The sanctuaries that keep us steady

I asked Shivanna, the contractor who brought down our coconut trees where he planned to take the stumps. “To a landfill on the outskirts,” he replied while loading the tractor.

The fungal rot that had afflicted the trees was visible as dark brown patches in the stumps. A voice in my head said it was alright to let them go — it spared them the prolonged suffering.

Shivanna drove the tractor away with the remains of the trees as tears streamed down my face. What invisible threads tie us to trees, making their loss feel so personal? I grew up surrounded by coconut trees. The year I was born, my father planted three saplings in the front yard of our house in Chennai. The middle tree stood close to the pillar beside the entrance gate. The pillar was four to five feet tall, with a square flat top—perfect for sitting.

Coconut trees grow one to two feet each year, and by the time I turned six, they were more than 10 feet tall, towering above the pillars. The pillar near the gate was my favourite spot. I’d climb the gate, sit on the pillar, munch on snacks, or read a book, using the coconut tree as my backrest.

Coconut trees are thirsty giants needing regular feed of manure and generous water. Appa had dug a circular basin around the trees, about two feet wide and half a foot deep, to hold water. It was my brother’s duty and mine to fill it. The moment we poured a bucket of water, it would vanish into the soil as if the earth had been waiting, parched and impatient. We both carried water in buckets from a tap at the back of the house to the front yard—a 40-foot walk, over and over again until the basin brimmed.

One evening, while I was playing alone in the playground in front of our house, a cow suddenly charged at me. Startled by the sound of hooves, I ran home, climbed the gate, and, to my shock, found myself gripping the rough bark of the coconut tree. I hadn’t expected to climb the tree instead of running indoors. The cow stood snorting and glaring for a few moments before turning away. That pillar and tree became my sanctuary through adolescence. Like the tree’s deep roots holding firm through storms, they kept me steady when everything else felt uncertain.

Life shifted—my father was transferred to Bengaluru. I was in my first year of college and felt torn—excited about new possibilities but afraid of leaving the familiar. In those days, I often sat on the pillar, talking to the trees. I always felt they heard my confusion and agony. In many ways, life resolves uncertainties on its own, and all we need is the quiet presence of a listener.

After a few trips to Bengaluru, I fell in love with the city. Walking down the tree-lined lanes gave me a sense of déjà vu. I bid goodbye to the trees in Chennai, promising to visit them. Bengaluru welcomed me with open arms. I got married and made Bengaluru my home. My husband’s house had two coconut trees—standing side by side, towering in the backyard. It was comforting to have another set of trees back in my life after a hiatus. My father eventually sold our house in Chennai and also moved to Bengaluru. We learned that the trees in our old home had been cut down to make way for a new building.

A few years later, he was diagnosed with cancer, and it all happened so quickly — within three months, he too was gone. We often asked ourselves: how long had it been growing silently inside him? And why him? Questions we returned to over and over, but knew there were no answers.

Years passed and life moved forward through seasons of healing. The coconut trees that were part of our household began to lose their vigour a few months back. The fronds dried up and there were no new flowers. Something was happening and nothing could revive them. That’s when I called Shivanna. He diagnosed it as a fungal infection —Anabe roga or Ganoderma rot—that spreads from tree to tree through roots. He gave them two or three months of life. Before I could prepare myself, the inner whorls of the trees fell, and that’s when I let them go.

The emptiness left behind by the trees is staggering. Those trees had been home to generations of squirrels, parakeets that played on the fronds, butterflies, and countless other insects. I cannot plant another coconut tree in the same spot until the soil is free of Ganoderma spores. The area must be treated, and the remaining roots carefully removed.

A week after my father’s demise, I was returning home with groceries for the final rituals. As I crossed the road, it struck me—he would never walk with me through these lanes again. He was gone. I stood there, crying in the middle of the road as vehicles honked around me. That same emptiness fills me now when I look at the backyard.

The squirrels have found solace in the mango tree and the parakeets no longer visit.

Life moves on, bringing with it the quiet rhythms of change and adaptation.

Motley Garden is your monthly kaleidoscopic view into a sustainable garden ecosystem.

The author believes gardening is more than just cultivating plants. It’s also about the bees, butterflies, insects, flies, and bugs that make the garden their home. Send your thoughts to [e-mail]