Pratishtha Pandya

Labani Jangi

Illustration

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“It happened so suddenly that afternoon!” “I know. The storm was bad. Wasn’t it?”“Well, I guess the tree was also quite old. This one had been here since we moved into this society, five decades ago.”  “Anyway, it was dangerous the way it was leaning on one side. And that Abdul’s tapri underneath was also big nuisance. Bats at night and the brats all day. I hated it.”“What a sound that was! Heh, na?”It has been 36 hours since the Municipality’s emergency help arrived and cleared the tree blocking the apartment gate. But people would not stop talking about it: how strange, how shocking, how sudden, oh so scary, so lucky. Sometimes she wonders if everyone ever sees the same things, the world as she does. Did they know he was there that afternoon? Did anyone see him die? The rain was still heavy,  when she got out from the auto near Abdul Chacha’s shop. There was waterlogging on the road and the autowallah refused to go any further. Chacha recognised her, came running with an umbrella and handed it over to her without a word. He nodded his head. She understood, accepted it with a smile, a return nod, and began crossing the waterlogged road to reach the apartment a little further away.  Not for a minute did she think that the climate was changing. An hour later when she rushed to the window on hearing the crashing sound it seemed like some new forest had come rushing to the main road. It took a while before she started noticing, in the distance the old tree now fallen. And peeping like a white dove from a tree hole, a taqiyah, his skullcap.

The Old TreeWho do you think watches the sun climb over leaves, a chameleon turning from lime to gold-green to deep forest to orange, to rust... who keeps the count when leaves fall, one after another? Who notices the greying of the resolve, time meditating, precariously, on brittle branches, or the chew marks left by tree squirrels scurrying up and down the trunk hunting for God knows what? Who watches the army of carpenter ants drilling holes in the confident bark? who sees the trunk tremble in the dark? Who smells the storm rising in the tree rings, and springs that wilt inside or hang uninvitingly, a bunch of mushrooms along the trunk?Who fathoms the depths of my roots, the blind distance they dig, the colour of the last hope they search in the aquifer? Who feels my ever tightening grip on the slippery soil, the drying of the sap in my veins scorched by forest fire? They only see the final fall. This poem was first published in a climate anthology titled Count Every Breath. Ed. Vinita Agrawal, Hawakal Publishers, 2023.

An ancient tree, a changing climate

ایک بوڑھے درخت کا گرنا

ஒரு பழைய மரமும் மாறும் காலநிலையும்

ਇੱਕ ਪ੍ਰਾਚੀਨ ਰੁੱਖ ਤੇ ਬਦਲਦੀ ਜਲਵਾਯੂ

ପ୍ରାଚୀନ ବୃକ୍ଷ, ପରିବର୍ତ୍ତନଶୀଳ ଜଳବାୟୁ

ഒരു പുരാതന വൃക്ഷം, മാറുന്ന കാലാവസ്ഥ

ಒಂದು ಪ್ರಾಚೀನ ಮರ ಮತ್ತು ಬದಲಾಗುತ್ತಿರುವ ಹವಾಮಾನ

एक बूढ़े दरख़्त का गिरना

जुन्ना रुख, बदलत मऊसम

आउर दशकन पुरान गाछ गिर पड़ल

বৃদ্ধ বনস্পতি, বিবর্তিত বাতাবরণ

এজোপা প্ৰাচীন গছ আৰু জলবায়ু পৰিৱৰ্তন

એક પુરાણું ઝાડ, ને દેશની બદલાતી આબોહવા

Bengaluru

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ہمارے بارے میں جانیں

پاری میں آپ کا خیرمقدم ہے

گے۔ اگر آپ کو ہمارا کام پسند ہے، تو آپ ہمارے رضاکار بن کر ہمارا تعاون کر سکتے ہیں یا ہماری مالی مدد کر سکتے ہیں، تاکہ ہم اپنا کام جاری رکھ سکیں۔

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An ancient tree, a changing climate

A poem about human apathy towards climate change also speaks of the changing social and political environment in India

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