THE TREE

These were my summer vacations; I was spending at my Aunt’s village. I used to enjoy being there very much. Vast stretched farms, herds of cattle, canals, bullock carts and above all that fascinating fragrance of moist soil, used to paint a soothing sight for sole. Everything was pure and earthy even those emotions on everyone’s face.

I used to spend most of my time playing with my cousins. There was a big ground in the backyard, where we used to play cricket in the evenings. But that day somehow nothing seemed to interest me. Everyone was playing, screaming, having fun, but I was just sitting quietly under a Banyan tree and was watching them playing. The game was so slow and boring that soon I got irritated and finally I lied down on a stone near by, and suddenly the whole view changed. There was a big tree above me, spreading its branches everywhere I could see. The light music of wind relieved me slowly and I got lost inside the maze of intertwined branches and leaves.

Suddenly something captured my attention. It was a long procession of ants on its trunk. I just got a bit closer and found that they were not alone. There were so many other tiny creatures just moving in, what seemed to me, a directionless march. They were looking like a part of that botanical identity called "Ficus Benghalensis". I don’t know when I started feeling as a part of that group, and when I looked up from an ants eye, I realized the grandeur of that tree, it seemed so big as if it was one whole world in it self. Yes, in fact it was like one whole world for those tiny insects and I don’t think most of them would even touch the ground in their whole life. They were born there and would probably die there, a complete cycle of life on tree.

This tree always fed each and every one who wanted shelter from it. It never refused anyone. Not even those borers who were penetrating it mercilessly, always stood straight right there to protect everyone from storms, rains and offered a warm lap when they were tired. It never ever demanded anything in return. I heard that these trees live for thousands of years, how many generations would have born, lived and vanished in front of it. But its arms were always open to accept everyone. So many stories to tell, but no one was there to listen to them.

To me it was looking like a saint who was born just to bless others, whose sole motive of life was to prosper other lives, standing on his one leg with his arms spread, and just praying for the prosperity and betterment of the world.

The next year when I went there, the tree was not there. It was cut for a house that could just accommodate a few human beings.

It could only have been a Man who didn’t even think a bit before cutting its only leg leaving it helplessly lying in front of someone whom it always fed like its child. All the stories died, lives shattered, all at once. End of a long story of sacrifices with no marks left.