What My Tree Told Me
I was planted in 2016 in an urban residential colony,
where everything was green. The roads were lined withIn the centre of this
paradise was a huge piece of public land, completely vacant.
If you ask any citizen of Coimbatore what the fate of
6.5 acres of empty land in a residential colony would be, a) they wouldn’t
believe that such a thing even exists, or b) they would guess that the land
would be used for a construction project, or promptly partitioned and sold as
real estate.
They wouldn’t be wrong.
The land was initially planned to be the site of a government road transport
office—just another sprawling compound in the burgeoning city. But that wasn’t
what happened. Thanks to the efforts of many residents, after a period of
bureaucratic fighting, the plan was revoked. Residents then planted rows of
trees, employed a gardener and got a water distribution system built for the
saplings. Creatures aplenty promptly colonized the area. A few years later, a
path was built around the perimeter with a wall, lights, and benches on the
side—and thus the walkers’ park was born.
It was right outside the
park where I was planted by one of the colony’s resident families. A boy of
seven and his mom dug out two small pits and placed me and another tree of my
kind next to each other. Day in and day out, we watched the walkers in the park
and the vehicles on the road, and thus the years passed. The boy and his father
stopped every morning, even when they were in great hurry, to water our roots.
I was growing up with no major issues, but my sibling beside me was a bit less
fortunate. Its growth, though not completely halted, suffered quite some
setbacks, and now it is a bit stunted. But whenever it grumbles about its
tribulations, I remind it of the terrible fate of a fellow young plant…
It was a Persian Silk
tree. Its species is deep-rooted in ancient Tamil literature; the king, after
vanquishing the foe, rode into his capital proudly wearing the tree’s pink
flowers in his locks. As if striving to live up to its reputation as a symbol
of victory, the silk tree grew on its own with admirable resilience and will.
Stray cattle repeatedly tonsured off its delicate new leaves and reduced it to
a stump only about six inches tall. Yet it still stayed alive and grew new
leaves, healthier than before.
One tragic day, road
construction workers came with truckloads of construction material, and emptied
a mountain of mud on the side of the road, over the poor sapling. Enshrined in
this sad heap, it was never to be seen again.
II
As I grew slowly, growing
new branches, I looked around. So many comedies, so many tragedies unfolded
before me. I didn’t have much choice but to look on (I couldn't move away even
if I wanted to!).
Some trees planted by the
boy’s family fell victim to the wrath of humans. Once, somebody deliberately
trampled a little Indian Soapnut sapling, and after discovering a day later
that it was still alive, mercilessly tore it off its roots. Why they decided to
kill the plant is a question that shall puzzle me all through my life. But many
survived. Two neem trees and two of my own kind—Magizhampoo or as we are
called in English, Spanish Cherry trees—are now growing slowly and surely,
against all odds.
Many species live in the park; the most fascinating of them all, though, was the Grey Francolin. These quail-like birds ran around on the ground all day, proclaiming their presence with a shrill cry, pecking around for morsels. They serenely minded their own business, delighting the occasional bird-lover.
But bad times befall even
the most benign of creatures. One day, I overheard a conversation between a
wealthy resident who also owns a coconut grove on the outskirts of the city,
and the gardener. I don’t like to eavesdrop on conversations, but when I heard
the word most dreaded by us members of the plant kingdom—‘Round-Up’—my
curiosity was piqued.
‘Why is there so much clutter between the trees? Why are
there so many plants and shrubs?’ the resident asked.
‘Why, sir, this is the way it has been for years!’ the
gardener replied.
‘What do you mean! You haven’t done your job properly,
and now you’re trying to deflect the blame.’
‘No, sir. I was never asked to clear the shrubs and
plants in the park,’ the gardener replied, quite offended.
‘This is no good…’ he bitterly muttered under his breath.
‘Snakes will proliferate in the thickets. What if one of us gets bitten by a
venomous snake?’
The gardener remained silent.
‘What if thieves hide in the bushes, emerge at night and
attack our houses?!’ the man asked. The gardener was dumbfounded at this one.
‘I shall discuss with the residents’ association
immediately and get this sorted out,’ he said. ‘A good spray of Round-Up should
do the job.’
As he was about to stomp away, he said something I’ll
never forget:
‘In a well-maintained grove, from one end, you should be
able to see the other clearly, with no clutter in between. Understand!’
Some members of the
association were infuriated at this proposition (“This isn’t a grove; this is a
community project, for goodness’s sake!’), but some strongly supported the man.
Eventually, the latter won.
It was saddening to see
the herbs and grass killed with herbicide and tractors, leaving bare earth
behind, the dismal aftermath of an apocalypse. The nests of Francolins were
indiscriminately ploughed through as well. The sight of trees standing in neat rows
was the pinnacle of order, a perfect creation. It all looked immaculate, but to
many daily walkers who loved nature, it was an agonising sight.
The plants of the undergrowth, though, happily ignored the Round-Up. Out they grew again, slowly reconquering the land they were annhilated from. A few months later, the park looked just like it did before the clean-up. The plants of the undergrowth wouldn’t give up, and neither would the humans. The battle still rages, but the Francolin families, though returning once in a while to forage, will never come again to roost.
III
I am now a strong, short
tree with a trunk thick enough to stand straight during strong winds. The boy
and his family have stopped watering me. They know that I don’t need it
anymore; my roots have grown deep, and I can obtain water by myself. The trees
in the park have grown fully; I listen to them talk among themselves about the
birds and squirrels. A lot has changed in the past nine years. I have learnt a
lot, but now I have more questions than answers.
Humans have created two
creeds—one that loves nature, and one that couldn’t care less about it. The
humans fought against other humans who wanted to build a building here, and
turned this wasteland into an abode for these beautiful trees which now stand
proud, full of life.
The residents hated
polluting the environment and introduced a waste segregation system, but
strongly resisted the construction of a waste recycling unit near the area,
fearing the alleged emanation of odour. They appreciated the francolins, but
ploughed through their habitat without a second thought.
You humans create
protected areas, and sign international deals to save forests, oceans and ice
caps, but overshoot the limits you set for yourselves, exploiting resources,
and mercilessly chopping down my brethren for more space for yourselves.
When the park’s
undergrowth was cleared, were the residents of this colony elated by the
neatness, or anguished by the destruction they have wrought? Are you
cold-blooded capitalists who crave order and profit at the expense of others?
Or are you nature-loving beings who realise that protecting the environment is
good for all—including yourselves?
I don’t know! Both creeds
exist. They battle it out everywhere, from international summits to residents’
associations. I just hope that we plants and animals survive to see the
outcomes. But my question is, which side in this battle do you choose? Do you,
human, love or hate nature? Will yours be the hand that plants the saplings, or
the one that tears them off the ground?
Will you strive to
conserve nature, or exploit it until it is too late?
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