Monday, April 22, 2013


The solitary tree in front of our house,
Has been recording our past for many years now,
Through it's branches and leaves, it's flowers and fruits,
Imprinting ink of memories upon parchments of seasons.

The green foliage against the deep blue sky in the spring, in whose shade play the ghosts of my childhood.
The swinging armchair of that high branch, sat upon which we used to watch the night spread it's blanket around.
The chalk wicket marked on the bark of the tree, when we used to play cricket in the summer afternoon's.

The rustling of the heavy autumn winds as they swayed the tree's giant head to and fro.
The remains of the rain dripping from the leaves, drop by drop, sounding like the nature's clock.
The dry, crumpled leaves spread over the ground in winter, giving a nice crunchy feel to every footstep.

The solitary tree in front of our house,
Talks to the winds with it's numerous boughs and leaves.
Theirs is a fascinating relationship - the wind and the tree's.
Sometimes in the evenings when they are happy, they dance in unison.
The wind whirling around the tree like a ballet dancer, and the tree rocking it's boughs back and forth to it's rhythm.
Sometimes in the autumn they quarrel.
The angry wind hits the tree with heavy blows of gusts, breaking it's branches and almost uprooting it, The tree replies by sulking throughout the winter - shedding it's leaves, keeping silent to wind's placations.
But mostly they murmur to each other in silent whispers.
The wind blowing slow and soft over the tree and the tree scarcely moving it's leaves.

I wonder what they chat about.
May be they talk about that strange creature - the human.
About how the tree served him like a faithful servant all these years, bearing his burden on it's shoulders, protecting him from rain and sun.
But the ingrate started to kill his brothers and sisters - the oak which he used to shake hands with, the jasmine creeper which curled around his body like a child hugging it's mother - until it was the only one left.
About how the wind used to run pure and boundless over the trees.
But then the the human poisoned it with hot venomous gases from his hellholes - now it staggers and tumbles like a disease ridden old man.

We sold our house. The new owner is cutting the tree to build a shed in it's place.
Looking up, I observe the tree talking to the wind again, swaying it's head, side to side.
May be the tree is sobbing at it's imminent death and the wind is patting it's head.
Or may be from that height, the omniscient tree and wind, are laughing contemptuously at the human below, executing the tree with a chopper,
Knowing that he is only killing his necessities for his luxuries.

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