Old woman and the leaves

Like many before me, I too hold the belief that the mountains and the forests hold unimaginable treasures in their bosoms, one that a man breed in an artificial world of cities cannot fathom. So back then when I moved to a moderately remote part of Dehradun I was prepared for a story to unfurl and I was sure that my scientific education would aid me in debunking any myth that prevailed. However to my sheer disappointment nothing extraordinary happened, no ghost haunted my desolate apartment building, a man made defiance to the green jungle around it.

Days passed and the normalcy sunk in. I went about doing my work in the city during the day returning at dusk resorting to a regular dose of TV. But even though the mundanity of my surroundings stomped out the ghostbuster in me, I could not help but notice there was something odd about the little hut that greeted me as I made my way in towards the apartment from the road. Inhabited by a little old lady in a white sari the hut had a generous piece of land around it with a single tree guarding one of the corners.

The old lady spent her days cleaning her little patch of land that always seemed to be filled with the leaves that would fall off the tree and cover the ground. I never saw her do anything else but gather the leaves in a corner and pile them up. Sometimes when the leaves had dried, she’d burn them but mostly wind seemed to spoil all her efforts. I used to walk past her, full of curiosity for her odd routine but also late for work. Four months passed and I never got a chance to talk to her.

The nearby ashram, the only other man-made structure apart from the hut and my apartment building was mostly shut, but one a certain weekend in June people suddenly descended from nowhere to clean the ashram. Being the skeptic that I am, I did not join the enthusiastic devotees even though I was bored enough to spend an entire afternoon looking at them go about preparing for some upcoming function that seemed to bring life to this desolation of a place.

The devotees from the ashram cooked their lunch in the open and consumed it one the steps of ashram. Amidst all this theological bonhomie a most surprising event that happened was that devotes prepared extra food and the same was served to the old lady in her hut. She did not step out except to sweep the leaves, not participating in any activity related to the ashram and yet they did not seem to mind.

Later that day I stepped out to talk to a guy about my age who clearly seemed to be one of the youngest of the group. ‘Ayush’, read the tiny round badge, pinned on the crimson kurta, which bore the watermark of the ashram logo as its background. As soon as Ayush noticed me walking towards him, his eyes seemed to fill up with an evangelical energy that I very much loathed, yet I decided to put up with it if it meant that I could have some information about my only regular neighbor there.

“Bimla maji has been here before anyone, even before an ashram existed here” said Ayush. “It was the directions of our Guruji that we should be of help to her in anyway and everyway whenever anyone of us were her. So we make extra food for her as she’s too old to do anything…”

“But she seems fit enough to sweep her aangan all the time.” I said interrupting him.

“Well, that is something that she prefers to do herself. Sometimes I feel that the only point of her existence. She looks forwards to it every morning and complains about it every night while preparing to repeat the same the next day.”

Baffled by the absurdity of the explanation I gave up my quest and got back to my daily routine. The ashram organized a fairly successful gathering that ensure that I could not get a moment’s sleep over the entire weekend. But soon it all ended and when they left, it was me and Bimla maji only.

The burning summer of June gave way to the monsoon and soon it was winter. I left for a week in December and as I was walking past the perimeter of her hut, Bimla maji was busy sweeping, the leaves seemed to be in a rather playful mood, jumping off from one spot to another as the chilly winter winds seem to aid them in their tricks. I looked at her with a desperate look, trying to capture an image of her in hopes that one day I would be able to understand all that lay unexplained.

Her white sari when coupled with her pearl white hair made her look like a marble statute full of detail. Although her structure was frail beyond any help, her face revealed an expression of utmost resolve. For the first time since I had been there she paused from here daily ritual to look at me with a smile plastered over her face that reminded me of my mother so dearly.

“The boy loves his mother too much to leave her alone”, she said with a rare mysticism “but worry not as they’ll soon be united and the play shall cease to be”. I returned the smile but my face bore the utter confusion that resided inside of me. I was amazed how she could know that I was planning on visiting my mother with whom I had had a minor disagreement and were currently acting as if we were too angry to talk. I walked away thinking of calling up my mother to apologize.

When I came back a week later, the ashram people were there but Bimla maji’shut was locked. However her aangan and the tree both seemed devoid of any leaves. The tree had died as had Bimla maji. I found Ayush buzzing about who was pacing in and out of the ashram looking busy. I ran up to him and asked him about what tragedy had befallen that had suck out the life from there.

Pestered by my interruption he started speaking with a frown which eased much faster than it had appeared and he seemed to bow while looking past me. I turned around to find the Guruji clad in a while cloth and a railroad tilakon his forehead. He motioned Ayush to leave and soon turned to me, “You must be the curious neighbor. She came in my dream the night she left this place to tell me that a certain curious neighbor lived whose penchant for complexity made him oblivious to the simplicity of life.”

I froze there confused, feeling judged and possibly hurt which might have been the reason why I blurted to him, “What has all this got to do with the dead tree?”

“She really was correct” he nodded disappointedly while being amused at the same time “You really are lost in your own world kid.”

He let out his breath with a sign that clearly expressed how low opinion he must be having of me, “The tree was planted by her son as child. He planted the seed along with his tooth and while doing so left a part of him here forever. When he was of your age, he was killed in the war and his body was never found. The tree thus housed his soul, the only part of him that resided with his mother. When she was old and could no longer venture out, the tree continued to drop its leaves every day, in winters and in summers. She knew it was her son requesting to see her in his own way and as loving as she was, she obliged him to the last day of her life.”

“What happened to the tree then?” I said half lost in my own thoughts, feeling too feeble to even think on my own.

“The tree owed its existence to her. The day she left, the tree died as well. Bimla being the nurturing soul that she was, kept feeding life force to the tree that had started showing signs of decay years ago. Her absence made its survival impossible, but when even the son left after his mother there was nothing left to sustain it.”

He stood up from the chair and started to walk away. Stopping after a step or two, he turned and looked at me, “Life is not a chemical reaction that occurs in the glass flask of your lab. It’s a magic conjured by the Gods themselves and hidden under the mists that very few can think to look past.”

I sat that afternoon with the people from the ashram helping them and when the night came I joined them in their prayers. I didn’t know the words and verses but something told me that it did not really matter. I gave up words and soon gave in to them, for the secrets of this world are not shown to those who see with their eyes, but with hearts.