Sometimes when the curtains are drawn and the Sun sets to sleep, I remember my Mumma.
I've lost many past memories; they've turned into a liquefied slurry of sceneries and lights and faces, swirling around and sometimes dribbling a drop or two into my mind, where it results in nothing but confusion as I try to recall the full picture in vain.
But Mumma...my Mumma I remember. I feel it would be impossible to forget.
In the morning, when golden beams manage to spill through a gap or two between the blinds and cut bright wedges around me, an equally brilliant image of her pops in as well: the way sunlight poured through her canopy to cast various aureate shapes around me, serving as my playmates for the day.
She was beautiful in all different ways I can imagine, not only the way her viridescent leaves and weeping aerial roots drooped to the ground like a newly-wed's veil, but also how she stood her ground, how her vast trunk with the millions of ridges and furrows it had gained throughout the years protruded from the rough soil into the open sky, enormous snake like roots meandering their way across the surface, anchoring her in place. My Mumma was the most magnificent of them all, the queen of that peaceful little patch of forestry I was born in amidst the bustle of urbanization.
I was only a tiny sprout swaying in between two massive distributary-like roots, peeking through my mother's leafy awning to get a glimpse of the glassy blue sky above. They would often mistake me for a mere weed, and I didn't mind, as long as Mumma herself acknowledged me. She would ruffle her leaves and breathe into mine, saying that I would grow, grow just like her, higher and mightier, even, until I could touch the clouds, that I would become the heart of this place we lived in. "Just lean towards the light, " she advised, as rays poked through her leaves, "Lean to the light, and it'll do the rest.
"
At first it was just me, and Mumma, and the other plants who called her their queen. Then came she, one fine autumn morning, as my mother parted her aerial roots and I saw my baby sister. At dusk, when Mumma's branches would be crowded with those tittering birds, we would participate in their lively conversation. Sometimes, a bird or two would tentatively fly down to the damp ground, reach out, and as we conversed, they'd carefully pick out the miniscule bugs and ticks nestled under our leaves.
Sometimes, now, when the occasional sparrow comes to rest on the veranda, I chuckle at the memories of those chirpy friends of mine. My Mumma liked to tell stories, stories of her life and the things she'd seen, heard, felt. Me and my sister would dedicate our full attention to her as she recounted her time as a maiden tree, and how the loud city around us was once a serene countryside. Mostly, we loved hearing accounts of `The People'. "They're magical creatures.
" Mumma would muse. "They do unimaginable things, some giving life while others take it away.
"
The first time I saw "The People" was when I was quite a few months old. They looked like bamboo sticks merged on a trunk to make five branches, the top one small and getting more rounded, with a bush atop. They came in different sizes and shapes, like us trees, and they wore different colors of skins over their trunk and branches. It was peculiar, really. They came and flashed their flat little devices, making snapping sounds across the plantation. Mumma stood rigid as they uttered enthusiastic remarks. I could only catch on to one tiny snippet of it, one I can recall to this day: "The Queen Banyan".
When they left, I could tell by her features that she was worried about them returning, despite her assurances. In contrast, Sister was practically bubbling, chattering to the birds and our neighbours about "The People" in her usual vibrant tones.
Mumma was right. They did return. And that's what made me who I am today.
It was a winter, dry and flaky. Instead of the dense white envelope of fog, the sky was a sickly grey, streaks of black particulates cutting their way through before showering dust on the canopy. Then all broke loose. Soil crumbled and dust flew, clogging my senses as the very earth trembled uncontrollably. I only caught a glimpse of those huge `machines', bounding in, the noise overwhelming me as it overlapped the shrieks of my neighbours. I flailed around for Sister, and spotted her place amongst the pandemonium...but she wasn't there. Gone. Uprooted and flattened by the rollers of the machines. I gazed up at it, and saw someone behind the screen. "The People". The same ones who fascinated my baby sister so much. And all Mumma could do was stand there, holding her ground, as one of the monstrous things approached.
I don't remember the rest, and I'm glad for that.
The next thing I can recall is rumbling and lurching and pitch-black darkness, a darkness so consuming it tried to swallow me whole. I think there was a small sliver of murky light from some corner, but the dark swallowed that too, before gnawing at what now remained of me.
Then it faded. I was somewhere else, lined up along with hundreds more of others. It was a humid, fuzzy atmosphere, the air heavy with a mixtured scent of different flowers, damp soil, fertilizer, manure, rainwashed bricks, and so much more. All around me were different versions of me, small and weak and slowly ebbing away. Our roots roughly dug into the crumbly, dry soil filling plastic container. More of those `People', as they took us from place to place, ripping, digging, ripping again. My Mumma. I wondered where she was.
It faded again.
Someone called me that. The one they called my Mumma. "Banyan". It sounded nice. Like home.
I was somewhere else again. Roots loosely anchored into the caky soil. Another word. "Bonsai". I wondered what that meant.
Someone was gently fingering through my leaves and branches. I caught a glimpse of his face. One lined with experience. Like Mumma.
The next few days, months maybe, or perhaps years, went like a fast forwarded collection of reels. I was grown alongside a row of similar plants, in round sepia tobs, surviving on water that smelt of wrought iron. We, the lined tobs of plants, never felt very inclined to share our stories. Perhaps because we didn't remember it. Perhaps we didn't want to. I knew I didn't. I wondered where Mumma was. There was one thing, though. There was light. I remembered what Mumma said. "Lean to the light.
" So I obeyed.
But then it was gone. I was in a different place. Colder and dimmer. I had learnt another term. "Human". There he was, the one with the lines in his face like my mother's. His gnarled, calloused hands were soft and gentle on me. For a split second, I felt hope.
Snip. And a crunch and a small thud as one of my branches landed at my roots. Why? Snip again, and again, until it was joined by more, my leaves and branches which had just seen the light. Then came the wires. They curled around what remained of me like the snakes that used to come out during monsoon, wrapping and bending and binding. Splints all over me.
I had become better at understanding them. Humans. They said I didn't feel the pain. Which must be true, I didn't even know what pain meant. But I wished it would be over. I wished I could go back to Mumma, stay in her shade, listen to her stories. Lean to the light. There was barely any now.
More cutting, wiring. They called it pruning. Said it made me beautiful. Aesthetic. Needles. Needles and syringes, piercing the loose soil into my roots. I wondered what they did.
All I had to do was grow. That was it. Grow. Hold my head up high into the sky, like Mumma. Then they couldn't keep me anymore.
But, I didn't. The tiny sprout by the porch had become quite large now. But I hadn't. I was still here, in my sepia tob.
I still am now.
They come to see me. Call me beautiful. A natural wonder. But not with the awe that made their eyes glow when they saw my mother. I was different. Beautiful, aesthetically pleasing, yes. But not natural. Not my mother.
They try, but they can't hide that unease from their eyes. I don't blame them. They have a new word for me now, "Bonsai".
Light is pouring through the window now. Inviting me. Lean. I try. I really do. But I can't. I hope Mumma understands. She always did. I love you.
