The sad semal tree

 

I’m walking on my solitary. A lot has changed in the last three-four years. Then it was a little ribbon of wilderness running through agricultural fields, flanked by two canals and the foot track overgrown with trees, reeds, shrubs and bushes. It gave the feeling of a forest walk. To ease the removal of silt from the canals the trees have been cut, the reeds and grass mowed down. Just a few big trees remain. So now it’s like walking on a big field embankment. The blasting human population is finding it increasingly difficult to find more resources.

It’s late March. The wheat crop has a golden hue and moving fast towards harvesting. The evening heat seems to be stewing a fragrance of grass and wild flowers. Heaps of silt have been dredged from the canals and line the trail like March flowers once used to dot the path. The sand and silt is a lucrative business. The wild flowers just inspire some poems in a poet. I accept the change, the inevitable master of earthly ceremonies. I smell the lovely fragrance of whatever is left. A heady smell of honey sweetens the mood. Some lone honeycomb nearby on a peepal tree!  

And there stands the mourning tree. It was once a huge, luxurious semal (silk cotton tree). In March and April it used to smile with big, red, luscious flowers. Then the sand mafia came. Greedy for the river silt piled around the tree, they scraped away earth, cutting its big roots. The tree survived somehow. But it hasn’t smiled even once, not a single flower, during the last two years. And now when the spring is at its peak and flowers are abloom on uninjured semal trees somewhere else, this sad tree stands without even a single leaf, forget about flowers. It’s its way of showing its mourning over the loss. It still greets me with its sad barren silhouette. I feel its pain. With a little extension of our sensitivity, we can feel and be aware of the joys and sorrows of the non-human component of life on earth. The flowers are their smiles. The blobs of sap oozing from the cuts on the bark are their tears. Their luxurious canopy swaying to the winds is their dance. The ripe fruits, shadow and fresh air is their kindness. It’s all there. We just need to be aware of it.

I put my hand on its hard bark. A handshake. An acknowledgment of the humans’ rapacious ways. I feel sorry from the side of the humans. ‘Don’t worry, I am trying to smile with flowers and one fine day I will welcome you on this solitary trail with my red blooms!’ it seems to say. Well, best of luck you fighter tree. You are injured but big and strong. Keep your faith alive. Let’s hope for the best during the next spring. And till then our handshakes and greetings continue. Let this friendship stay fresh in my heart and your wooden tissues. It’s a lovely friendship and I’m honored to be your friend, privileged to feel your pain and would be joyous in sharing your spring smiles.