<p>It was a truly magnificent tree. But most of us hardly paid any attention to it as we went about our daily chores and even walked under it each morning and evening. Now as I think more about it, I wonder when it was planted and imagine that there must then have been free space and air for the roots to breathe. </p><p>Suddenly I realise that across from the tree was my grandparents’ home, where, as children, we spent many happy summer holidays climbing trees, plucking and eating fruits, and playing games of running and catching with innumerable cousins. The tree must have been growing to maturity then. In the 70 odd years that came after, roads were widened, more houses were built and pavements sealed the roots of this tree. But the tree soldiered on, giving shade and comfort to passers-by.</p>.<p>Until one day, it began to die. No one noticed; no one heard the death rattle of its roots. The fruit cart lady nearby thought rats were gnawing at something and went about her business. The day wound on, and as evening approached, the tree was close to its end. This is when two young friends and I walked towards the tree on our way elsewhere. As we stepped under it, I heard a loud cracking sound. I looked up and saw the huge trunk slowly descending right at me. From far away I could hear my friends’ voices call out to me with urgency and distress, but I was frozen in time and place. With the presence of mind that only younger persons could have, they yanked me back, but my legs were still chained to the ground. I fell back and saw and heard the great sigh and loud thud of the tree as it fell inches from where I was still lying. Everything then began to happen in fast forward. People rushed to help, enquire, commiserate and congratulate me on my narrow escape. But the tree lay unmoving, unmourned. Perhaps it had tried its best to save me too. </p>.<p>Other systems fell into place. Traffic was diverted, forest officials came out of nowhere and began to chop up the tree, people moved on with their routines, and the tree’s life was forgotten. The next morning I walked up to look at the spot. Hardly any traces remained. Only a yawning hole where the roots had been and my memory of an experience.</p>.<p>I remembered a poem I had read long ago by Gieve Patel called <em>It Takes Much Time to Kill a Tree</em>. It made more sense to me now.</p>.<p>Many friends responded to the picture I sent them of the fallen tree. Their words still echo in my head.</p>.<p>“What a magnificent tree!”</p>.<p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>It was a truly magnificent tree. But most of us hardly paid any attention to it as we went about our daily chores and even walked under it each morning and evening. Now as I think more about it, I wonder when it was planted and imagine that there must then have been free space and air for the roots to breathe. </p><p>Suddenly I realise that across from the tree was my grandparents’ home, where, as children, we spent many happy summer holidays climbing trees, plucking and eating fruits, and playing games of running and catching with innumerable cousins. The tree must have been growing to maturity then. In the 70 odd years that came after, roads were widened, more houses were built and pavements sealed the roots of this tree. But the tree soldiered on, giving shade and comfort to passers-by.</p>.<p>Until one day, it began to die. No one noticed; no one heard the death rattle of its roots. The fruit cart lady nearby thought rats were gnawing at something and went about her business. The day wound on, and as evening approached, the tree was close to its end. This is when two young friends and I walked towards the tree on our way elsewhere. As we stepped under it, I heard a loud cracking sound. I looked up and saw the huge trunk slowly descending right at me. From far away I could hear my friends’ voices call out to me with urgency and distress, but I was frozen in time and place. With the presence of mind that only younger persons could have, they yanked me back, but my legs were still chained to the ground. I fell back and saw and heard the great sigh and loud thud of the tree as it fell inches from where I was still lying. Everything then began to happen in fast forward. People rushed to help, enquire, commiserate and congratulate me on my narrow escape. But the tree lay unmoving, unmourned. Perhaps it had tried its best to save me too. </p>.<p>Other systems fell into place. Traffic was diverted, forest officials came out of nowhere and began to chop up the tree, people moved on with their routines, and the tree’s life was forgotten. The next morning I walked up to look at the spot. Hardly any traces remained. Only a yawning hole where the roots had been and my memory of an experience.</p>.<p>I remembered a poem I had read long ago by Gieve Patel called <em>It Takes Much Time to Kill a Tree</em>. It made more sense to me now.</p>.<p>Many friends responded to the picture I sent them of the fallen tree. Their words still echo in my head.</p>.<p>“What a magnificent tree!”</p>.<p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
