Which tree are you?
A simple question which opened the sluice gate and let out the memoires stored upstream.
“If you were a tree, which tree would that be?”
Can you ask a reader to pick a single favourite book? Or a traveler to pick her favourite destination? Or a mother to decide which of her children is the favourite?
On hearing the question, memories of trees I knew and loved flashed past.
A five year old me, picking the fallen jamuns and stuffing them into the pocket of my A-line frock. My mother was so annoyed with the purple stain on the pretty yellow dress that she stitched up all the pockets of my dresses so I could never put things in them again.
Afternoons spent sitting on the branches of my favourite guava tree, nibbling at the unripe fruits, and reading Enid Blyton.
The massive bakula tree in the temple compound in my grandparent’s village; so copiously would it flower that the granite floor would always be covered in a fragrant carpet of fallen flowers.
The tendu tree in the park with the knotted rope slung from its branches. I once climbed to the very top, and got so petrified when I realised how high I had gone, I sat there paralyzed till the maali came up and coaxed me down.
The silk cottons that stood like sentries outside out home in Rakha; their colours marking the passage of seasons.
The solitary palash tree besides a stream on the way to school. Nondescript for much of the year, unforgettable for a few weeks before Holi.
The ancient plumeria tree in the house we stayed in for only six months; the last that had a garden before we moved to the city.
The gulmohar tree which was just a sapling when we moved to Calcutta, but which in just a few years started painting the landscape orange- red in April.
The row of laburnums in our University campus. After plucking the flowers twice and seeing them wilt within an hour, I learnt to appreciate them from afar.
The giant tree opposite my parent’s apartment in Bangalore; the branches providing shelter to at least a dozen bird species.
The banyans of Chevella. Those gentle giants I got to know so well when we tried to save them from being cut down due to road-widening.
The peepul tree which was the last tree I hugged before we went into Lockdown in March.
There are so many trees I have known and loved. How do I pick just one?
But if there is one tree I would like to be, it would be the neem.
A neem with a sprawling canopy that provides shade to travelers and residents alike. A tree that lets people pluck her leaves and fold them into their precious Kanjeevarams to keep away pests. A tree whose twigs can be used by people to brush their teeth, and whose flowers will be fried and eaten on festival days. A neem who lets crows make nests on her branches, and eavesdrops on their wise chatter while they discuss their day over a cup of tea. A tree that monkeys love to swing on.
I have lost count of the neem trees I have known.
The neem that grew outside our apartment in Calcutta which consoled me when my grandmother passed away, and gave me a family of crows overcome my grief.
The neem tree outside my hostel room that played host to a family of langurs- matriarch, father, mother, teenage daughter, and twin children- if I had not been as addicted to watching their daily drams, I would have certainly got better grades in my exams.
The neem in Bangalore which gave us leaves to keep under my pillow when I contracted chickenpox.
The neem which covered our driveway with dried leaves which my toddler loved to sweep with a giant broom.
The countless neems which provided shade for me to conduct focused group discussions with our program beneficiaries in rural communities.
Neem, according to legend, is a manifestation of Goddess Durga. A nurturing tree to whom people confide their deepest secrets without fear of betrayal or judgement.
A tree that gives you all, without asking for much in return.
I want to be a neem. I try to be a neem.
