Always hand in glove, the house and the tree
were known because of each other. The white house with the neem outside its
gate, the tall neem tree in fornt of Mr. D’s house, was how each was known in
that part of town.
It rained last night, first
of the pre monsoons. The sheen on the tar road, ahh...the petrichor, the incandescent
new green foliage, the entire city has been washed clean.
On my way to work, i am asked
to take a detour, i wonder why? I crane my neck to see busy men and their
busier lackeys, each carrying an axe or a rope. I stop a few meters ahead. To
my horror, I realise, the swarthy Neem has been brought down. The wood cutters
and their men are hacking the dark, proud bark into small pieces, easier to
carry maybe. The eyes wandered to where he stood till last night.
Nothing, just a stump, and
staring vacuously at the stump, from behind his gate, is Mr. D.
The house is suddenly bare
and lies exposed, as if someone has cruelly snatched away its comforter.
Mr. D looks helpless; his
vacant eyes cannot understand the sudden emptiness thrust upon him and his
house. His friend is no more.
They took him away! The
swarthy Neem is gone!
