Tree House

Do you also associate smells and tastes with memories? I might have an idea how our brain works. When we are eight, we hardly have enough references of the hardships that life is strewn through. As children, we are bestowed with the divine gift of non-judgement. Acceptance is all that a child knows and embraces everything that he has been divinely provided, with open arms and heart. I vividly remember that particular afternoon, of the many similar ones that I am blessed to have experienced during my childhood. The tree house, which was newly built by my father, who observed my wishful eyes every time I saw one, was synonymous to paradise for me. I had requested my mother to sew pink curtains for the windows which she obliged by buying the prettiest under toned pink muslin which only let a faint pinkish portion of light through and obstructed the rest, undesired part to the world outside. The tree house was just big enough to house me and two more of my friends if I needed them to be a part of my dreamy abode. However, it could accommodate my entire doll family and there could still be space for another family, just in case the eldest daughter doll wished to get married to a handsome boy doll. There was also a little cupboard in one corner of the tree house so I could organize all my cute stuff inside and let the rest of the house be clean and well managed to make room for sitting. The house also had a chest which seemed giant at that time, considering my age and size, and a shelf that also came in handy, just in case I decided to get all my toys over to the tree house. I never did though. I liked the space in there and used it to relax and get my mind off the homework stress. The ladder to the tree house was designed perfectly by my much too caring father keeping in view, all the possibilities that could result in accidents. The edges were rubbed until smooth and injury proof, the rails were at the level of my elbows and the height difference between two steps was small enough for my eight-year-old feet to feel comfortable about. In short, I was the princess of my castle and I humbly accepted the crown-less designation, if a tiara doesn’t qualify for a crown.

That afternoon, I sat quietly on a small rustic chair that was bought by my parents as a gift on my eighth birthday, sipping cold tap water through my royal, almost British, China cups. The wind blew in unfiltered through the open wooden windows and disappeared somewhere in the empty space after playing with the pink curtains and my light brown hair. At times, the breeze brought the smell of daffodils along, that tingled my senses and went straight up in the part of my head where happy memories were being etched forever. The birds sang in the distance celebrating the summer sun shining bright and proud. I hung my head out of the window, supporting my hands on little windowsills. The leaves on the grass danced around at the rhythm of the wind. A grasshopper sat on a long grass blade, stroking its head and eyes again and again. Ripe berries kept falling off a distant tree in effect of the breeze swaying its overloaded self. My eyes started to feel heavy at this view, just like they were at this moment, in the present. Living in memories of the past, I almost forgot where I was presently, and as I found my eyes starting to shut, I heard them outside.

“Look at this”, one of the kidnappers said, “a tunnel. I should have known about this earlier. She hid it well.”

“I knew we could not keep her in trap for a long time” said another.

“But you said we could get our hands on a sum of a couple of million dollars through her.”

“Yes. We could. If she could give us access to her bank accounts. She owned a very profitable company.”

“She would. She told me she had rich parents.”

“You fool. She never had rich parents. She never even had parents. She was an orphan.”

“But how come you know so much about her?”

“Because we were in the same orphanage. All the kids in the orphanage were crazy about her. She had something in her that made us feel everything was good and happy. This was her coping mechanism where she lived in a beautiful world in her mind and the real problems became less painful to her. She made us also believe on this system. We started imagining a world different from what we lived in. The food tasted yummier than it was, the clothes seemed prettier than they were, and the orphanage was our castle.”

“So cool. Then why did you kidnap her?”

“Because she was wrong. She showed us a different world. It is not happy and jolly out there, it was brutal. When we faced reality we realized, there were no castles, no subjects ready for our needs, no food on the table when we wanted. In fact, it was totally opposite. People were ready to eat us alive, if need arose. If we couldn’t modify ourselves to suit this world, we wouldn’t have survived.”

“But she still managed to make it big, continuing to go her way.”

The other one paused a little then asked him to go out and search for me. The hesitance was more apparent in his pause than it could be in words, proving who exactly was the failure.

A thin beam of light managed to make its way through the gap in the doors of the cupboard where I was. The smell of wood was familiar. It reminded me of my tree house, and everything was perfect again. I shut my eyes and left everything that was to happen on that stretch of peaceful nap.

I did not know how much time had passed when I woke up. The idea of the tunnel had worked. I couldn’t have escaped through it though. I didn’t know where I was and if I could go far. But it acted as a well-planned alibi. By the time I woke up, they had left the building and gone out to search for me. I carefully came out of the cupboard to scan for the presence of any human in my vicinity. There was none. Then I picked up the spoon that had helped me dig the tunnel before making my way out, to keep it as a souvenir to remember yet another glory achieved in this lifetime. I like to believe that if I can imagine I’m a warrior, then I, most certainly, am.