M4- MUSINGS.

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M4 MUSINGS THE MAGAZINE

India Abroad March 25, 2011

‘T Assassins
he mango trees are in flower,’ my
father said two weeks ago with an ache
in his voice. I caught my breath. On
my way to Parambikulam last month,
so close to the village in northeastern
Kerala where I spent the summer

in the Garden
vacations of my childhood, I had
noticed that the orchard trees we passed wore glossy
crowns of red leaves adorned with sprays of new flowers.
Usually, I would have reported that to my father. This time
I didn’t, because I knew it would break his heart.
My father’s love for mangoes borders on the pathological
— though he has no other vices, mangoes weaken his hold
on his wallet. He spends like a gambler, seeking out the last
fruit from the market long after the season has officially
ended. He would save the seeds from the best mangos
(after chafing off the last of the flesh) and encourage them With the felling of the mango tree at his home,
to germinate. His experiments didn’t quite bear fruit.
Twenty years ago he brought home a sapling and planted it Bijoy Venugopal lost more than just a tree.
a few feet away from the western compound wall. He tend-
ed it lovingly until it asserted its place in the garden. It Illustration: Uttam Ghosh
occupied a flank between the vegetable patch and the little
copse formed by the pomegranate tree next to it, separated years and my father proudly gifted his hard-won mangoes years of painful procrastination, my father made a deci-
from the underground sump by a compost pit. In the shade to friends and relatives. A few Bonnet Macaques trooped in sion: The tree would have to go.
of the neighbor’s gooseberry tree, which hogged most of the once and polished off a few but we still had enough to Last year it fruited copiously. We ate its offering with
sky, the sapling remained stunted and undernourished. A spare. guilty gratitude, quiet but for noisily licking the dense yel-
thicket of plantains, nearly always burdened with fruit, A tree plunges roots, seeking out water veins. A crack in low juice as it dribbled over our fingers. That, as it were,
flourished nearby. the wall of the sump demonstrated that our tree was rather was the funeral feast.
Many summers passed. The house next door changed thirsty. Roots were also wedged in the foundation A party of three hired assassins arrived to cut the tree.
owners and the gooseberry tree became a casualty of reno- of the house, threatening its durability. After One was punch-drunk, as executioners often are.
vation activity. Thriving on the sudden gift of sun our tree Hacking, sawing, chopping... they went about their
grew taller than the house. The bedroom upstairs, where I jobs with businesslike detachment, but not before
slept, offered a vantage into its dark canopy. From this offering obsequies to the spirit of the tree they were
comfortable indoor hide I’d watch tailorbirds and warblers about to fell. Still, the job took four days to accom-
flick away the dead bark for insects. Slithery vines gripped plish. As the assassins invaded the tree with axes
the trunk, threatening to strangle it, but the tree held its and picks, its defenders burst out in a last savage
own. Columns of weaver ants marched along the boughs, attack to defend its sovereignty. The men
their translucent bodies glistening a threatening shade of hollered with pain as the weaver ants set upon
orange-red. Koels took refuge from crows after violating them, stinging as if there was no tomorrow.
their nests. Shikras perched in the tangle of branches, dis- In fact, there wasn’t. Stung to sobriety, the
membering rodents, lizards and the occasional pigeon. men relented. In due course, the canopy
Squirrels raised broods of fluffy young- came crashing down. Then the trunk was
sters that chased each others’ tails hewn away and eventually, the stump was
through the jungle-gym of hacked off.
boughs. Rats used it as an I could not but be reminded of Gieve
escape route. One year, a Patel’s immemorial poem, On Killing A
storm-tossed male Para- Tree:
dise Flycatcher strayed It takes much time to kill a tree,
into our garden and flit- Not a simple jab of the knife
ted about the tree. Will do it.
Crows were already It has grown
mobbing it. Slowly consuming the earth,
Even as other Rising out if it, feeding
mango trees flowered Upon its crust, absorbing
in the neighborhood, Years of sunlight, air, water,
our tree remained And out of its leprous hide
fallow. With home- Sprouting leaves...
made vegetable Coward that I am, I stayed away
compost my father from the gruesome scene, pretend-
encouraged the tree ing to be otherwise occupied. My
to fruit, but to no father phoned when the end came. I
luck. One day he shut my eyes and let the truth sink in,
wondered aloud if it and allowed a swathe of childhood to
was time to cut slip into the dark swirl of memory.
down the mango This year the mango tree will flower in
tree. The tree heard our consciences alone. n
him. That year it
flowered. Just a few, Bijoy Venugopal is part of The Green
scattered blooms but Ogre team, which includes three other
enough to evoke a cel- nature enthusiasts and photogra-
ebration. We had no phers/ diarists.
fruits, but the follow- Thegreenogre.blogspot.com has been
ing year we got a ranked among the Top 300 birding
handful of mangoes blogs by birding blog index Fat
after the birds and Birder and among the top blogs
squirrels had eaten in the Environment category by
their fill. The yield the Indian blog network
got better with the Blogjunta