It was Sunday and I didn’t have quite much to do. So I sat listlessly on the sofa and looked outside the window. There was a rose bush and few marigold plants sunbathing. And a part of the big tree trunk that remained there also could be seen. I never knew what were the flowers in the big tree called, but there were big yellow flowers on it throughout the year. Yellow being my favourite colour, the colour of sunshine, of happiness, I had been fond of the tree since my childhood when I planted it in our garden with my mother.
There were sweet memories associated with the tree. I fondly turned the pages of my memory to look back. I had always been fond of my natural environment. Much before I had known what global warming was or what the importance of trees in our lives was, I loved them. There was no knowledge involved in it. Something like true love, where you just love, not knowing why. This fondness might have something to do with my mother’s knack for gardening. Every winter our garden used to be filled with blossoms of many kind and colour. Some of the names I knew, most I didn’t,so I kind of gave them my own name.
So, the pink clustered flower bush was named Pink-Pink, some sort of a funny sound effect of a horn I guess, and the yellowish white flowers near the rose bush was named Sunshine, and such innovative names flowed from my childish imagination. While I saw my mother nurture the plants and the tender shoots with the motherly care so innate of her. It was as if they were my siblings, the gorgeous plants. I took pride in our garden, the handiwork of my mother. The tree I was talking about had no such name. Perhaps it grew when my stock of names was exhausted or may be it looked so like my imagination-filled mind that I never really thought of having a separate identity for the tree. It was my best friend.
I could see the tree from my study. From amidst the boring pages of my history book and the terrifying pages of the maths book, looking at the tree made me feel good. At Diwali, the festival of lights in India, we lit candles and lamps under the tree and it looked decked as a starry sky at night. My mother used to pluck out the flowers from the tree and bestow them in the feet of God at our home. It might be my imagination, but I felt that every morning the tree shed it’s flowers, welcoming us with the best gift it had…a palm-full of bright yellow flowers.
We grew up slowly as per the rule of nature. Whenever I read Wordsworth’s well-known poem “Daffodils” I used to picture the tree in our home in my mind at par with the poet’s imagination. Then one day the tree was cut down. It came in way of a little construction work going in our home. So it had to be removed. Had it been a mere shrub, it could have been planted elsewhere, but it was a full grown tree, firm and strong, so it couldn’t be moved. I was no more a child, giving names to trees and thinking them as my best friend, so I never thought of crying at this, it would’ve been so funny and unbecoming of my matured self.
It was night and I slept in my study. The weather was warm and I had to open the windows. I couldn’t sleep so I looked outside and saw the sky. But it was different. You never could see the sky from that window, there was the tree, the tree with yellow flowers that had always come between my view of the sky. But today I could see the sky perfectly. The vast sky, starred numberless, not a cloud anywhere. But I didn’t like it. Suddenly I felt a part of my world missing, a witness of my childhood gone. Now all remained was my grown-up self and the vast sky outside. I dip my face in my pillow and silent tears rolled down my cheeks. I missed the tree. But then the beauty of nature is not perishable. It is just so Divinely beautiful and full of love that I had the tree in my heart now. A much more safer place where the flowers shall still blossom and make me more beautiful each day.