The old Mango Tree by Sanku |
I have been standing sentinel on this river bank for more than a century. I have seen the river flowing, sometimes peacefully, sometimes violently, laughing or roaring along the sturdy rocks. I have watched children playing under me and when I drop a ripe mango or two with the help of the ever obliging northern wind, scrambling to grab them. My branches spread wide, I have seen people greeting and hugging each other under my shade. I have happily listened to the bird songs. I have bowed to solemn sounds of temple and church bells.
I have known that under the night's darkness people do unsavoury things. I have seen babies being abandoned under me. I have suffered when people, in their hopelessness, end their lives on my branches. Once I have seen three people carry a woman's body and hang it on my limb. It was then I regretted most that I do not have a voice to speak out. I have watched people cutting other trees to build all kinds of structures. They let me stay because of my fruits. Children have long stopped playing under me. The space around me has dwindled. The river has been slowly dying. I have seen the bonhomie of humans slowly replaced by hatred. I have not forgotten the day when I watched a mob lynching an unfortunate man. I am glad that my low growing branches hid his son. My shade or my fruits are not needed anymore. What they need is more space to build. And I am a hindrance for 'development'. I look at the river, sans laughter, sans rage, flowing listlessly. I would be gone soon, so I won't have to witness her total death. Very soon they would come, with their electric saw, shears and other sharp and gleaming tools. In the far future, people may remember there was a river. I won't even be a memory.
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Sanku
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