There is a hazy quality to the green of the trees that I see in front of my house. The air is filled with a smoky regret from the trees for not having legs that can carry them away from the mess of this city. Each tree looks solitary, even in the collection of trees that is around it. There is no unity in this diversity. Each awaits the same fate. The buildings have started to tower above them ominously. The birds that sang their favourite morning prayers are nowhere to be seen. They wake up earlier than the sun and go to those high-rises to scavenge for food. The river of a hundred years ago, which ran in autumn and preserved its memory in poetry, is dead and buried in one of the many foundations of the buildings that have come up. The trees don’t talk to each other anymore. Because what is there to talk about but death, destruction, and doom? And those pesky, lecherous buildings.
What is a word to describe this untamed, uncut, unhindered growth of trees inside a city? It is not a jungle. Those tend to be far away and teem with animals. This one is surrounded by huge buildings all around. Is it a forest? No, those have a magnificence about them that the one in front of me can’t match. Its edges are fast disappearing. It is not a garden! Those fancy carpets of green are dead. And this one is undulating, living and breathing even in its smallness.
Soon, this unnamed piece of urban space with trees will be gobbled up. The buildings that replace them will be marketed as boons to mankind. They will have swimming pools, playgrounds, and state-of-the-art facilities. Everyone will talk about them. No one will talk about the trees. Maybe a poet or two will. But the poets are dying, too. Overdosed and suffocated in a vomit of their own words. Anyway, who listens to poets anymore?
Or maybe some urban planner will come along and decide to spruce up how the trees look. A cut here. A trim there. Give them a complete makeover. Clear a few areas and carpet bomb those with tame grass. Dig a few holes and fill them with water. Kidnap a few swans or ducks or white birds and make the water they grace majestic. Carve a path of red soil inside and around it. Make a few amenities inside and have some food stalls outside. And name it as a park. Some of the trees will survive the naming. But the memory of all that they lost will dull their green.
In other news, there is a stillness in the air in Bhubaneswar now. Nothing moves. Nothing much is created. Or maybe it is just me. Have a happy Monday.
Such an important piece! Such relevant observations! So beautifully expressed! Bravo Sanket!
"The trees don’t talk to each other anymore."
Great line, Sanket!
I wonder if you've read Everything The Light Touches by Janice Pariat? Unless I'm muddled up (which happens far too often unfortunately), the book has these bits about trees communicating through their network of roots. Fascinating stuff. Even otherwise, it's a marvellous book. I'm sure you'll love it.