An apology to the displaced

Dear members of the Tree, the Bird, the Ant and Small Animal communities of my apartment complex in northern Bengaluru: Hello and I trust this small note finds you well wherever you are. I hope you are alive. I no longer live here as employment has taken me to another part of the city. But I return as much as I can because I have family and a close-knit community of old friends whom I try to visit often. Of late, I haven’t been here and seen you. Last week, I received a message on my phone from friends in the neighbouring skyscraper, where many of you have also lived or frequently visited.

The picture was taken from my friends’ balcony, from where I often glimpsed my own home of 26 years. The picture showed our old line of trees pruned, cut, and razed. It was mortifying, and later, when I entered the apartment (after several weeks) for tea with my folks and some community members, the sight of fallen trees, leaves, branches, barks, and the thought of what would have happened to all of you affected me while I drove back.

So, I write this to you: Please don’t mistake me or my fellow human community members, they are all nature lovers, and they love you more than most. Many are children and teenagers who love you more than some of their elders. Many of the older people pray for and worship you.

Recently, after detailed considerations and consultations, the resident welfare association of the apartment complex took long-pending decisions on the unfortunately hazardous members of the old tree community. Our RWA has nature-loving souls. They followed due process to get expert human views on the matter. Conservationists, agricultural experts, and nature experts from the Gandhi Krishi Vigyan Kendra at the University of Agricultural Sciences were consulted, as was the environment department, for clearances and the way ahead.

Truth is, the trees were old, prone to fall and cause great damage. All of them fringe the complex’s borders and share their riches with neighbouring buildings. That meant even residents in our neighbouring complexes were in danger of a falling branch or tree. Many of the cut trees are to be relocated and hopefully even replanted in friendlier environments for them. I don’t know if what I say is a justification for what has taken place. But I feel impelled to convey my apologies to you. Because it’s the least a human can afford to say to you, who have showered us with your love, warmth, grace, and affection since the creation of this apartment complex. When I say this, I’m certain I write not only for myself, but for most other members of the human community in the apartment. And yes, we shall replant new trees in the future months.

As the large garden area of the apartment cut a post-apocalyptic picture when I saw it last, I recalled that whole phase of Covid when the garden area was at its busiest. The screech of the parakeet, the coos of the brahminy kites, and the squawk of the mynahs had turned into a soundtrack of life here. The sunbirds chirping near a shrub close to our swimming pool, where on a tiled patch I’d spread my yoga mat for suryanamaskars are some of my happiest memories of living in this city.

One of our slimmest, oldest, and tallest trees had a cavity in the upper reaches of its trunk that had become the home of a brahminy kite couple. We’d get a heartening glimpse of them from our terraces, as one of them flew away to fetch a twig or two.

There was a time when there were squirrels aplenty on these trees and, of course, bats. Now, we hear sounds, and sometimes a bird or two – perhaps a former resident returns to gaze at a possibly lost home. I don’t know what to say, but sorry, but I really do hope once our greens return, you shall be back again. Please forgive us and grace us with your affections again. Please let us know how we can make amends. Can we at all?

The writer teaches at the School of Film, Media and Creative Arts, R V University, Bengaluru.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.