When it is not yours anymore – 2

Here is my second story. The story of a selfless being that raised me, held me, showed me the world from a height that I had never seen. I felt I was grown up when I saw from such a height three times my height. I rested countless times on their chest, I heard their heartbeat, and I saw sunshine through their green hair. Their legs are quite strong, I climb from the feet, pass their knees, and almost alight on their hip, and broadly stretch myself on their chest. I simply lie for hours, I lived there, and kept my study books on their chest, left my dresses, sometimes my shoes, sometimes my toys and play items. Yes, I was 8, and they must be at least 40 then.

I don’t know if they are a male or female, married or not, rich or poor, but I know they never walked an inch for me but pulled me towards them like a piece of iron attracted to the magnet. They charmed me for providing such a big shelter, swallowing my shadow altogether when I go into their arms. I lived under their aegis for nearly 8 years until I thought I was grown up, I have been wrong and I am hardly any grown up ever. I am sure they could raise me on their shoulder even when I am 80.

This is a tree, a neem soul. The tree that witnessed my reclusive formative years, and nursed my childhood emotion, tolerated my teenage fears and anger, set my psychological scape for reaching adulthood. The tree helped me take shelter, remained every time as a mother, and taught me many things, from physics to photosynthesis, from basking in my loneliness to reveling with its company; this single tree championed me like a guardian. It was my first avuncular figure and the first smell of motherhood.

If I need to give you the backdrop of this tree and my humble story, this tree was present almost 150 feet away from my house, there was a well near this neem tree, at 12 in the noon, I could see the limpid waters revealing its marine life such as tadpoles, and preys and crystal clear fine sands in the bottom. While in the mornings, men and women plunder the well so well, and in the evening the other children of the compound annoy the deep puddle by running around. Everyone cruelly exploits the well and awfully neglects the neem tree, except me, who seeks solace only in their companionship. I check in at the tree before and after school, my weekend hangouts are literally hanging on this tree, jumping from branch to branch or up and down to earth.

I have always believed that a well reflects our emotions—far beyond just showing our image as a mere fragment of resemblance. The more we gaze into a well, the more we understand ourselves, shedding the false masks we wear

There was a huge wall that marked the boundary of our compound that housed nearly 10 families and countless number of trees. I could still feel the exact meaning of “canopy” by envisaging the plant life in the compound. There were around 10 coconut trees, two giant Indian almond tree that are close to this neem tree, a couple of berry trees, and shrubs and plants that cover anyone’s knees when they walk. In addition to plant life, the concomitant rodents and insect life were teeming and swarming. From rats to squirrels, from leeches to skinks, from mosquitoes to fireflies, the compound had a world of flora and fauna that kept me entertained much rather the 10 households that lived some distance from these.

My first tryst with the tree was when I needed a far-off place from my house, so I naturally found this gentle tree was the farthest apogee and homed myself in it. The distance from my house helped me to get less detected; the closeness to the tree drew me into its shades. When I used to watch Jungle Book – Mowgli on Sunday mornings, I felt a much simpatico of my life around the tree where Baloo was definitely this neem tree, Share Khans were any humans see my best times around this tree, and my reclusiveness as my questionable character. Like any flight response of animals, I climb up to branches when I spot such annoying humans and hide myself. I come down when I see my fellow mates, little children from these families. I invite my friends to climb this tree, some feared, some joined, but the joy around the tree was always unfiltered.

The joy of living around the flora and fauna during childhood is a blessing.

After our intense cricket in the noon or evening sprints, everyone retreats to their home except me, who first goes to this tree, sprawls my legs, and lays my back and head along the towering branch. The tree has a base, the first branch is nearly 8 steps of my climbing from the ground; it bifurcates the trunk into two major branches, and this spot I refer to the chest because I find the heart of the tree is right here, and it holds me close to it. I further walk on the slanting branch of the tree extending to its other vital branches; however, mostly, I rest on this chest area. I had my drawing books and pencils hidden there, and sometimes my class notes, too. The tree had taken so much care of my belongings and, like a dutiful mother, hands me anything I stored in it. Sometimes, I realize the shade of the tree matches 100’s of mothers in it, and each leaf fallen from the tree is equivalent to the sweat of a dutiful mother nurturing their son. When the tree held my weight, I wondered if any woman lovingly carried me for such a long time. I began to think the tree must be a female then.

The lessons and joy that a tree offers cannot be provided by even the most esteemed schools, erudite teachers, or thoughtful parents.

The neem tree was the cathedral sanctuary to me. And the well, some animals and other trees and plant lives were the trinity of my childhood, emotionally sacred figures that shaped my senses and understanding of this physical world. There used to be a cat or sometimes a couple or more, always resting on the wall nearby; they used to watch me from a distance and be allayed that I was not chasing them, and I became assuaged they didn’t invade my tree. Yet, sometimes they use my tree to get to the wall. The tree withers hundreds of neem fruit or seeds every day; I carefully disregard tasting them, sometimes collecting them to throw at my friends to bully them. The tree has very coarse barks, sometimes they scratch my bare feet, and peel off my skin exposing my blood clot through the flimsy secondary skin that holds my blood. I see the tree advises me like a mother not to reach heights, play carelessly around, and keep some deterrents against my arrant activities. From puny, twaddling feet that climb to the sturdy, long limbs of a mid-teenager, the tree witnesses the vicissitudes of childhood to teenage life : from being naïve to emotional craftiness, the tree has seen so much of me.

The peace-loving cats are no match for envious and intrusive human beings.

I have done my homework on this tree, studied the pending chapters at last hour before the exam on this tree, watched cricket on TV from the height I gathered that helped me to peep into a household nearby, cried profusely for failing in relationships, and in the cricket match or losing a toy or cricket ball, laughed brightly after winsome moments, looked curiously through the canopy right at the sky and awed at flights, jets in the morning, and stars, constellation at nights. From playing cricket right below the tree during the day to hearing crickets squeak at night, the tree has given me a home.

Observing the sky through the trees is one of the remarkable joy that a human mind can experience, it is so transcendental that it develops wisdom and nurtures philosophical thirst.

As I grew into my late teenage, I became conscious of being a “jungleboy” and strangely succumbed to the bare thoughts of many pointless humans about their prejudices and trifling mindsets. I started to shun my mother, neem tree, and redirect my time more with men and women, I aspired to become an adult, and little did I know then the adult activities were hallow, shallow and blunt. I swear today, the tree had missed me in those years. It missed my feet that sways its hip, getting closer to its chest, sleeping for some clock hours; the only human connection it had was indeed lost. Fool, I was busy shaping my personality, couth behaviors, sprucing my vocabulary, and sharpening my social intelligence while neglecting my true connection with nature, my dearest neem tree.

By the end of my teenage, the time had elapsed, the climate of the neighborhood changed, real estate developed, vacant plots burgeoned into commercial complexes, a chain of restaurants at a distance once had now come so closer, many shrubs and myriad types of plant lives had been vanishing or replaced by paved soil. Some of the other trees either extirpated in the recent storms or removed as a measure of “pest control” to get rid of the rodent menace. I could literally see the place is terraformed yet I never imagine a fateful day I could see anytime soon, or I knew it but I had no compunction towards my neem tree. Was I so selfish and remorseless?

I had also witnessed the vanishing of leeches, small insects, and various types of ants from the size of a nail to the edge of the hair strand, from red fire ants to light pharaoh ants to weaver ants; everything disappeared. I watched leeches drool when they thread along the walls; now they have become dried, and there are no traces of leeches anywhere around. Birds stopped cocooning nests in the trees. I had seen pigeons and crows and parrots built homes on the trees here, now hardly a bird gather crumble for building any nest. I fear they began live in the readymade shafts, window shades and panels, pillar grooves, motor rooms, and humanized their way of life aping from us. I also saw the well lose its old charm; hardly any relied on its water; it was abandoned too, and replaced by other efficient electric pump systems.

The pulp of my tears was so thick and heavy, my lungs constricted, and I was devastated to see one fine day the neem tree was gone. The place it held for 50-odd years was cemented. It was then a car park of the vampirish restaurant that galloped its march by breaking the wall, buying the land, destroying all the trees around, and demolishing the houses of the families that once lived; the place is now a grand car park of the parasitic restaurant. I still don’t remember when was the last time I climbed the neem tree, when I rested on its chest for one final time, did I hear its hearbeat one final time, when was the last time I slept for hours on it, do I able to memorize well all the theorems and theories at the last hour before my exam. I am still answerless to all these questions. Why I developed consciousness about myself, a milder social intelligence, and the collective intrepid to abandon the tree of life? For whom I had left this innocent, protective soul that raised me for a good eight years. The finest soul that taught me physics, astronomy, and biology was axed, and I wasn’t there when it was uprooted, I never seen the killers’ face even for a revenge. I probably don’t even have the gumption to take any revenge except my slyly pretension here for about three pages empty rant after two decades of losing this precious tree. But I am happy that I still remember this tree and remain grateful for the love and lessons it tendered me forever.

To my readers and admirers of my alphabet – there is no pride in leaving what has been loving you supremely and keeping you close to their hearts. It would be really painful and also malevolent when you change your mind for petty reasons and neglect your core vaults that watered your emotional depth and filled the flesh of your heart with fresh bonds of blood. Do you have any such painful stories when you realize that it is no longer yours, and you walked quite a far distance from repairing it and started to live wounded and injured? You can pass your thoughts below in the comment box.

Anand ¥¥