In My Garden
A pomegranate tree grows in one of the corners of my garden. Some time ago, I had discovered it growing intermingled with one of the bougainvillaea bushes. I cannot recall having planted the pomegranate there. The seed that matured into this plant must have fallen off the beak, feet or droppings of some bird. I have seen both of them growing harmoniously and in synchronicity ever since. Both have a weather-beaten bark like the wrinkled skin of a wizened older person. The pomegranate tree bears delicate, shapely flowers and dainty fruit, while the bougainvillaea has thorns and papery thin modified leaves which look like flowers growing in bunches. Despite these dissimilarities, their foliage and branches are home to chirping birds, playful squirrels, a couple of doves and an occasional crow and a pigeon too. Whenever they are around, and I too happen to be home, I prefer to stay confined to my room and enjoy the two plants and their guests framed in my window overlooking the garden.
Usually, the garden has no visitors early at dawn, and it is at that time I venture out to be close with the two of them. A soliloquy suffuses the elements during those moments of our shared solitude. It makes me aware of the continuous flow of the sap enclosed within the stillness of their trunks, branches, roots and soil. Rather than plucking the tiny pomegranates, I prefer to partake of the echoes and eddies of this flow. Soaked in the silence of the hour, they have a mystical message, and I enjoy deciphering it. They motivate me to contemplate all the other trees, plants, shrubs, and the entire creation. The resultant perspective reveals a unique elemental oneness of life manifesting all around me. It is a gentle murmuring brook descending the heavens, which soon grows into a wave inundating me and anointing my very existence. Is this flow any different from the one confined to the blood vessels within my physical being? Except for the mechanism of the flow, there is no difference. The spell cast by this revelation is magical enough to make me experience the dissolution of all distinctions and identities.
Treasured moments like these, strewn across the maze of life, have been my constant companions. Savouring one of such moments, one day, I discovered that slowly and slowly, both the trees were getting stripped of all the foliage. I could do nothing but watch with abject helplessness. I saw the green leaves turning yellow, withering and leaving the branches. Some of them descended all alone while some others floated down in groups. They had left the plants bereft of all cover and beauty and standing against the backdrop of clear springtime sky. Both of them appeared barren, dry and woody. Now and then, one or two sparrows would alight there and fly away with twigs in their beaks. They must have been making their home somewhere nearby. The thoughts of their nests and the fledglings were assuaging consolation.
And then, one morning, a miracle happened! As if in the blinking of an eye, the trees had started turning beautiful once again. The once rickety, woody branches became full of shining, tender sprouts. From where had they appeared? Had they been hiding somewhere within the dried-up twigs and branches? Some of them looked like newborn infants trying to open their eyes, while others seemed like toddlers raring to have shy at the sky. Who had unfolded and arranged those sprouts? Someone must have been at work all this while that the trees had stood in stark desolation against the endless blue sky? Were the trees only, or were they some monks in deep penance? They just watched the withering leaves and the young sprouts with equanimity, poise and unbelievable calmness. The surging curiosity in my mind and an ethereal glow emanating from that corner of the garden drew me closer to their branches. The new youthful sprouts were happily shimmering while they reflected the glory of the rising Sun. They had brought the pre-dawn charm of the mornings back to the garden.
Did the trees know about the leaves, which, having attained maturity, had vacated their place for the young sprouts? I wondered. It was the same sunshine, breeze, soil, sky, and water, yet so much had changed in those two trees. As I waited for the birds to return, I was tempted to caress the young leaflets but stayed contented with watching them. They acknowledged my gaze and reciprocated it with their charming and celestial grace.
I didn’t need to search for any answers anymore.
