THE SPEAKING TREE

                                                               

                                 

I’ve been here, since, God knows how many years. Time, I do not understand- I have no need to. Does it matter how long I stand here - that’s all I’m here for – to just be – yes, stand here and just be, unless some cruel government rules or callous people choose to uproot me. Some years ago a part of this winding road, going up to the fort, was widened and many of my kith were sacrificed in a so called beautification drive. I also was shorn of my long, ground kissing aerial roots that would otherwise have ensured that my tribe keeps proliferating.

 I’ve seen, heard and felt so many stories unfolding under and around my branches that I’ve become something of a story-teller. True stories lived by real people.

 Now take the story of this woman in the colorful sari, Parvati. She came here long ago as a young girl, married to a much older man, who died after a few years, leaving her to bring up two children alone. The spunky young woman picked up the threads of her shattered life and started coming here to sell snacks and savories, mostly ‘papads’ and roasted gram, for a living.  Being the sole woman in an all men domain was intimidating in the beginning but she stoically persevered.What a sad figure she looked in widow’s whites.

 Ram Prasad came from Bihar, looking for work, around the same time. He set up this ‘chaat’ and juice stall. When tourists come from long distances and have to walk up this steep road in the summer heat, to reach the fort, they are mighty grateful for a delicious glass of fresh juice. The women folk gorge on his delicious ‘chaat’ – they say it is spicy and delicious.

 Over time Parvati and Ram Prasad stopped being hostile towards each other, as there was no competition between them, each selling a different food item. Gradually they even started sharing their problems and small joys with each other. Then came a day when Parvati stopped coming to sell her ‘papads and gram’. We all missed her but no one knew what happened. Only Ram Prasad seemed to be mighty pleased.

 Then after a week, Chip and Munk, my two squirrel friends, who live in this bole in my trunk gave me some juicy gossip. They had heard Ram Prasad talk to the security guard at the entrance. You know how inquisitive squirrels can be – scurrying up and down tree trunks listening to people’s secrets.

 After a few days I heard the tinkle of anklets as a beautiful young woman, dressed in a colourful sari with silver and red bangles glinting on her slender arms, walked up with a pile of crispy ‘papads’ and a bag full of roasted gram. I forgot to wave my branches with the wind, as I stood rooted, recognizing our very own Parvati, looking gorgeous, with the coloured clothes offsetting her beautiful dusky complexion. She and Ram Prasad had got married some days before. Of course after that my leaves flapped and clapped gleefully, as I danced waving my branches with great joy, seeing Parvati so happy. I even doffed my highest branch to Ram Prasad who braved his community to marry a widow. Both worked in tandem, raising their three children.

 Parvati still comes to sell her wares although her eldest son is working at a good post and both daughters are teachers in a nearby school. She says coming here is like a pilgrimage for her.