The story of a wounded tree and his friend

 

We are a  monetizing species. We just cannot help putting economic value on whatever we come across. Earlier we would hunt for gold and other materials from the guts of earth. Then the desire shot through the ceiling and now we hunt for sand with as much seriousness like we did seek gold earlier. Sand is needed for the non-stop build-up to cater to our booming population and economies.

The 40-50 feet wide ribbon of wilderness between the two canals running parallel across the countryside would have a ribbon of wilderness. Desilting of the canals left a thick bedding of sand upon which trees, bushes, plants and grasses ran to take possession—free nature running to grab whatever sinewy pathways are available for its solitude serenade.

Walking for kilometers on the little footpath running through this untrampled part would give me the feel of walking through a silent forest. Majestic banyans, peepuls, jamuns, eucalyptus, a few silk cotton trees, wild flowers and bushes would shower me with greetings as they would do to any of the plenty of snakes hiding among these last hideouts.

I am walking on the same path now. It has been cleared. Sand is very precious now, almost new age gold. And sand mafia—just a front player for the invisible political-bureaucratic nexus—has taken truckloads of sand. The mighty earthmovers cut through the ribbon of wilderness to claw out gleaming fertile sands that have travelled from the Himalayas with the canal waters. The grasses, bushes, plants and wild flowers are gone. Just big trees are standing. They are big enough to somehow come out alive after the onslaught in the darkness. But they bear the marks of injuries and cuts and wounds. The greedy talons of the earthmovers would try to scrape every particle of dust from around them thus cutting their roots, bruising their barks, damaging the trunks. So as I walk on the bare sand on the broad avenue only big trees stand with their cuts and wounds.

The sand mafia is very powerful. It’s the corrupt governmental machinery’s invisible hand that works with legalized criminality in the dark of night. Heavy trucks and earthmovers work overnight carting away precious sand—gold like precious. You hardly have any say against them. Where will you go and complain? The place where you are supposed to go for redressal of your grievance is the very same place that is authorizing all this in the dark of night. The nighttime criminality is too strong for any feeble daytime legal action. I know all this and know the inevitability of things ultimately going the way as they open up before me.

I walk with sadness looking at the wounded barks, bruised trunks and bashed up roots of the trees still holding their balance. Sand is more precious than the trees. Maybe the oxygen-selling industry is waiting with gloating glee for a time when all the trees will be gone and they will monetize it as an economic model by selling oxygen just like now we have bottled waters once the drinkable waters vanished from the streams.

The huge silk cotton tree beckons me with its smile of pain and agony. They have taken away all the sand around its roots, cutting some major roots in the effort. It takes many years for mother earth to bloom such a majestic tree. It’s a big one. I remember its flowery welcome with its big red flowers during the winters. One had playfully dropped straight on my head as I walked under it lost in my poetic muse. A big, juicy, red bouquet of welcome as if the tree wanted to remind me hey how can you pass without appreciating all the dollops of beauty hanging on my majestic canopy. It was a beautiful sight. Red blooms covering a portion of the sky above my hand. After that the tree felt like a friend and whenever I passed under it I wouldn’t forget to give it a handshake by touching its trunk.

The friend is now wounded after the night battles for sand. It stands with agony. All the supporting sand is gone and a few main roots gone. It seems as if an angry shove of wind will see it falling in the battle against the mankind. All I can do is to place a healing palm against its bruised bark and seek forgiveness from the side of we humans.

        My tree friend wounded after the nighttime battle with the sand mafia

I am not a revolutionary. I am a poetic man who feels their pain. I know everything is futile against the darker actors. They are too strong. So I do what I can do. I reach the tree in the evening with a spade and with my poetic hands slowly start doing the work of a farmer. Do it—however small is your capacity—if you feel something wrong has been committed somewhere. Sermonizing and vain poetics won’t help. I begin putting sand around the tree slowly covering its exposed guts. It’s a tough work for those who aren’t into routine farming work. But I’m surprised that I’m managing it pretty decently. As the dusk starts building up and moon rises to give me company, I feel as if the tree is absorbing the thick swabs of exhaustion from my body. Believe me I could feel it. I worked for almost two hours and there is the friendly tree with its wounds dressed up. It looks happy now.

                             A little dressing done by the wounded tree's friend

I leave a gentle reminder for the sand mafia who will be arriving during the night. It’s a scrawling on a cardboard piece; an appeal by the tree that please leave some sand for me also. I know they will angrily tear it away. But at least the tree has a right to voice its case. I fix the appeal on its trunk and leave with a little less sad smile this time because my tree friend is waving a bit less agonized goodnight.

            The tree's gentle reminder to the sand mafia that will arrive at night

I am not sharing this little story just to get three or four likes from virtual friends whom I haven’t even met. That hardly matters to me, and shouldn’t matter to anyone in fact. It’s just done with an intention to be the voice of a tree’s agony. The message is more important. It’s done with a hope that someone else too will take a little step under the same circumstances. And that spadework seems more satisfying than writing an entire book. We have to do whatever little we can do if we feel the need. Because that’s our own emotion. No one else is liable to it. It’s our own duty to act. However small it might be.