Trees

It was the most beautiful place. The most mesmerizing. Most serene. You could sit on the leaf-laden floor for hours long, and still not want to leave. You could sit with your alluring partner forever, and yet almost always stare into the majestic build of the evergreen canopy. You could camp with family, under the roof of their lean and skanky branches, yet feel safer than you would with the police patrolling your area. Such was the beauty of one of the most lush, magnificent places of Manipal. The beauty of the caretakers of our word. The beauty, of the terra firma out my window.

I’d often gaze at it. Unmoved. Both it and I. I’d watch as Bunty, the area’s tamed street dog, would go there limping, then rest himself on the ever-dependent willow. As birds would fly from North and South to cater to their young ones. As squirrels and woodpeckers galore would keep jabbing at the bare bark, who would stay defenseless against their endure less hacking. As the cows and goats would graze to their heart’s content, not giving two hoots about their master’s scrutiny over their diet.

I’d time and again wonder why this abode was so seldom visited, why it was so quiet, why nobody bothered to even come and pay a visit. But as frequent as those thoughts would rush into my mind, they would race back out, leaving me with absolutely nothing at all to think about.

And so, very often, I would spend entire afternoons, sometimes evenings as well, gawking at this scene. Just falling in love. Looking at the animals enjoy themselves, looking at the ripples in the crystal-clear water, the tireless effort of the cowards, trying to mobilize their herds, all in awe. It couldn’t get any better for myself. Until in walked a “selfless” man, whistling to the tunes of what was just another radio hit, axe in hand, swinging his keys around his heavily tattooed left arm.

Despised by me for the destruction caused to the serene beauty of my love next door, I couldn’t even begin to comprehend how he had pictures of garlands around his neck, how he was now on billboards all over, how he now wore a suit rather than a yellow vest, how he drove a Mercedes rather than a simple old tractor, how he carried a briefcase as opposed to an axe, let alone how he was on the news giving interviews.

It was horrible. He’d destroyed the place I’d go to, to get peace, to get inspired, to feel loved. He’d cut them all down, barring just a few. I could no longer go there, no longer rest my back on the rough yet comforting bark and pen down my thoughts. I could no longer go there and have fun, no longer enjoy myself like I used to. That wouldn’t be possible anymore. Not for me, not for the birds or the animals. Not for anyone.

And so, gradually, as hard as it was, as agonizing as the pain was, I had to face reality, face it that she wasn’t so beautiful anymore. That they’d cut her down to whatever size they could. I couldn’t visit her anymore, and there were always men, tall, sturdy, well-built men, smoking a good Cuban, walking in and out of the area, with axes and a few tools in hand, with blueprints and more tools being transported. All there was, was smoke coming out, trunks being taken through lorries, metal and steel being transported. It seemed ghastly, to me.

The only thing I could do, was, to sit and watch. And I was bound by the noise-cancelling window in front of me to not hurl abuses down at the men there, and by my work-adoring parents from going down there and beating them up. My sister would often taunt me, “You? Beating them up?”, she’d ask, chortling. But no. I’d do anything for this wonderful abode. Anything at all. Right now, though, I could only watch.

That was until they snatched away that privilege as well. Building a wall stone-laden. Ensuring it was built 15-feet high, much higher than where my window was, on the ground floor of a small cottage. It was right on the periphery of this abode, smack in the middle of my view as well. I estimated that they’d have had to cut around 120 trees in order to do that. But what’d it matter to them?

As time went on, and so did separation, I thoroughly missed her. Thoroughly missed going out there, resting on her sturdy floor, taking inspiration from her heavenly pillars, having the occasional picnic out there with my friends. These were all activities I loved pursuing, which suddenly vanished. Knowing that you will not be able to do something, even though it’s located right in your backyard, that stung. Real hard.

A few months into the separation, into the depression though, on quite a perfect Sunday evening, with the Sun setting blissfully, the temperature the “right” humid, the right cloudy and chilly all at the same time, I noticed something weird. Apart from the colorful banners and pictures of the abode. Something much fishier. Something much more striking. That made me realize what a hoax all of it was.

I witnessed a few cars pulling in, parking in the shabbily designated parking areas. I watched as people got down from their cars, as people packed on scooters and bikes got down, as huge busses crammed with people galore parked in front of the stone gate, people entering past the metal gate, receiving a small slip while they did, from the compact counter next to it. Slapping myself hard on my head so full of hair, I reflected on all the initial times I thought the men were practicing their profession, earning a livelihood. On all the times I thought they were party workers trying to secure votes by constructing residential areas. On all the times that I thought they were even mere miscreants. For it turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong.