Two Sundays back, we lost our mango tree. A vibrant, lush presence, this tree knew all the stories of our lane, bearing silent witness while extending an umbrella of shade. It was within my everyday viewscape. Always a solid presence and familiar backdrop, waiting patiently. Often a pleasantly chatting one or quietly reposing as its leaves moved softly in the breeze.
Birds frequented the dense foliage of the mango tree. The small sunbirds, mynahs, bulbuls and many more, turning their bodies this way and that, sometimes disappearing between the branches, or appearing just for a millisecond. Flying away just as quickly, and returning as they pleased. Squirrels ran and dived as they too sought each other's company, playing or courting, with their loud distinctive chirps. Summer was especially busy, with schoolboys angling for a few mangoes, throwing up stones in anticipation of a good strike, or just climbing the lower branches, especially on quiet afternoons.
This tree was a popular presence. And now its shade-giving warmth is replaced by a jarring vacuum. A long corridor of something missing, not only where it stood, but under and behind it, exposing all the cosy spaces that once enjoyed this ever-shade.
I am also complicit in the dying of this mango tree. The first signs showed up weeks ago, when the leaves started turning white, especially those under the sun. It was a strange colour, and I wondered if it had appeared before or had I never noticed. I hoped it was a seasonal change. Mango trees shed some before their new growth, I read online and reassured myself. And yet, it was soon apparent that this was otherwise. Our road was being dug up again, and something must have struck the roots, stopping all the tree’s nutrients.
This once bright tree, with so many shades of green, started drying up more and more. All its visitors started deserting it for better spaces. And even I, its everyday witness just watched silently, often thinking I should do something, I should find out where to report this, I should ...
And still I remained stuck, not doing anything. I could plead ignorance, but that’s just lazy and convenient. The truth is, I didn’t listen, or not hard enough, even as the tree spoke through it’s every leaf.
They came for it one Sunday afternoon. Two men with a short chainsaw, an inadequate looking instrument for a tree so vast and large. It took them two hours, as they snaked across the network of leaves and branches, the sharp saw screeching through every shut window, even the ones cooled by ACs within. Perhaps it was fitting that this tree be felled when the street was most silent, so that no other stories could override this final one. Each one of us heard it, and I wonder how we felt. It was too late, and yet perhaps this finality touched me most, and most hit my apathy.
They cut off everything in segments, except the main trunk, and left it all on the road, for someone else to carry it away when they will. The leaves and fallen branches are still lying there, everyday a reminder of what happened. Perhaps a last message even from this mango tree.
This piece was living inside me, but couldn’t have grown without my wonderful friends from , especially Ronita (for the prompt ‘language’ that led me to write this finally), and the first listeners - , , and Vasudha. With lots of love for this community that helps me reflect and learn always.