There was a tree, a lonely one, neglected by her kinds,
abandoned even by birds. For she was a sinner.
She didn’t sin on her own, but she aided others in sinning,
that was her fault, they say. She tried to tell others she was no sinner… it
was a pure accident that she was born in this spot, but others won’t listen to
her.
When the spring comes, and all of them blossom in myriad of
colours, her mind also leaps in joy, she blossoms too. She offers her red
flowers to the existence, spread her red arms for the bees to carry her essence
to someone, someone who she can claim to be her lover. But the bees ignore her.
The cuckoo won’t coo in her branches, the little birdies won’t tweet.
And the time passes by silently. She sheds her offering, wrinkles
on her body, she shrivels and closes her eyes in pain. Her ornaments discarded
away, she tears her clothes too … the leaves fall, she stands sad, stark naked,
a skeleton.
Yet, she forgets her disappointment and blossoms again in
the next spring. She dresses up in
green, adorns herself with her ornaments once again and hopes that finally she
will be mated with someone, someone who she can call her lover.
Yet again bees ignore her, birds don’t tweet, the cuckoo
won’t coo. Not only they are unwilling in helping her find her mate, they don’t
want to mate too in these accursed branches of hers. For she is a sinner.
She casts a glance at her trunks. Tears wells up in her eyes
watching the new set of goats tied to her trunk. The creatures stand there –
stunned. They stare in utter horror at the body of one of their friends hanging
from the hook while the man who slit its throat a while back chops pieces of
flesh from it.
They know the same fate awaits them. The youngest of them,
just six months old and still immature, bleats out in fear. It searches for the
mother … and some comfort from the absurd realities of this cruel world.
It tries to break free of the rope tied in its neck, but the
rope is too strong and its neck too weak and the accursed tree won’t fall.
With every pull felt on her trunk, the tree cries out. She
wants to fall at every pull, she wants to let the baby go, let wings be on his
side, let him fly away. But she can’t do anything, her feet are tied to the
earth, she can’t move an inch from her base. Trees don’t know how to commit
suicide, but in moments like this she wants to die.
The butcher, she knows her for the last thirty years, ever
since she was just a sapling, is efficient in his job. He moves his knife with
an expressionless face. Every time he drags a poor animal and the creature
cries out loud knowing the inevitability of its fate and the hopelessness of
the situation, the tree’s heart starts pumping loudly. The environment gets
filled with anguish; the sleeping ones walking on the road could hear the goat’s
bleating while the awakened ones, the spirits, could hear the tree crying out
too. She had given shelter to the unfortunate animal she had offered her barks
for him to chew on. There was a brief connection between the souls. She had the
illusion of a family.
She weeps silently, that’s her only protest. She wants to
die at those moments.
Yet, when the butcher trains his knife on the throat and she
sees the four legs kicking the air, she goes numb. A terrible fear, like a devil
sitting on her chest, freezes her. “I want to live, I want to live! Don’t kill
me like this, I don’t want to die,” she pleads to the butcher, to everyone
around – to the existence.
One day she saw Rehman, the butcher, quarrelling with some
people in front of his shop. They had strange instruments and lots of papers.
The next day she noticed Rehman among other shop owners
sitting on the middle of the road. They won’t let any vehicle pass. They were
protesting something. All the shops in the area were closed. There were no goats
tied to her trunk. She could breathe easy.
She saw some uniformed people with sticks and guns dispersing
Rehman’s crowd. Rehman was hit on the head, he was bleeding profusely. She felt
herself melting at the sight of Rehman crying. He was her old friend. They know
each other for thirty years. Rehman was a boy then when he opened the shop. He is
now a tired man approaching old age. Rehman is her family, her only permanent
family, her brother. She wept too.
Some strange machines came and flattened the shops after
some day. Rehman’s was a weak establishment, just a small blow was enough to
wipe it off from the face of this world. Rehman saw it with sunken eyes,
bandage in his head.
He sat there till evening, caressing the broken bricks of
his shop. With darkness settled he prepared to leave. He came silently to the
tree and hugged her. He caressed her trunk. Both souls communicated with each
other, they will never meet again. Rehman left. The ghosts of the goats left with
him.
They were widening the road. Now they were felling trees,
the humble ones, the arrogant ones, ones that would look at her in disgust even
moments before their death.
Now the woodcutter came to her. It’s her turn now to die.
It reminded her of the goats, she stopped breathing at the
sight of the shining axe. No! I don’t want to die! No, no, no… !
She hollered. The spirits moved around disturbed, they were
in anguish too. The sleeping ones didn’t pay any heed. Life went on.
She tried to run past, but the rope that tied her to the
earth was too strong, she was too weak and the there was no earthquake. The earth
was aiding them in her murder.
It had rained the previous night. The first rain of the
season. A strange motherly smell engulfed the whole world. But it was getting
hotter now in the day. And the woodcutter is not in a hurry to kill her. They
were stuck in some paperwork.
But then all was sorted out. The killer swung his axe … she
closed her eyes.
She felt the sharpness of the iron in her trunk. She grimaced
in pain. She looked down at her murderer with blank eyes. The man had halted for some reason. She came back in her senses. That's it? This is what death is? Just this? It's so easy! All then is just the fear of it. Bring it on!
She wanted to see her death with eyes wide open. It was a new game, a new revelation. Death was standing naked in front of her, finally stripped of its dignity and ashamed at her smirk.
She wanted to see her death with eyes wide open. It was a new game, a new revelation. Death was standing naked in front of her, finally stripped of its dignity and ashamed at her smirk.
The old man was tired, he had chopped a big mahogany tree in
the morning and was now sweating after two blows on her. His face was like her
trunks, shriveled, wrinkled, tired. His lips were dry.
There was still some water left in her leaves. She had preserved
them, hidden the drops from sun inside her carefully folded leaves, inside the
buds and the small cracks in her branches. She always liked water.
The third blow exhausted the old man. Looking at the dark
spindly body, spines jutting out beneath sun-tanned skin, she was filled with a
motherly love.
She shook herself and let the cold droplets fall on the old
man, “be well!” she whispered.
The man looked up, pleased.
Two souls met, he thanked her. She smiled kindly, the
spirits round danced.
A cuckoo sat on her trees and cooed … and the little birds
followed and filled the air with their tweets.