More thoughts on treevelling

Growing up in the family house in Kerala there was lots of family around but the big house offered the space to be alone if desired. We seemed to do everything together, eating, sleeping, bathing even, with everyone talking at the same time. But I recall running off to sit with a book in the curve of the mango tree in the garden, away from the noise and chatter. Why did I choose to climb a tree rather than go upstairs and sit in comfort in a chair, or lounge in bed? All I know is that my image of the house is linked with the image of me in the tree and, when it had to be cut down, it has left a void.

When I was a kid, my interest was mainly in the grand old tamarind tree at the corner, which would yield delicious tamarind that I would sneak away to gorge on. And of course the delicious mango trees which yielded the best mangoes in all the world. We grew up regarding the mango as a sacred fruit that only our house could offer. In fact, my mother had the greatest difficulty in buying mangoes when she moved to Bangalore and the legend of the Kottieth mangoes continued to be passed down from generation to generation. There was a hierarchy there too. The abundant Peter (no idea how that name happened or why. It is a close cousin of what we see now as the raspuri) was clearly of a lower caste with the malgova holding the place of honour, and the rare dil pasand (the tree had fallen during a cyclone but continued to yield fruit once in a season) were clearly upper caste. My mother spoke (without a trace of anger or judgement) of the discrimination when she was growing up, her brothers getting the best fruit and she and her sisters getting the slightly damaged ones. They saw it as the way things were and no one thought to question the system. Bu the time I came along, democracy had established itself and I remember family dinners where we all sat at table after dinner and the mangoes were cut and shared. Everyone got a piece of each mango so no one got lucky with a particularly tasty one and no one got stuck with a not so good one. One of my cousins would take a bite of a piece and if it was particularly good, she would hoard it so that she could end the meal with the best tasting bit. The Kottieth mango even found its way to the far reaches of Delhi and Calcutta, where carefully packed boxes would make their way to cousins who would otherwise have been deprived of this manna. (There were stories of some mangoes reaching in a not-so-great condition and the much-vaunted taste not quite getting through. But those stories are for the mockers, possibly the in-laws who did not know any better, and we will not give them space here.)

There were of course the obligatory jackfruit trees, some custard apple and bull’s heart, a mulberry and a rose apple tree which yielded very little fruit but drew beautiful birds and, of course, the coconut trees that we all lived off every day but never really bothered to look at. (I do recall though being entranced by the sight of these tall giants bending gracefully in a storm in the monsoons. But that was when I was older and had learned to appreciate their beauty.) Somehow the mango stole the show and all family talk of the past included this precious fruit, its flavour, size and magnificence. There was a fantastic acacia at the gate that drew people when in bloom, being such an exotic and rare sight. I don’t know the history of how it got there, but it stayed throughout my childhood till it fell during one cyclone, taking away a bit of beauty from the place.

So when I think about trees now, I see that my gaze has shifted from the early utilitarian gaze, seeing them only as bearers of fruit, or offering shade and the nook to climb into to what I see them now as beautiful steadfast giants, each with its own kind of beauty, as masterpieces of generosity and tolerance, enduring in spite of a being in hostile world. I see them in various moods: a tree that has shed all its leaves appears bereft and desolate as opposed to one where the new leaves have come, which I see as a happy girl dressed in new clothes and delighted with life. In the hot, dry days of February and March, I look at these giants and feel them thirsting for the rain. And oh, after the rain, the shiny glistening moist leaves, who can look at that sight and not feel happy?

So many people have talked of the healing property of walking in the woods. I have always come back from any trip to the countryside refreshed. And I think the trees are speaking more to me now that I am actually looking at them. I see how viewing them teaches me about the world and myself. The voices of Annie Dillard and Mary Oliver are matchless if you want a friend to take on a walk. You will come back changed.