“Cut the jackfruit tree for timber,” someone suggested. The house, constructed almost 20 years ago, was small, and when we felt the need for a larger accommodation, the easiest way out was building additional rooms.
The towering jackfruit tree that stood canopying the small property I inherited in my ancestral village was the answer to all the requirements of wood. The suggestion from the well-wisher appeared tempting because the price of timber these days is too exorbitant.
I took one last long look at the majestic tree that had really grown old with rough grey-brown barks peeling off around its trunk. As the tree-cutter went up, a couple of owls, shocked out of their slumber, flew away loudly flapping their wings. Just as the man started to chop its ancient branches, I saw crows wildly wailing around and some pigeons flying helter-skelter. Probably they were out searching for food, and the word about the intruder spread. I soon realised that the flutter high above was a sign of extreme distress. The violent avian protest against felling the tree — their home for generations, where they might have nestled, brooded, and hatched — continued for some time and then reluctantly fizzled out.
The trunk was cut into different sizes and transported to a sawmill near my home. When I noticed the shrieking head-saw coming to a sudden halt and the workmen examining something, I approached them.
“Sir, it is a tree frog. He has been hiding in the tree hollow all the way.”
The poor greenish frog was cut right through the middle; one piece lying on the ground covered in sawdust and the other half still embedded in the cavity, one of its little paws still stretching out. The work on the wood soon resumed, but my thoughts were already muddled. I would only state that the thought of building our happy home over such agonies and tortures started giving me the jitters. I had never imagined that by cutting an old jackfruit tree, I would be destroying so many joyful habitats. I didn’t discuss these things with my family lest I could become a spoiler to the celebratory mood in our refurbished home, but the elephant in my mind simply refused to move away. One evening, I silently skipped off to my village and planted a jackfruit sapling at “the ground zero”, even as the twilight void and emptiness left behind by the giant tree stared at me. I gently watered the sprout and carefully placed a tree guard around it. The drying stump of the old tree would remain there for some more time as an uneasy reminder of my brazen act. The little sapling may survive the vagaries of seasons, and one day, thick foliage will crown its top inviting tweets and chirps.
A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved.
harichitrakootam@yahoo.com
