The Tree Not Felled Yet

 Ajit kissed the bark and hugged the massive dark brown stem of the mango tree. His American Tourister was at his feet adorned with Earl Patina Oxford Shoes. He muttered, "How old're you dear?" His voice got choked. Eyes numb and nose tip reddened Ajit tried hard to smile before replying, "I think...forty or fifty. I can't say your exact age but I always knew you'll be here to welcome me." He paused briefly and then vented out, "I can't do it...can't." A white haired, wizened old man in his nineties clad in a dhoti and kurta and a garden trowel in hand who hobbled out of his hut at the news of Ajit's arrival was Poran, the gardener of the house. His garden was no more in existence in the house but the new master Ajit could not drive him away. He called him Dadu ( grandfather ). Some relations have long lasting warmth and affection without having germinated from the same blood line and, therefore, you cannot cut it off.

Ajit's father, the former master of the house, Gouricharan trusted Poran and never wanted to drive him away. Ajit, too, respected his father's decision. After all, Poran Dadu was his guide and mentor in gardening during his romping childhood. How could he forget that his first effort to plant a marigold sapling was by the sheer interest of Poran Dadu? That man had ignited within him the spirit of plantation and gardening in his oblivious boyhood so long ago but his workaholic life in the U.S. could hardly douse that spirit. Ajit still liked trees and gardening. The big, old house in his native village Sonamukhi was still standing before him with its careworn and emaciated look. No one lived here now—abandoned since his father died five years ago. As a caretaker Poran Dadu was in charge to look after the house.

With the passing away of the old master the house also lost it's fairly large garden and with it old Poran had to give up his job of gardening. Now only this mango tree remained as the last trace of greenery in the house. "Aju, you must have remembered the age of this tree, " old Poran in his trembling voice replied. "It's forty five years old. You're just eleven then. You planted it with your own hands." He beamed at the man who was still a boy to him. Ajit bent down to touch his feet. He called out, "Dino, come here." A fair complexioned boy wearing jeans and a Che Guevara T- shirt, who was busy looking round the premises of the house strode up to where his father was. "Touch his feet, " said Ajit. The boy looked at his father askance. "Leave it Aju, " said the old gardener smiling at the young boy, "today's generation likes hand-shake. You can do it khoka." "Pranam...pranam...do it, " Ajit crooked his brows and rolled his eyes getting his goat. He said, "He's like your grandpa." At this the boy bowed down a little so that his hand could just reach up to the old man's knee. He swished his hand avoiding the touch of dhoti and disappeared forthwith.

Then he gestured a lady wearing a sleeveless salwar and goggles. She was his wife Amita. The lady strolled across the yard and touched the old man's feet with a smile. Poran raised his hand to bless. Their luggage was shifted to the house and arrangements were made for their staying for a month. Ajit's mother died of Hepatitis when he was only twelve for the village had not yet seen a hospital or good doctors. It had been long five years since Ajit had last visited Sonamukhi to attend his father's funeral rites. His father passed away and with him two big eucalyptus, a bamboo cluster, two coconut trees and the jasmine vine that would quite curtain the wooden fence of the garden were on their way to lose their ground. Ajit had seen how just within a week all those trees were brutally hacked and chopped to clear the ground for construction with the stern order of his kaku Shambhunath, a village money lender. The land where those trees were, mostly belonged to him and, therefore, he had the authority to do whatever he liked.

As a little boy Ajit loved to pluck jasmines and their exotic fragrance in summer would pervade every nook and corner of the house just only to earn shower of praise from all and sundry in the household. Then the court yard used to be quite shady for one to be relaxed under trees. Five years rolled away since then. Now, the courtyard, which used to be as large as a play ground where Ajit, his cousins and friends would play cricket and ha-do-do was divided by a massive wall constructed by Shambhunath and a two-storied multi coloured building built on the side of the wall. He had nothing to do with the delicate perfume of jasmines. Was he a simpleton? He needed his portion of land. After all it was as valuable as gold. But, the other side of the wall that now belonged to Ajit, was only occupied by a deserted, dull looking two-storied house and the mango tree he was quite fond of. This portion of land was looking bleak. Life in the U.S. was quite hectic for Ajit. He turned fifty six now, a tall, fair complexioned well-built man with rimless glasses, Park Avenue T-shirt tucked up neatly and a sky blue jeans displaying Levi's near the belt loops.

For twenty nine years he was working for a renowned multinational company at Silicon Valley. It was there he first met Amita, a graceful Bengali girl twenty years ago in a restaurant. The fell in love. Family did not come in their way. They got married and permanently settled there. Now an urgent call from his uncle took him from Silicon Valley to Sonamukhi again. A large tract of land was there near the river Shali. It was to be divided according to the will his grandfather had made many years ago. Shambhunath and his sons had nourished some ancient grudge against Ajit and his father. Seeing them in trouble gave Shambhunath immense pleasure. One day he scowled at Ajit. He asked in a gruff voice, "Then, you haven't cut it down yet? Have I not told you of my problem?" "I don't want to do it, " replied Ajit curtly."Your problem can be solved in some way or the other but at least spare this tree." At this, his uncle hollered, "After a week you'll go away and this menace will be continuing. I want a permanent solution to this problem.

The electric wires from my house are getting twisted and damaged as they're passing through this mango tree. Birds and insects are spoiling the electric wires. Besides, there's a chance of electric short-circuit." Shambhunath shot up his brows and raised his bulbous nose tip and continued, "What'll happen if anything wrong occurs? Who'll pay for this?" Ajit knew it quite well that this was no serious a problem. His uncle might be planning to pull his leg intentionally by dragging him into a fresh trouble. He told him, "Why don't you call in an electrician, install a high electric pole in the backyard from where you'll access to a direct connection from the main transformer?" "How foolish you're!" Shambhunath exclaimed again raising his bulbous nose tip, "you think everything's so easy... a cup of tea!

This's not your America. Just a phone call and everything's solved in the wink of an eye. Here, you need money, lots and lots of money to solve your problem." Now Ajit could guess the real intention of this man. He asked his uncle, "How much's required?" "Twenty thousand at least. Can you part with that much amount?" "But, why should I?" Ajit wondered. "This's your problem. Why should I pay?" "I knew you'll give this same reply, " Shambhunath smirked niggardly. Then he sarcased, "After all money doesn't grow on tree, does it?" For a while Ajit tried to impress upon the fact that he had had a special affection for this mango tree and, therefore, he could not cut it but his uncle remained stubborn. Ajit sensed that an old dog couldn't be taught new tricks. "After all he's money lender, " he thought. He nodded for the time being. The tree was to be felled. The next morning Ajit thought to have a short ramble across the village. A ramble always gave him pleasure.

Even in his hectic city life in the U.S. he managed to scoop out a little time to have a leisurely walk along the Klamath river. He was greatly shocked to see a huge marbled house in place of an old tumbled down temple where he used to play hide and seek with his school mates Jatin, Shibu, Haran and others. He, then recalled that there used to be a big banyan tree whose thick and curly hanging roots would serve for swings. An old beggar was also found there sitting under the tree with a mangled aluminum plate who would often shout at them forbidding to swing. He justified that the hanging roots were nothing but the matted hair of Lord Shiva. Coming home when he asked his mother about what the beggar had said about the hanging roots, his mother Shaila told him that the beggar was right in saying so and Lord Shiva would feel pain, if they swang on the hanging roots and He might be wrathful at their conduct and curse them. At this the little heart of the boy shuddered. "The tree's no more. Someone must have felled it. Now, what Lord Shiva'll do? Swinging on the hanging roots, I think, isn't as sinful an act as to cut down the whole tree. At least some little folks could have played had the tree not been felled, " wondered Ajit.

The more the man strolled ahead, the worse scenario his eyes confronted. Old, buildings in their quaint appearance gave way to the mighty new, stylish mansions. Dusty village streets and lanes easily succumbed to the hard, cement surface that could easily invite more vehicles rather than cycles ensuing black smoke and disease. The endless lines of debt palm trees and skyrocketed palm trees that once stood holding their heads high in pride as an inseparable part of the village, were vanished. In their places automobile garages, dhabas, tea-stalls took their roots. They were mushrooming. Sonamukhi was on it's way to become a semi-town. The lush green vegetation was disappearing by a magic wand. Urbanization was setting in like a slow motion movie-clipping. Reaching the bank of Shali river, which was filled to its brim in monsoon Ajit took his seat on a cement chair built by the local municipality in recent dates. Some village boys were splashing and swimming into the river. But, there he also pained his eyes seeing the trees being felled. He called out a man busy anchoring his boat, " Eije, here, listen to me. Why're they cutting the trees?"

The man looked up and after a brief pause replied, "Don't you know? A biscuit factory will be set up here." "Huh!" Ajit huffed. "Now it's the turn of this river!" he wondered. The next day old Poran staggered across the courtyard where Ajit and his wife were busy sipping the morning tea. He told him that two persons would be hired to cut down the mango tree the following day. Time was passing away. A sense of relentless foreboding overpowered Ajit. Now, he was in charge of cutting down the mango tree which, too, was looked upon as one of his childhood friends. At night when the whole household was sleeping Ajit sauntered to the tree. He ran his fingers over the corrugated bark and mumbled, "How can I cut you down, friend. You're the last trace of greenery in my house. Won't we be ungrateful to forget the sweet and divine taste of your fruits that you produce churning through your veins and sinews?"

Gradually, his eyes were filled with tears to the brim. He looked up to see the branches and before his eyes flashed a little boy scrambling along the boughs in unbuttoned shirt holding mangoes within fists, some stuffed in pant pockets legs and hands scratched. A squirrel frisking across scampered by seeing the little boy. Up from their the boy's little heart was terrorized for he could see his mother waiting with a cane in hand down the ground. She was shouting "Come down...come down."

Suddenly, the trance broke away. The figment of little Aju and his mother evaporated in darkness. His long lost childhood made him wail. But he uttered, " Yes, I've to come down, come down from the stairs that reach vanity and prejudice." The next morning found Ajit in gloom. The men were to come to hack down his mango tree. Only an hour or so was left. Sinking throbbed into the cane-chair he kept on staring at the tree. The more the time was passing, the stronger the inaudible call was. It was a call from his friend, the old mango tree— SAVE ME...SAVE ME. Then, all at once he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dino. Looking smilingly at his father the boy said, "Look dad, what I've done." Astonished Ajit turned to see Dino standing there with his Apple iPad Pro. The big screen of the iPad was displaying some pictures of birds in perfect zoom and excellent mega pixels. Dino asked, " Tell me, what this bird's called?" Ajit only mumbled, " Mmm..." "Black drongo." Dino swiped across the screen and asked again, "And this one?"

Now Ajit replied promptly, " A parakeet, obviously. " "Hmm but it's called a Rose-ringed parakeet, found mainly in Indian subcontinent..." "But, why're you showing this to me?" asked Ajit slightly frowning. Dino supplied, " Our geography teacher Mrs. Sophia was saying the other day that India's a land of birds, various colourful birds, a vital part of fauna." His eyes suddenly turned more radiant and he continued, "How she loves peacock is unimaginable. She often says that if she had a large garden, she would have kept a peacock there. She often pats on my shoulder and says that I'm fortunate enough to have belonged to India." Then a brief pause ensued.

But, Dino broke the silence this time again and asked his father, "Do you know these pictures're not downloaded from internet ?" "Then, where did you get those from?" asked Ajit to appease his query. "From there, " Dino raised his hand to point out the old mango tree. "What!" exclaimed Ajit at the reply. "Yes, " Dino prompted his chirpy American accent, "from that mango tree. Yesterday I took these photos when in the morning I luckily chanced upon the two birds sitting there in that mango tree." "Really?" uttered Amita this time. "Remember, you're not lucky to have got the pictures of the birds but to have this mango tree here. If the tree wasn't here, you couldn't have got it. Trees are always lucky for us." "Right mom. Oh, how I wish the mango tree to be here for ever and ever, " exclaimed Dino in a new-founded grief. Then he put up a bold question, "Dad, can't you do something? Can't you put a stop to this rubbish?" "Yes, I think Dino is right, " this time supported Amita.

"I know you all're right. If the tree disappears, where will those birds live? They'll be quite homeless. There'll be no abode for them in the whole Sonamukhi. It's on its way to urbanization. It'll be a big city one day with no trees around." Just then the iron gate was clanked open. A few men armed with axes, ropes and hacksaws clattered ahead. They were looking so energetic and bellicose with their deadly weapons. It seemed to Ajit as if the men could cut any one into pieces in an instant given just an order. And those men were followed by his uncle Shambhunath, his acerbic smile, deposited within his heart for Ajit. "Bhaipo, " he voiced in a peevish tone, " what's the use of making delay. Old Poran, who was standing far off like a mute spectator, was staring at the tree. A last look he was cherishing to have. He tried his hard to shake his head to gesture his master not to let them fell the dear mango tree but he couldn't. Something stopped him. "I'm just a gardener of this house. What's my value here, " he wondered.

He did not have his trowel in his hand any more for knew that after the tree was gone what would be the use of a trowel. Every one standing there was waiting to see the tree to have its first hack and be bled. It seemed to Ajit as if he was an executioner carrying out a death sentence of an innocent who was falsely convicted of a criminal offence. ******* Dino, who some days ago had an aversion to touch the feet of an old man, was staring now at Poran helplessly desiring the act to be put off immediately. He hoped against hope. And one of the men lifted his axe to lodge the first strong blow on the tree. And this was also the time for all and sundry to witness something strange. Unbelievable it was. Ajit hollered, "Stop...keep your axe away. You can't cut it down." "What!" Shambhunath shrieked sulkily. "Wait a minute, " Ajit snapped and he prompted himself to stride ahead into the room, disappeared and emerged within a minute with something in his hand.

He tore away a page from that stuff, scribbled a signature and held it before his uncle's scowled face. "Now, you can put down your amount of twenty thousands here, in this cheque and have it, " was the retaliation from the part of Ajit. "So, " his uncle's acerbic smile played about his face, as though he assumed to be the ultimate winner, "you'll not cut this worthless one. Decision's yours. None keeps such a huge tree in the house these days..." "I keep, " Ajit snapped cutting him off. "It'll be here in this ground for ever and ever. Money's something that doesn't live permanently but the memoir of this tree'll always be with us...with me...with my Dino...with my wife. Let the golden memory of this mango tree be a taste of India for us in America." Dino chuckled. Amita smiled. And old Poran grinned. Why not? They saved the mango tree. The new master of the house did not let it fall.                                  *