A Leaf in The Wind
A Leaf in The Wind
I stand tall; tall and alone. I survey the land around me mile upon mile; all who pass ‘neath me, o’er
me, or filter thru’ my boughs sing praises to me. They marvel at my generous expanse, the way my
branches reach out to the sun, the way I shelter those that needs be sheltered, the way I feed those
that needs be fed.
I am a mango tree, and this monsoon I will greet my friend the rain for the three hundredth year in a
row. It is indeed a long time, and only the teak tree on the hill across the valley has seen more
summers than I. My gnarled roots tremble ‘neath the earth, holding firm to the soil and every once
in a while my branches shiver and sigh in the afternoon wind. From within my outer trunk runs
amber coloured sap, all the way up to my crown, invigorating and nourishing every twig, every leaf
and every stalk.
My bosom is heavy, laden with mangoes; most have been plucked early by the master of the house,
to ripen under his watchful eye. However, some matured early on the vine, to the delight of the
crows and the palm squirrels; the village boys did justice to the rest. A few raw mangoes fell in the
strong wind that usually sweeps through the hills just before the monsoons; the women in the
village collected these to spice up their curries. The master of the house didn’t mind; he proudly
proclaimed that I am mighty enough to feed everyone-- the birds of the air, the people of the village
and the members of his family. Nevertheless, he asked the man whom he hired to pluck the
mangoes to come a good two weeks earlier the following mango season.
I am no mean mango tree; my fruits are king size, almost twice the size of a Mankurad mango. I
come from the family of Alphonso, the king of the mangoes of the Konkan region of coastal
Maharashtra and Goa. My fruit is highly prized; in the bazaar half a dozen mangoes will fetch a
thousand rupees, well beyond the reach of the common man.
Sometimes, the master’s son rests in my limbs, reading an Amar Chitra Katha comic; sometimes, the
master himself climbs up into my branches and fetches a fruit for himself. In summer they hang a
hammock from my powerful arms to escape the sweltering heat.
The magpie robin nests annually in one of my hollows, and sometimes a bronzeback tree snake
slithers up my bole, hoping to surprise a gecko. The red soldier ants have also made a home in my
foliage, but everyone wisely gives them a wide berth.
I am a mango tree, tall and strong. I fear none, not the south westerly stormy winds that blow inland
from the Arabian Sea nor the concrete jungle that is fast closing in on me.
When my time comes to go, I will not tarry, like the leaves that float softly to the ground. For I know,
I am already grist to the mill: in the corner of this garden, there is a little sapling, another royal
Alphonso reaching for the sun.