The tale of a tree
I love trees and plants (who doesn't?)I often escape to watch them. My study table faces a view of two trees - an amaltas and a neem tree. I frequently take breaks to look outside and watch the birds singing. These breaks happen so often that I sometimes wonder if my studies are the breaks, and not the other way around.
I talk to a gulmohar tree, which I meet (almost) every day while picking up groceries or taking an ice cream walk. (I'm trying to stay fit, but ice cream seem to be my only motivation to walk. ) Whenever I travel, I feel the need to tell it before I leave. When I'm sad and writing doesn't seem to ease my sorrow, I visit my gulmohar tree for a branch to cry on. I can't reach its branch, though, but just talking to it from a distance feels like it's offering me its shoulder. I still haven't named it, though I jokingly call it 'Gullu.' I think I need to come up with a more fitting name.
I can't grow plants on my own. They really don’t take me seriously and often refuse my care. I get too passionate about them and end up loving them to death. Recently, while I was walking, I found a cute little plant and decided to bring it home. I named it "Amrendra Bahubali"—please excuse the name , it’s from a movie called Baahubali. I chose that name because, in the movie, the character Amrendra Bahubali lived, and my history with plants is... well, they don’t seem to survive under my care. I probably should’ve named it Harry Potter instead. ( Sorry hahahah).
Unfortunately, within four days, it died. I tried everything, but it didn’t work. Meanwhile, a plant my mother had planted on the same day is now, thriving. Why me? I cried for an entire day and vowed never to plant anything again. But my sweetest mother, ever patient and loving, has decided to teach me the right way to care for plants. I love you, Mommy.
Some people have a special energy with which plants resonate, and it’s clearly my mother.
Take a break here, another story is incoming. Here's some music for better reading experience. Start from 0:32.
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=tSkrFNbkokI&si=CmdjWl3Bc__x1Gcn
Today, while going through my gallery, I found a picture of myself from 2020.
I grew up in a joint family, and our home had two big trees in the aangan (an open courtyard ). One was a giant mango tree, and the other was a tree with white flowers (Crape jasmine).
As a 4-year-old, I loved that tree. Sure, I shared my affection with the mango tree as well, but my bond with the white flower tree was deeper. I think it was because it was closer to my room. Our mornings always began with my grandmother waking us all up to pluck the hundreds of white flowers that bloomed every day. My siblings, cousins, and I would climb the tree to gather the best-looking flowers, hoping to be in my grandmother’s good books.
We would prepare the best-looking garlands based on each of our skills, and every day we'd eagerly check whose garland was offered to which deity during her pooja (a Hindu religious ritual or prayer ceremony). Life at 6 a.m. was quite lively back then. Unlike now, when I still wake up early but don't enjoy being an early bird.
Now, I realize it was her way of instilling a morning routine in us. I consider it one of my favorite memories (especially since I have a goldfish memory, yet I still remember it clearly).
Nani passed away when I was about 8, but the tree remained with us. It still bloomed every day, gracing us with its beauty and reminding us of my grandmother and her pooja garland competitions. After her passing, none of us continued the competition. My mother always plucked flowers for her pooja, (So did I ) and there were so many that they often made their way to our neighbor's pooja session as well.
When I moved to a new city for college, I would visit home during vacations, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. It was a my safe space , I saw it every day, sipped coffee near it, and occasionally took pictures around it—but I took it for granted. In 2020, when I returned for an extended period , I began to notice it more, care for it more, and appreciate it in a way I hadn’t before. I felt a deep sense of happiness in this reconnection.
In 2021, when I visited again, I found the tree withering. I didn't know how to react, so I turned to my mother for help. She told me it was gone , how or why, we didn’t really know. We don’t truly understand the value of something until it’s gone. It wasn’t just a tree; it was part of our family.From garland competitions to serving as our hiding spot, I treasure those memories.
Once, during a conversation with someone in Kashi, the person told me that we are merely energies in the form of bodies -energies trapped inside a vessel. That energy exists everywhere, even in trees. They are energies trapped in the form of branches, leaves, and trunks.
Though the tree may be gone, its energy still remains with me.
I apologize for the emotional rollercoaster. I try to be a funny writer, as funny as I think I am in real life (though some people laugh, and my friends don’t). However, while writing and creating art, I’ve noticed a certain melancholy in it.
I’m writing this so I can keep coming back to it, preserving this emerald memory of mine—one that remains locked in my heart, like a storeroom full of amazing things.
I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Until then, take care
Love,
Gargi
Bahubali! Harry Potter! I loved reading this. Nothing less than any popular short story