He stood at
the edge of the browned out field, solitary in the deepening gloom of dusk,
his age
showing in his limbs, deep veined, gnarled and almost impossibly twisted,
like a
coiled rope that a wanton kid at play had twisted up and tied into wicked knots,
thin and
bent as a much used wire, hunched against the cold wind that blew at him.
He
remembered a time when he had been oh so young and so very full of dreams,
jostling for
space with other saplings in a meadow that had been full and bursting,
blustering
forth with the gaiety that is life itself, strong, straight and proud they
stood,
ready to
face the anything the world could throw as only a young innocent could.
Standing in
the shadow of the other old oaks in the meadow tall and proud,
Like roman columns
as ancient as time itself and thicker than one could even dream,
like kings towering
over all else, overseeing the land that they seemingly ruled,
not one of their
heads bowed, their bark an armour against anything at all.
He stood
beside his father and his uncles, a mere stripling trying to match them,
barely
reaching the end of their roots, knotty, curled up, running deep aground,
like a lambkin
peeping out from in between the legs of a herd, wonderstruck,
watching,
seeing and listening to everything around, absorbing everything like a sponge.
In the
summer of his youth, when he had grown into a lad trying to be a man,
and stood stronger
and taller than many of his cousins, a natural leader in the making,
he still stood
in the shadow of his father, watching him and learning from him,
like clay
that was still being formed, moulded and baked by his father’s hands and eyes.
And when he
grew tired of pretending to be a grown up, all strong, tall and resilient,
it was his
mother’s gentle whispers and soothing touch that comforted his young heart,
and made him
want to stay by her side and fall asleep listening to her soft voice
whispering,
stories of
his ancestors proud, inspiring dreams where he would be as great as they were.
Then came a
cruel wind that blew in men with their axes and saws, cruel and biting,
glinting in
the sunlight with each swing that cut into the life and limbs of his uncles,
he watched
with tears that he could not stop, the sight imprinted in his young eyes,
as each of
his elders wise fell, heavy and lifeless,
in a heap that shook the very ground.
His parents
were among the ones who fell to the cruel blades, all that was left of them,
a stump that
marked their gravestones, an epitaph that had not even been written as yet,
his dad a
man who was cut down in his all his glory and his pride, leaving behind a
child,
that was
still trying to walk in his footsteps, measuring each stride against his dad’s.
His mother a
strong woman who lived with her heart as much as his dad lived by his mind,
a comforting
touch and a soothing word for everyone around, an angel who lived to love,
t’was her
voice and her words that he missed, leaving a cold and empty space that burned,
with each
tear he shed, a black hole that yawed open where his heart should have been.
Soon the
meadow was forlorn and half empty, all the elders having been felled in their
prime,
only the too
young or the too old left there, unwanted or unusable in the eyes of the brutal
men,
everybody was
left bewildered and directionless, like paper boats carried along by a raging
river,
not knowing
where to turn, what to do, standing motionless and yet buffeted by the tides
of time.
The
son of the leader, the leadership mantle fell on him, a burden whose weight he
keenly felt,
but one that
was equally his responsibility, a cross handed from father to son to carry
forth,
needing to
appear strong and decisive by day, even when his heart quailed and
trembled,
desperately
each night for the strong hand of his father and the comforting one of his mother.
Time passed
and he grew stronger than he himself had imagined in his boyhood dreams,
towering over
the remaining few in the meadow, a new clutch of young ones now sprouted,
filling the
emptied spaces and adding to their numbers, bringing cheer to their darkened hearts,
and the oaks
thought life would go back to being normal and peaceful, the way it once had
been.
In the many
summers that passed, he found a soul mate, one who was unafraid to stand at his
side,
one who
would look him in the eye and tell him if he was wrong, unwavering in her
support always,
their shared
dreams painted a picture of a tomorrow that he had been afraid to think of by
himself,
the hole in
his heart filled up slowly with each passing day they spent entwined in their
togetherness.
Peace
reigned in the meadow and the birds came back to roost, building nests and chirping
about,
it seemed
like life itself had come back in full bloom as the oaks finally felt the peace
and quiet,
and he
looked upon his subjects and smiled a smile of contentment, holding up a nest
of mynahs,
in the crook
of his shoulder, the very same one that bore the weight of the world over the
years.
There was
that time when a woodpecker decided to nest in the that knotted cavity, going
rat-a-tat,
at odd times
in the day, often times waking him up in his siesta or breaking his train of
thought,
making his
mate laugh out loud at his attempts to shake the bird off, even as she pecked harder,
his
subjects shook to stop themselves laughing, the whole meadow quivered in
seeming delight.
On the turn
of one such happy summer, came a stealthy blight, mutilating all that it
touched,
causing ugly
warts and curling up new leaves and killing, causing even before the end of
summer,
until the
trees stark and brooding stood, like victims waiting for the inevitable axe to
fall,
cutting off
life’s blood, turning a full blown tree to rotten wood, withering life in it’s very
prime.
He watched
his family, his friends around the grove wither and drop, life ebbing with each
day,
the canopy
of green that had shielded the ground from the sun, wind and rain above,
disappearing,
brown and
ashen leaves strewed the ground below and withered bark powdered under birds
feet,
his own
branches succumbing to the sweet disease that stole through his veins, a cold
trail of death.
He and some others lived to see another summer when the cold turned back to the late summer
heat,
the cold blight
running from the heat that returned to save their brood from being wiped out
entirely,
like someone
had just taken an eraser to a beautiful drawing and completely negated its
existence,
leaving the
sheet as blank as when it had all started, save for a few lines that hadn’t been
rubbed out.
While he had
lost his limbs and now felt like a cripple who needed the help of a crutch to
stand,
but the blight
had robbed him of his mate and her empty space beside him felt like a ghost
limb,
a raw wound
that would not heal, oozing out blood every so often as freely as his tears
flowed,
for the one
who was no longer at his side and the brood that had nearly disappeared in the twilight.
Now there
were precious few of them left, scattered like chess pieces at the very end of
the game,
each waiting
for the next master stroke that they believed would be the last, scarred by
fear,
with nothing
to look forward to than mere living out their days, holding onto their fading
memories,
like so many
others who choose to find meaning in the past, ignoring their current meaninglessness.
And he then
stood nearly all alone, bereft of all he could call his own, with no kingdom to
oversee,
like a shepherd
who stood without purpose at the edge of the field, with no more sheep to tend,
his wizened
appearance that of one who had aged too early, an artist donning makeup for a
part,
in a play
that had been written by the master creator, controlled and directed by an
unseen hand.
The player
whose presence was never felt in the game and yet who had started the game
itself,
who made it
felt that he was in control until each such lesson where he ruefully learnt
otherwise,
that control
was not even an illusion in his own mind, but just a mere sleight of the
creator’s hand,
a hand that
equally blessed and took away, whose wisdom only could decide which was to be
when.
And so he
lived, while all others fell beside him, wishing he wouldn’t wake up the next
morning,
and opening
his eyes to another dawn that broke as if only to mock him of his useless
wishes,
as ever so
often another fell in the dust, the meadow being cleared slowly as if by a
magic hand,
irresolute
and unshakeable in is path, slowly but surely approaching the final chapter in
the book.
And so the
summers went, each one marking its passing on his hardened and peeling bark,
now hanging
like tatters of a ruined garment that had been overused, his branches now
bereft,
of the
leaves that once stood out like a veritable forest themselves, a canopy that protected
all,
his once
proud mien now withered and stooping, scrawny limbs stretching out in every
direction.
And looked
out each day as the sun marked its path across the sky, untiringly marking its
path,
waiting for his
turn to come, as the meadow dried up around him and all that was living died,
the once
proud purveyor who wanted to stand tall in his father’s shadow now bent down
with age,
feeling his
head cradled against his mother as her soft voice whispered to him another
night’s story.
As he held
the hand of his loved one and stared out into the setting sun, feeling her
warmth,
and her
strength even after all these years, the one he talked to and the voice he listened
to,
as he spent
each sleepless night wondering if it would be his last, an end to this living
that wasn’t,
for solitary
we must go as we came this life, one marked only by memories, others and
our own.
