The Tree

THE TREE
(Short Story)

Right from the time the season was on the brink of monsoon the village elders had begun to look grave. The sinister cloud formation on the mountains several miles away, and a wide ring of uncanny aura around the moon had informed them that there were terrible days ahead.

The flood came at a little past midnight. Although the village abounded in quality sleep, the jackals, with their long moaning howls, managed to wake up several people who called out to each other and, reassured of a collective awareness, soon gathered on the river bank with lanterns, or torches of dry twigs. The flames danced in the gusts making their faces alternately appear and disappear.

The moon was fully draped in clouds and the stars looked pallid as the eyes of dead fish. Nothing much could be seen of the river, but one could feel it bulging and hear it hissing like a thousand-hooded cobra. The wind carried the smell of crushed raw earth.

Flood waters never entered this village, although hardly a season passed without the river playing havoc with the villages a couple of miles downstream. The people down there knew when to go over to their roofs or perch on the trees. After three or four days they descended and took root again.

But even though flood did not enter this village, it nibbled at the high ridge and once in a while gobbled up a chunk of the grassland stretching along the bank.

The villagers felt scandalised every time their familiar tame river expanded and looked alien and began hissing, It gave the sort of shock which one experienced when a domestic animal suddenly went crazy, behaving wildly and not responding to any amount of endearment. One just looked on helplessly.

And that is what the villagers were doing, when they suddenly realised that the situation was much more grave than they had imagined. They heard a chugging and the faint sound of voices already tired and cracking. They raised their lanterns: At that the voices grew more plaintive. The villagers strained their eyes to see through the darkness and the mist. A few of them could make out the black lump passing on the ashen waters and shouted the only sensible advice that could be given to a boat caught up in the first rush of a flood: “Have patience. As soon as it is dawn the villagers downstream will throw ropes and save you. Keep on shouting. God be with You.”

Such boats generally came front the forest at the foot of the mountains where they went to collect timber. Sometimes they were given another stock advice: “Throw away the load and make the vessel lighter, but do not go too light.” A too light vessel became a plaything for rollicking waves.

The sound from the darkness became fainter and remote, random syllables blown away by the erratic wind.

And the wind grew stronger and colder and was soon accompanied by a thin shower. All ran to take shelter under the banian tree. The wicks of the lanterns had to be turned low so that the glass cooled down enough not to crack at the splinters of raindrops.

The leaves chattered incessantly their familiar language of and courage. The innumerable boughs that spread overhead had been the very symbol of protection for generations, affording shelter not only to those who bore love and regard for the tree, but even to such people who had been impudent towards it, of course, so far as the latter were concerned, only after humbling them to their knees. The elders would point at a mound covered with grass and shrubs, not far from the tree, while citing the ancient-most proof of this fact. The mound had decayed through centuries, but it was still “as high as two men.” They did not anyone to ignore a fact so solid and as high as two men.

The mound contained the ruins of a certain king’s palace. It was neither possible nor necessary to recall the name of the king who had built it, or whether he had been of the solar or the lunar what was frequently recalled was that he had dared to cut down a few branches of the tree to make room for his palace. Perhaps he had planned to cut more, perhaps even to totally destroy the tree, but before he could do so a terrific storm had broken out. The palace collapsed. The king and his family took shelter under the tree and were saved. The king clasped the tree and wept. The storm subsided.

Further in time, it was said, the tree had taken off and flown to the Himalayas or other such meaningful places, at the behest of a certain great soul who lived under it. But that was in the Era of Truth, and in the absence of some concrete evidence like the mound to support this legend, elders of the present generation spoke relatively less about it than had their predecessor.

The trunk that had once been clasped by the king had decayed and disappeared since time immemorial, after sending down numerous shoots which had formed new trunks. The tree with its branches spreading over an acre resting on these trunks had become an institution long ago.

At the foot of one of the trunks rested the tiny ‘banian goddess.’ She had no regular priest attached to her. Whoever so desired could approach her and sprinkle vermilion on her. In the course of generations the vermilion crust had come to account for the greater part of the goddess’s body. Devotees ordinarily did not prostrate themselves to her, but everybody, while passing before her, bowed enough for her to take cognizance of his or her devotion. In matters complex and formidable in nature, the villagers prayed for the intervention of famous deities of distant temples. But small issues were referred to her from time to time. Children in particular found her quite helpful in regard to crises arising from undone homeworks or the ill humour of the pundits of the primary school.

The area before another trunk was the usual site for the village meetings.

Relaxing beside a neighbouring trunk, eyes shut and jaws moving in a leisurely rhythm, could be found the much revered sacred bull of the village.

In the afternoons of the bi-weekly market days, an old woman coming from a village on the horizon sat leaning against another trunk with a sack half filled with greens and / or drumsticks. The market, still two miles distant, was her goal, but her knees, she would declare with a quiet toothless laugh, had refused to serve her any more, obliging her to sell her wares sitting there, At sunset she would rise and offer a handful of whatever still remained in her sack to the sacred bull.

In a hollow at the foot of another trunk resided a family of snakes which had earned the reputation of being conscientious and harmless and, in the branches above, rested a legion of birds.

The tree was taken to be immortal by all without anybody having to be told about it. Immortality being an attribute of the gods, it was godly. Nobody would easily flout a decision that had been arrived at in a meeting under the tree, for even when the decision was unpalatable to a party, it knew that behind it there was the seal of some power, invisible and inaudible though.

The rain stopped though not the wind. The first touch of awe and excitement passed. They could all go to their homes now–to return again in batches in the morning. It was more out of the respect for the river–to show that they had taken due note of her changing mood–than from any fear of the flood that some people must always gather at her edge.

A crashing sound stunned them. Suddenly the earth seemed to rock. A few who were nearest the river were splashed; had they been standing a few feet farther they would have been gone forever. In the dark no one had observed the crack that had developed on the ground before the huge chunk of the bank slipped into the water.

Nirakar Das, the retired head-pundit of the primary school, shouted, “Come away, come away, you all!” The authoritative voice was instantly obeyed.

A few snakes crept out of the hollow under the tree and wriggled away towards the mound. Some saw only one snake, some saw two and some three, but to all it appeared the exodus of a thousand snakes, a stream of life abandoning its ancient body.

It was now about dawn. Nirakar Das advanced near the tree and looked up for a long time. “My eyes are gone,” he declared again as he had on countless occasions during the past decade, and scanning the people who were now beginning to extinguish their lanterns and torches, called one of his ex-pupils, Ravindra, the founder-proprietor of the village’s sole grocery, and asked him to look up and see if there were any birds on the tree.

Ravindra and others gazed up into the branches for a while and reported their finding: “No, not a single feather can be traced!”

Nirakar Das looked glum. “Can any of you recollect another instance like this?” he asked the people of his age-group. “No.” They too looked grave and shook their heads.

“Far from a good sign.” Nirakar Das observed, “snakes and birds fleeing this great shelter!”

Not long after this Ravindra and others with better eyesight detected an extensive crack, in the shape of a sickle, with both its ends pointing towards the river. The semi-circle embraced the tree.

“If the tree falls, it will carry this whole huge chunk along it into the river, for its innumerable roots have made this much of earth like a single cake,” a young man explained to his two friends. They were the only boys from the village studying in a college in the town. This was their first visit to village after they had grown long hair and side-locks.

“What! The tree fall? How dare you say so? How much do you know about this tree?” an old Brahmin notorious for bad temper shouted at them.

“They have developed bones in their tongues,” commented Ravindr. “You are studying in the college, aren’t you? Come on, save the tree with your English, algebra and all that abracdabra,” he challenged them.

“Why should we?” the spokesman of the trio said sniffily.

“Why should you? As if you could, only if you pleased! Is this what you imply? Well, please do it out of pity for us, out of pity for fourteen generations of our forefathers! Would you?” This time Ravindra was supported by a number of people. The young man blinked and muttered, “What I meant was, how can we save the tree?”

“Now it’s how can we! If this is the limit of your capacity, how dared you grow such obscene hair?” demanded the bad-tempered Brahmin tauntingly.

“Look here, my young fathers! Just promise, not loudly, but silently within your hearts–let none but the spirit of the tree know–that if the tree is saved you will shorten your hair! Please, my fathers, make a solemn promise,” implored Shrikanta Das, the meek and mild Vaishnav, his palms joined in the shape of a lotus bud, out of humility.

As the sky in the East grew brighter it was observed that the ground between the tree and the river had already tilted towards the river.

The young men tried to appear engrossed in discussing something highly sophisticated among themselves, Shrikanta Das raised his voice and whimpered, “Hearken, you all! Not only these boys, but we all have our shares of sin. And if the tree is going to collapse, it is because it cannot bear the burden of our sins anymore. Let everyone of us confess his sin, addressing the spirit of the tree, silently in our hearts! Let us pray to be pardoned! Hari bol! Glory to God!”

All shouted Hari bolo. But it sounded like a cry of lamentation.

When they stopped, the silence seemed bitingly sharp. With the gradual brightening of the sky the seriousness of the situation became more and more apparent.

A few kites that were circling above the whirling waters at times swooped down on the crowd as though to show the contempt, of those who could dwell at such height and see all that was happening from horizon to horizon for the wretched men below regarding their situation with utter helplessness.

The crowd swelled rapidly. Almost all the villagers, women and children included, were now gathered there. In different words all asked the same question: “What is to be done?” A part of the tree was clearly leaning towards the river.

Once the college boys had been humbled, there was no hesitation to openly discuss the impending fall of the tree. Something, no doubt, had to be done. Only if one knew what that was!

The crowd spontaneously looked at one after another of those who had claims to some sort of distinction.

Shridhar Mishra was a well-known homoeopath. He had saved so many from certain death. When the people looked expectantly to him, his lips quivered as they always did when he was about to diagnose a disease. The villagers were accustomed to read in that quiver the promise of remedy. But as now the quivering did not stop even when the people had looked at him for a along time, they focussed their attention on Raghu Dalbehera, the only villager to possess a gun. Rarely was he seen without his gun although the list of his kills during a period of twenty years was limited to a handful of birds and a greedy fox–the latter merely dazed by the sound and smoke from his gun and killed in an operation in which many had the privilege to participate.

When Raghu realised that the crowd had already been staring at him for five minutes, he raised his gun at an audaciously swooping kite, took: aim and continued to take aim.

“Don’t, Raghu, don’t!” warned Nirakar Das, and Raghu brought down his gun with relief. People sighed and ceased to concentrate on him.
Just then someone brought the news that the honourable Member of the Legislative Assembly had been observed going by on a nearby road perhaps heading for the next village.

“Bring him here, run boys, run!” said the elderly villagers. A number of young men disappeared running.

Freed from the obligation to think or do anything now that the M. L. A. had been summoned, all stood peacefully looking towards the bend of the road where he was expected to appear.

The M. L. A. arrived walking at a running pace, wrinkling his brows.

“Do you see the situation, M. L. A. baboo? We are doomed!” more than one voice complained.

“Who says you are doomed? Why this pessimism? People further down are really in trouble. Flood waters have entered their village and are threatening their houses. You are in heaven compared to them, and I wish you to continue in heaven,” said the M. L. A. displaying the particular variety of smile with which he used the conscience of his listeners.

“We had voted for you!” exclaimed a green voice. The three college boys now elbowed their way forward, throwing glances at the crowd as if defying it to stop them from confronting the leader. They were, of course, two to three years below the voting age, but they were determined to regain face after their earlier humiliation.

The M. L. A. paled, but ignored the boys, and asked the elders, “What would you like me to do?”

There was no reply. Recovering his courage and flashing the conscience-rousing smile again he repeated the challenge sweetly, “Order me to do and I am ready to do!”

“Do, eh! What can you do? Only remember that we voted for you and that it is during your reign that the sacred tree which stood here since the Era of Truth is going to leave us,” said an old man.

“Reign? Who reigns nowadays? Neither the British nor the Rajas. You are the rulers now and myself only your humble servant!” retorted the M. L. A.

“Servant, are you? Let us then see you serve us! Stop this tree from falling!” It was again one of the college trio.

The M. L. A. suddenly grew spirited. “Why not we all try together? Come on, gird up the loins. What were you all doing so long? Fetch as much rope as you can–thick and strong. Go, go, I say!” He girded up his own loins.

“Run, run” shouted several others. Though all knew how unrealistic the proposition was and how difficult it was to obtain even a few yards of rope such as the M. L. A. had specified, several people were about to set off under the impact of the leader’s clarion call.

But suddenly a part of the tree resting on several trunks slid into the river. Water shot up in fountains touching the wings of the scared kites.

“O God. O God!”

The crowd stood thunderstruck. The silence was broken by an anxious voice. “What will happen to the banian goddess?”

No sooner had this been said than the ill-tempered old Brahmin was seen rushing to the remnants of the tree.

He sat down on the muddy ground–a spot which had been considered dangerously unsafe even by the snakes–and mustering all his strength pulled up the small stone that had stuck to the spot for God-knows-how-many ages.

Holding the uprooted goddess close to his bosom as though to protect her from invisible enemies, he returned to the breathlessly watching crowd.

“Give place to the goddess!” shouted the people excitedly while thronging closer around the Brahmin. Someone spread a towel on the grass. The Brahmin put down the goddess and patted her. All looked at her with the sympathy which an orphan infant deserved and pressed around dangling their hands in eagerness to do for her something or the other.

Another terrific splashing sound. The entire tree was gone. The old branches were seen wrestling pathetically with the mad waters reluctant to be carried away.

“Gone! The tree-god gone! Hari bol! Hari bol!”

For a long time, under a continuous drizzle, they kept up the poignant chant with all their hearts, all looking stupefied and some weeping.

Old Bishu Jena had seated himself before the banian goddess. Someone who observed that he had begun to shiver, announced, “I think Bishu is falling into his trance!”

Several people rushed to their homes and brought out cymbals and drums and conch-shells. In days gone by, when there was no vote, no college for village boys, Bishu used to get ‘possessed’ before banian goddess. Drums and cymbals and conch-shells had to be played  close to his ears as loudly as possible. He began with shivering. Then he would fall down in a swoon and rise up with face beaming supernaturally, eyes wild with inexplicable experiences and often, though not everytime, he would utter words that were understood by a few who only nodded.

Bishu was in trance after at least two decades. Those who used to play the instruments close to his ears had now grown old, yet their sagging skin flapping like empty purses, they were doing their best.

Bishu opened his mouth. The sounds stopped.

“I will be born again–again!” he said and closed his mouth and eyes and resumed shivering. The instruments were played again. Again he opened his mouth and the instruments stopped.

“I will be born as a thousand trees–here, there, everywhere!”

“Hari bol! Hari bol! Hearken to the tree-god’s message. He will be reborn as a thousand trees!”

The instruments played louder as the younger ones took over from the tired old hands. Along with Bishu, Nirakar Das, Shrikanta Das the Vaishnav, and several others danced, their hands raised in ecstasy.

“Hari bol, Hari bol!”

“My God! But the sun is rising!” a kid drew the attention of his pals to a luminous crack in the clouds and clapped his hands.