I am reading Amitava Kumar's The Green Book—An Observer’s Notebook, which is quite profound. In it, he dedicates a chapter to Trees, where he reflects on two types of trees that are close to him: the Gulmohar and the banyan. As I finish reading those lines, my memories drift back to ‘my trees.’
Memories are curious. Few are ever truly forgotten, and many do not surface while we go about our daily routines. However, when you read a beautiful sentence or hear someone speak about something, suddenly your memories come flooding back. These are deeply rooted thoughts in your mind that you never realized you had. Such are our memories. Some stem from a past you wish to forget, while others bring warmth, and it is those very moments that remind us how truly blessed we are to be alive.
I grew up in a remote dust bowl of a town called Pudukkottai in Tamil Nadu, India. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, and neither do its residents. They go about their daily lives at their own pace, without any displayed flamboyance. It is a sleepy town and a poorer member of the delta districts, where agriculture remains the primary occupation for its residents. The food is tastier, the air is cleaner, and the roads are lined with trees that create a welcoming green landscape. Local people build homes with gardens, unlike in cities where every inch of land is taken up by concrete structures. As the years have passed, few things have changed. Yet, it retains the essence of a small town.
In our garden, we had teak trees in their full, towering glory, short coconut trees (not the usual tall ones) that were easy to pluck from, mango trees that produced plentiful Sindhura mangoes in the summer, and banana plants that constantly nourished us with every part. We had lemon trees whose fruits were in demand year-round and a Moringa tree whose drumstick yield was abundant, turning me into a rookie entrepreneur as I sold it to nearby shops. We also cultivated several plants for vegetables, fruits, and flowers. Every morning, we would wake up to the sounds of sparrows. At least once a week, we had to fend off monkeys from eating the produce from our trees.
Yet, one tree stood out: an Indian cork tree, also known as Mara Malligai or Akasha Malli, located right outside our house. When you stand near it, you are mesmerized by the fragrance of its flowers. The flowers resemble the Nadaswaram, and, like their counterpart, when blown, produce a lovely sound. The tree existed before I was born and stood tall until a recent cyclone brought it down. I was not home to witness its fall, but hearing about it from my parents filled me with sadness. If I ever own a farm or a large plot of land, perhaps this tree will be in the front.
There is another tree in my father’s ancestral village in Ramanathapuram. On the slope of a large pond that stretches wide and long, a big, old banyan tree stands with a temple beneath it. I hear the tree has always been there; my grandfather probably saw it too. I was unfortunate not to have met him, as I was born a decade or more after his passing. Yet, there is a tree that connects his time to mine. Now, my kids have also seen the tree and sat beneath it to escape the hot, scorching sun that is synonymous with the state.
The tree has served as a connecting arc for my family across several generations. I rarely visit the village, but the picturesque scene of the pond, the tree, and the temple is well etched in my memory, evoking a haunting and mystical feeling. I don’t know why. Recently, the tree fell, leaving only a remnant of the old trunk. In its place, a new banyan tree has grown.
Circle of life!
