The stunted tree

For me, the tree has become a symbol of instinctive fortitude and kinship.

After Sankranti and Pongal, February signals a turn from spring to summer. It gets warmer by the day. From our meridian and time zone in Bharata-Khanda, the sun visibly begins to oscillate to the southern Tropic of Capricorn. The suburban park nearby is a refuge from the drudgery of memoranda and routines. 

This wedge of verdure between three busy roads had tall old trees; some are withered now, but give patches of shade.  Many were felled for fuel or timber.

There is a lone survivor I like, densely leaved. When it emerged above the ground decades ago, it crept along for a meter, perhaps in quest of sunlight, before ascending. It aspired high, but reached its peak as a stunted dwarf of vegetation near a cement bench where elders sit and chat. 

For me, it has become a symbol of instinctive fortitude and kinship, of staying close to the earth, growing to its level as ordained by seeds and roots, accepting its limits – a stunted organism in the ceaseless continuity of nature.  

The civic authority decided to ‘beautify’ this retreat as an urban attraction. Regulars like us endured the obstacles of this artistic renovation: piles of red mud, randomly fitted paving stones, litter bins in the form of painted penguins, grinning monkeys, wide-mouthed fishes and species unknown to genetics. One positive feature was the lawn in the cleared-up area, allowing kids to learn badminton and proffering young couples a modicum of privacy they seldom have in their cramped homes.   

As a Mysurian by adoption and choice after retirement, I am partial to this park, despite the depredations and the kitsch. In the last century, the central part had a tall post with a loudspeaker blaring ‘filmi geet’, which jarred on musical ears, but captivated many who loved the melodic lilt of Lata Mangeshkar. These days, we can hear the tap of striding footwear, chappals to sports shoes. 

Our evening walk brings out cotton prints now, instead of cardigans and shawls. We see brighter hues and prints of paisley and geometric patterns, tight jeans, salwar-kameez outfits, calf-length shorts and skirts.

Soon the flowering trees will sport a lush flamboyance of pink, red and yellow. Cute kids at play redeem the hard times and shameful news of rapes and scams. Toddlers here win us with their innocent charm and pranks as they keep pace with their elders or lick ice-cream cones or climb up the slide.  

Staunch joggers weave through amblers. Some oldsters march on, showing how spry they are. That stunted tree fascinates me every time. The trunk lies close to ground and then becomes vertical, topped by strong branches profuse with large, green foliage. A friend tells me that this could be a species called kanak champa.

It has “dinner plate” leaves and its timber makes good planks and the sap has medicinal value. For me, however, it remains a symbol of the qualities I laud: closeness to earth, aspiration, acceptance of nature’s gifts and culture’s additions with inner contentment.