By: ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE
You should have heard it. A loud creaking noise, followed by a thud and a “whoosh!’ Whatever could have happened? I jumped up from my typewriter. I was writing a story when I ran towards the window to see what was happening.
There, right below my window, lay the great old pine tree that had stood tall all these years while providing shade for us. Years ago, when I was a boarder at a Convent in Murree, such trees were common.
Once outside to examine the tree, I noticed the trunk had split from the middle. It was such a pity; this tree had taken twenty years to reach its present size, yet, in one brief moment, it had become a wreck, only fit for firewood.
The cause of the damage was not hard to find as signs of decay stared me in the face. However, this was definitely the first time anyone had noticed this. The tree had always appeared to be strong and healthy to all, but the weakness was there just the same, slowly getting worse, month after month and year after year.
As I recollected memories of my past, I saw myself clad in jeans, all set to climb the tree house built on this particular tree. I remembered the joy it had brought my friends, family and me. Anytime I mentioned the tree and tree house to guests, they’d ask to visit it so they could see if the hype was worth it. And they always left convinced that it truly was. Listening to the songs of the birds, feeling the fresh air on their face, the wind blowing through their hair, and the sight of the sun and the moon- all of this made them wish they had a place like this. But what warmed the cockles of my heart most was watching my children sleep in a hammock tied to the tree.
Alas, it was sheer neglect that had brought about the decay. I was too busy enjoying my life, and my husband was busy earning money for our family. Still, sometimes, I talked to my tree, believing the wind whistling through the branches to be its reply. Yes, my tree would respond to me, but outsiders always thought this was my imagination going wild.
Its unsurprising why, seeing the tree in its current state, just lying there, lifeless and stiff, good only for firewood now, brought me immense sadness. My son, who was my best companion, too, came to me. He had sensed my sorrow.
My young man, my son, was a champion cyclist who rode around in the neighborhood. He got me specimens of trees and told me to select one for planting. Such gestures of his and the circulars that my husband brought home, full of information from his horticultural society meetings, made me feel better. I may also start thinking about a new tree in the garden.
One day, as I took my early morning walk, I saw a small 18 plant staring at me from the base where my tree had once stood. The seed of the parent tree had given birth to this plant. Its roots take possession of the space. A ripe green shoot was giving me proof of the continuity of life. Another story built up in my mind- a story with a happy ending. This little plant gave me reason to be happy.
My husband explained the phenomenon to his society. But I did not tell him that the reason behind the growth of my plant was me talking to it. My friend had left a souvenir in its place. One that would always keep its memory alive in my heart.
From the book: The Final Plunge
ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE
