The Tale of Jagruti

It’s a tale as old as time. She stands alone as she always has, with nothing but her own dried leaves for company. I have watched her cry in the late hours of the day, seen how the morning’s birdsong comes as a slight respite for her. Old age is no sadder as a tree than it is as a granny like myself, so I suppose it was only time before we sought each other’s company.

You know who I’m talking about, I’m sure? Hers is a very pretty name, you know: Jagruti.

She’s a very beautiful tree, don’t you think? Her veil almost covers the sky, but when the time is right she opens up to greet the shy, shy Chandini. Her leaves carry stories which she tells me in whispers; stories of people she’s watched grow with reckless abandon, through happiness and sadness alike.

I have sat here, too. In the past. The tree was younger, the world was younger. We used to play around Jagruti! The sun came in more back then, but we did not care. We played through the sweltering afternoons, climbing on to the young roots and swinging to our hearts’ content. We would wake up at the cusp of dawn, and run to it. We would climb so high everyone would scream, calling out to us. Have you noticed the weird way the roots are shaped? That was because of us. We moulded it with our own, nimble, untrained hands.

We knew about the ghost stories, of course. Jagruti finds some of them quite funny. But I do understand why most people don’t approach her. Why, even I was scared of her for so long.

After all, trees simply aren’t human – they cannot care, they cannot choose. Jagruti is no different.

The sun was almost down, and with it came the tide of mosquitoes that filled the air. There were no street lights back then, so we could see the onset of the moon and the stars. There was one boy. You could not tell by the look of him, but he was the strongest of us all. He climbed up the highest, swayed with the wind, showered the streets with leaves as he climbed, with the speed of a squirrel. He was scrawny, and had thick rimmed glasses. His glasses always slipped down onto his nose as he climbed – but he simply didn’t care; his eyes were set on the sun, tongue out in concentration. He sometimes stumbled, but it was always a fun joke. One leg on the tree branch and other on a root, looping into itself he sat there, comfortable in his little cradle. The sun danced on his face, as his eyes danced, looking for routes to climb, places higher to reach.

His arms and legs held onto the undulations of numerous branches, the aerial roots enveloped him in a warm embrace. The more he graced the tree with his presence, removing the knots from its weary body, the more it longed for him. Its embrace got tighter. 

Jagruti was enamoured. The tree pined for him, wishing it could assimilate him within itself. Its longing turned into desperation, all its geniality lost in translation.

And that’s what she did. There was a retching, guttural, creaking sound coming from the very core of the tree. The roots he was perched on grabbed hold of him. Tighter, faster, unforgiving. He called out to us, we called out to him. We pulled at his legs, trying to get him down. But strong, grown, Jagruti? It was way stronger than we could ever be. 

We tussled, soaking the roots with our sweat, grasping the branches with our calloused palms, but we lost.

We lost. 

And then, well. We saw his soul. We saw it, reaching the goal he never did. A ghost of who he was. Heat rose, and so did he.

The air was never the same after that. You hear the creaking even now don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. That summer was over. The sun rises again, with new glimmers at the horizon. And there are more kids. There are always more. More with the hope that they will reach the top of Jagruti! So what if the ones before them couldn’t?! They would! Everyone knows the stories they said, but they are just stories. There are no ghosts in real life silly, they would say, with the light laughter of spring.

But we still see it. We see the fumes that came out. They all try to reach the sky, but the roots sap all their souls. And the ones who did reach, in spite of all of this? They got more and more translucent. We saw Jagruti harden. And what is a tree that doesn’t sway with the wind?

You see it too, right? She sometimes looks like a shadow. A shadow that dances – dances in these artificial lights, with arms that grab and tie. Arms that look like ropes, but grab and strangle.

But still. I can’t help but pity her, you know. Jagruti. She’s a very misunderstood lady. There’s nothing she could do about her past, nothing she could do about her nature. She’s imperfect, but she tries; messy, but kind. And so I try to keep her company. She was a little hesitant at first.

I saw you that day. I saw you trying to climb Jagruti. You may not have noticed. But I did. I was walking by.

I saw the ground move. The roots were shifting – only this time, they weren’t pulling you in; they were trying to help you climb. And if you did accidentally fall, the soft ground would have cushioned you.

I am old. So very old. But I have never seen something like this. I have never seen someone like you.

You play with the ghosts. you laugh with them. You tap the ground, you coddle the roots. You ran straight into the murky air, struggling, heaving, straining. You climbed in spite of all this.

I haven’t felt young in really long. I forgot the wind. I forgot the exhilaration. I saw it on your face. I see it on your face.

It makes me feel alive.

And well, I wanted to stop you. But for the first time in forever – I’m at a loss of words.