With both boys away this weekend, I went to practice Kerala mural art with my friends today. When one of them asked, "What shall we practice today?" and gave some options, I spontaneously suggested doing a tree which looked simple enough but just sketching it took 3 hours. We sat on stone benches and tables under the canopy of trees at Venkatappa Art Gallery blissfully shutting out curious visitors, the occasional coos of birds and the little ants which stung when they felt ignored a bit too much.
On my return, my mind raced back to my childhood. Right outside the dining room window, it stood. A tall Millingtonia tree and a stone bench right next to it. Memories came flooding like a movie played on fast forward mode. The tree stood nearly 3 storeys tall. A carpet of white flowers with the most pleasant and yet captivating fragrance. Greenish yellow corolla holding 5 white petals - imagine little snow flakes fallen on a tropical ground. That bench was constantly in demand. Elders who wanted to discuss politics of the country or of their homes, children who wanted to jump around and hide underneath. Over time, the stone wore down and stuck out too. Us girls who were kept out of cricket matches watched the boys smack the balls around, sitting on that bench. That was the bench where I bent dangerously close to a fire cracker and my friend Charu saved me in the nick of time. That was where we both sat and chatted for hours when the ground went quiet with everybody glued to the idiot box. That tree would tell stories of generations of kids, their puppy loves, crushes, hopes, ambitions, fears and jokes if it could.
To this day, it remains my favourite tree. Every morning as soon as I woke up, I would hold the window grill and keep staring at it. I would talk to the tree - the Hobbes to my inner Calvin. My mother would scream in the background, "Anga enna di mandaga podi? Eppa paathaalum verikka paathundu? What are you stalling there for? What are you staring at like an idiot?" I would linger till a whack from my father would dislodge me from there. On rainy days when we were not allowed to step outside, I would hold the window grill and have conversations with that tree or put my Thaatha's easy chair under the window, grab a book to read and occasionally look up to see my tree.
I also had a tree I hated. This was to the rear of my house, visible from the balcony. Everyday, on my grand father's death anniversary, we had to bury a plantain leaf with food supposedly for him, under a tree. That was the designated tree for that. The belief was that his soul would descend and eat the food, bless us and go back into the spiritual world. I always imagined that if my Thaatha would come, other souls from the netherworld would also visit it and may harm me. I know where that tree is, it perhaps is still there, I never bothered to know what it was and I would skirt going near it even during day time. I imagined a million souls living there as the leaves of the tree. Which one was out to get me? Truth was I missed my grandfather a lot and my young heart ached that he never came by but perhaps everybody else but him lived there.
We moved away from that complex and in to our own apartment in 1987. It was a farm land that had been parcelled to make several apartment complexes. Facing the road, the apartment block barely had any trees but just behind my bedroom, where the owner still lived and had chicken, goats and a cow, there stood a stump of a tree with a hollow in which parrots lived. I lobbied hard with my father and took that room. My Rakhi brother and I spent hours and days translating books from English to Tamil, catching a break to look at those parrots up above in the tree with chicken scurrying around beneath it and smoke from food being cooked on a chulha near it. Soon enough, the place was levelled and another ugly apartment complex took its place.
I went to IIMB, lived in a hostel with trees around but I was so lost through the time I spent there, I barely looked up or around me. My only memory of a tree in the US was when we drove north of Kansas for a friend's wedding and I swung from a rubber tire from a huge tree in a ginormously large farm. I felt unexplainable joy and like a child again. The farm house had wooden cupboards with tree motifs carved into them, all hand made by the owner himself.
Years since, I have not come across a tree that I could connect with. It is a spiritual bond. Not unlike going to a mountain, sitting on a precipitous rock overlooking a valley, misty clouds floating by, the air is crisp, a river winding and gurgling its way through, some birds soaring in the sky, the sun playing hide and seek. I could watch a tree, see its woody barks stripping in places, wonder at its age, watch some leaves thrive, while others wither, reminding us of life where you lose some people and others continue their journey with you, the buds teaching you patience and blossoms giving you hope.
Nearly 2.5 years ago, I sat on the bench at Diamond District watching my Sun stumble in the sand pit, I looked up at the giant coconut trees. Looks like a floral bouquet that an invisible bridesmaid holds in her hand. A brown stem, branches radiating out like spokes in a cycle, the leaves grabbing arms on either side like children in a circle singing Ring-a Ring-a roses, coconuts looking like berries at that height, threatening to crack your head and a little glimpse of sunshine peeking through. It is a sight to behold. And, sitting there, I wrote a little nursery poem for my child, my ode to my beloved trees, my faithful companions and keepers of my secrets.
Vaanuyarndha thennai maram
Ilaneerai alli tharum
Kasakkum ilai veppa maram
Veppam thaniya nizhal tharum
Virundhu ilai vaazhai maram
Thandum kaniyum thinna tharum
Thorana ilai maamaram
joraana pazham tharum.
On my return, my mind raced back to my childhood. Right outside the dining room window, it stood. A tall Millingtonia tree and a stone bench right next to it. Memories came flooding like a movie played on fast forward mode. The tree stood nearly 3 storeys tall. A carpet of white flowers with the most pleasant and yet captivating fragrance. Greenish yellow corolla holding 5 white petals - imagine little snow flakes fallen on a tropical ground. That bench was constantly in demand. Elders who wanted to discuss politics of the country or of their homes, children who wanted to jump around and hide underneath. Over time, the stone wore down and stuck out too. Us girls who were kept out of cricket matches watched the boys smack the balls around, sitting on that bench. That was the bench where I bent dangerously close to a fire cracker and my friend Charu saved me in the nick of time. That was where we both sat and chatted for hours when the ground went quiet with everybody glued to the idiot box. That tree would tell stories of generations of kids, their puppy loves, crushes, hopes, ambitions, fears and jokes if it could.
To this day, it remains my favourite tree. Every morning as soon as I woke up, I would hold the window grill and keep staring at it. I would talk to the tree - the Hobbes to my inner Calvin. My mother would scream in the background, "Anga enna di mandaga podi? Eppa paathaalum verikka paathundu? What are you stalling there for? What are you staring at like an idiot?" I would linger till a whack from my father would dislodge me from there. On rainy days when we were not allowed to step outside, I would hold the window grill and have conversations with that tree or put my Thaatha's easy chair under the window, grab a book to read and occasionally look up to see my tree.
I also had a tree I hated. This was to the rear of my house, visible from the balcony. Everyday, on my grand father's death anniversary, we had to bury a plantain leaf with food supposedly for him, under a tree. That was the designated tree for that. The belief was that his soul would descend and eat the food, bless us and go back into the spiritual world. I always imagined that if my Thaatha would come, other souls from the netherworld would also visit it and may harm me. I know where that tree is, it perhaps is still there, I never bothered to know what it was and I would skirt going near it even during day time. I imagined a million souls living there as the leaves of the tree. Which one was out to get me? Truth was I missed my grandfather a lot and my young heart ached that he never came by but perhaps everybody else but him lived there.
We moved away from that complex and in to our own apartment in 1987. It was a farm land that had been parcelled to make several apartment complexes. Facing the road, the apartment block barely had any trees but just behind my bedroom, where the owner still lived and had chicken, goats and a cow, there stood a stump of a tree with a hollow in which parrots lived. I lobbied hard with my father and took that room. My Rakhi brother and I spent hours and days translating books from English to Tamil, catching a break to look at those parrots up above in the tree with chicken scurrying around beneath it and smoke from food being cooked on a chulha near it. Soon enough, the place was levelled and another ugly apartment complex took its place.
I went to IIMB, lived in a hostel with trees around but I was so lost through the time I spent there, I barely looked up or around me. My only memory of a tree in the US was when we drove north of Kansas for a friend's wedding and I swung from a rubber tire from a huge tree in a ginormously large farm. I felt unexplainable joy and like a child again. The farm house had wooden cupboards with tree motifs carved into them, all hand made by the owner himself.
Years since, I have not come across a tree that I could connect with. It is a spiritual bond. Not unlike going to a mountain, sitting on a precipitous rock overlooking a valley, misty clouds floating by, the air is crisp, a river winding and gurgling its way through, some birds soaring in the sky, the sun playing hide and seek. I could watch a tree, see its woody barks stripping in places, wonder at its age, watch some leaves thrive, while others wither, reminding us of life where you lose some people and others continue their journey with you, the buds teaching you patience and blossoms giving you hope.
Nearly 2.5 years ago, I sat on the bench at Diamond District watching my Sun stumble in the sand pit, I looked up at the giant coconut trees. Looks like a floral bouquet that an invisible bridesmaid holds in her hand. A brown stem, branches radiating out like spokes in a cycle, the leaves grabbing arms on either side like children in a circle singing Ring-a Ring-a roses, coconuts looking like berries at that height, threatening to crack your head and a little glimpse of sunshine peeking through. It is a sight to behold. And, sitting there, I wrote a little nursery poem for my child, my ode to my beloved trees, my faithful companions and keepers of my secrets.
Vaanuyarndha thennai maram
Ilaneerai alli tharum
Kasakkum ilai veppa maram
Veppam thaniya nizhal tharum
Virundhu ilai vaazhai maram
Thandum kaniyum thinna tharum
Thorana ilai maamaram
joraana pazham tharum.
வானுயர்ந்த தென்னை மரம்
இளநீரை அள்ளித் தரும்
கசக்கும் இலை வேப்ப மரம்
வெப்பம் தணிய நிழல் தரும்
விருந்து இலை வாழை மரம்
தண்டும் கனியும் தின்ன தரும்
தோரண இலை மா மரம்
ஜோரான பழம் தரும்.
இளநீரை அள்ளித் தரும்
கசக்கும் இலை வேப்ப மரம்
வெப்பம் தணிய நிழல் தரும்
விருந்து இலை வாழை மரம்
தண்டும் கனியும் தின்ன தரும்
தோரண இலை மா மரம்
ஜோரான பழம் தரும்.
I sang it for many days & months to my child. I had forgotten about it until today when my pick of an art piece rekindled my love for my trees again. In the movie Hero Hiralal, Naseeruddin Shah teaches Sanjana Kapoor to embrace a tree, scream at her loudest and let go off all her negative emotions. I need a tree like that now. Not to scream at. Just to talk to. To catch up and that's what old friends do.
