Out Of My Tree!

February ’76

“What does she even teach them?” Jay Ranjan snarled, walking languidly with his groupies up the unpaved road that led to the spot, making her shape out from a distance. 

“Who knows,” Santosh replied, kicking an empty aluminum can, raising tiny swirls of dust.

“Could’ve stayed home, sewed, knitted, cooked - done anything but decides to teach instead. Strange!” Raju quipped, eager to join the conversation. 

“She can do whatever she wants,” Jay said, “as long as she stays away from...my tree,” He wanted to say ‘my property’, but held his tongue. 

The tree wasn’t an ordinary one. Planted a century ago by Jay’s great-grandfather, the banyan stood at Barkheda village’s highest point, away from the rest of the settlement. A path connected Jay’s house, a sprawling three-storied bungalow, to the windy hilltop where the banyan stood, offering a vantage view of the community and its milling crowds. It occupied the Ranjans’ private land and, for many years, was treated as the family’s private property. Ordinary folk stayed respectfully away as Jay spent hours under the tree reading or playing cricket or even sleeping on his beloved charpoy under the starry sky on nights that were too hot to sleep indoors. He called the tree and the hilltop ‘Hawai Qila’, or ‘The Windy Fortress’. The name stuck. 

Until Mira Kumari decided to mix things up. She arrived at Barkheda with her father, the village’s new postman, noticed the absence of a school, and decided to put her twelve years of school education to good use. 

She began to assemble kids at Hawai Qila and teach them whatever she knew - the alphabet, elementary math, science, social studies. As children turned up for Mira’s classes, adults started assembling there, too. Jay’s private retreat and the symbol of his family’s ancestral supremacy now became the venue for everything - from school lessons to evening plays to fairs to village meetings. 

“Take a break, ma’am ji. How long will you torture the suffering souls?” Mantu, Jay’s oldest lackey commented.

Standing barely five feet and some inches tall, clad in a yellow long shirt, brown pants, and a crimson scarf thrown carelessly across her chest, Mira looked ludicrous to them. One hand planted on her waist, she held a piece of chalk with the other, writing furiously across the blackboard. Jay saw basic math sums scribbled in white. 

The children sat on canvas mats laid out on the ground made uneven by the tree’s thick, hard roots expanding in all directions. Aged 5 to 16, they were all learning the same lessons. Some could barely keep their eyes open, others were openly snoring. Those who sat in the front looked relatively awake.

Groggy or alert, all sat with the thick, glossy leaves of the banyan forming a thick canopy over their heads, casting a generous shade and keeping them protected from the punishing heat. 

Mira ignored Mantu and turned to Jay. “Namaste, Jay ji. The class has just begun; it’s not even one yet,” The girl was older than Jay, but she knew better than to address the village’s most powerful man’s son only by his name, without an honorific. 

`“With whose permission are you doing this?”

Mira remained quiet.

“This is my property. Get off it,” Jay couldn’t resist bringing in the ownership angle. 

Everyone was silent. The only sounds came from the chirping mynahs perched on the crisscrossing branches several feet above the quibbling humans. 

“Your father doesn’t have a problem.”

“Just take your children and leave. Do this anywhere but here.”

***

“Where will they go? There are 20 kids attending her classes now. This village has no community center, no school, nowhere they can sit and study,” Ashok Ranjan grunted, staring fixedly at a spot below his grandfather’s portrait hung on the eastern wall of their dining hall. 

“I don’t see why we must be an endless source of help for everyone in Barkheda,” Jay mumbled.

Ashok didn’t say anything. Everyone knew the answer. As the village head, Jay’s father’s popularity often rested less on real work and more on overt displays of paternalistic benevolence. But that wasn’t all. The 60-year-old’s heart was set on a bigger prize - a seat in the state legislative assembly that was decided by popular vote. He couldn’t risk ruining his 'selfless benefactor' image over a piece of land or the tree that stood on it.

“I wanted that spot for myself,” Jay mumbled, pushing his dinner around on his plate.

“Why?”

“For some peace and quiet.” 

“Listen, Jay,” Ashok said in a tired tone. “Your room has one door opening into a private lawn, another into a bathroom that’s bigger than most homes in Barkheda, and a third into a corridor with seven bedrooms. On each side. If you want more peace and quiet than this, I suggest you move to the Himalayas, although I fear the yogis would tire of your whining and run screaming back to the plains.”

“Shall I ask the cook to bring in the desserts?” Nina Devi spoke. Ashok’s wife of thirty years, Nina often played peacekeeper to the feuding men of the Ranjan family.

Silence. Nina breathed deeply and began: “That tree, the ‘Hawai Qila’ as you so fondly named it, belongs to everyone, son. Maybe not on paper but in spirit.”  

“No, it doesn’t. It makes me mad to see that girl there with her dumb blackboard with the kids sitting like idiots on the ground.”

“Be that as it may, you must ignore her shenanigans. She’ll get married soon and her great project will fall apart anyway. You, on the other hand, have a future brighter than the brightest constellations in the sky. You’ve cracked engineering; now complete your studies and make something of yourself. Delhi’s waiting for you. And your tree isn’t going anywhere.” 

*** 

September ’84

The men waited with garlands, the women blessed him from afar, and the children showered rose petals as he stepped out from his government-issued vehicle - a shiny white Ambassador with the awe-inspiring blue beacon sitting on top. Jay had left Barkheda as a young engineer-to-be and returned as a member of the prestigious Indian administrative services. It called for a grand reception.

The atmosphere at home was upbeat. Jay walked into the assembly room to find his father on his leather couch, hunched over piles of paper, surrounded by several men - all trying to speak to him at the same time. When Ashok saw his son he stood up, walked across the room, and threw his arms around him.

“I cannot find words to express my feelings. My son, the district magistrate…,” overcome with emotions, he couldn’t finish his sentence. 

“Not yet, father. And I could do it because I had your blessings,” Jay said, before adding, “and those of Barkheda’s every man, woman, and child.”

Someone sniffed aloud. Jay knew how to work a room. 

“Eaten anything? How long will you be here?”

“I’m not hungry,” Jay said. “I’m thinking I’ll meet Santosh and the others”.

Ashok froze at those words. ‘Meeting Santosh and the others’ only ever happened at the banyan. 

“Don’t go about stirring trouble,” Ashok said, returning to his work. The father-son reunion was over.

***

What he saw at Hawai Qila made his heart sink. A concrete platform around the banyan. Two huge canopies where classes were in progress. Some areas marked for outdoor sport.

His elite officers’ training emphasized, above all, the need to keep emotions in check, no matter what the provocation. So he went back home, hoping to rest and relax. But calmness eluded him, so by late evening he found himself on his way to his sworn nemesis.

“So now there are canopies under the tree? What next? A state-of-the-art school? Management institutes? A medical college?” Jay said, walking assertively into the ramshackle structure that Mira called ‘her office’. It was after eight, late for Barkheda, but Mira was still at work. Her face was barely visible by the sickly light of the kerosene lantern, but it was her alright. 

“The bird droppings made the children…uncomfortable,” Mira said, putting her pen down. 

“Stop abusing my father’s generosity already.” 

“Your father’s been trying to get teachers and volunteers from the city to join us,” Mira said, searching Jay’s face. He looked upset, so she decided to change her tactics. “Every Barkheda child aspires to be like you, an IAS officer. You are their hero. They want to study so that…”

“What’s the capital of Canada?” 

Mira wanted to say Ottawa but feared getting it wrong.

“Clearly they’re being coached by the best,” Jay said, immediately regretting his words. He wanted to settle this peacefully. “I know you mean well, but this is a waste of time. These kids need useful skills, not formulas that won’t take them anywhere.”

“Useful skills? Like what?”

“Plumbing. Car repair. Canal digging. Skills that might help them - and our nation. We are a newly independent country, Mira. We need builders of infrastructure more than clerks. Roads, ports, power stations, railway junctions. We need all kinds of workers, not just pen-pushers.”

“With your ilk leading the charge and the poor folk following you in their grease-stained coveralls?”

Jay stepped closer to Mira, dropped his voice to a whisper, and said, “Don’t make them hope for the impossible. There are no white-collared jobs out there. The few that are there are super difficult to land. I lost my mind writing exam after exam; what hope do these kids have?” 

Mira couldn’t resist retorting. “You wouldn't ask your nephews to give up hope.” 

Mira had now risen to her full height. A foot shorter than him, she was standing so close to Jay he could mostly just see the top of her head. He took a step back to see her clearly. 

She had lost weight. Her cheeks were gaunt and her eyes, though still defiant, now had dark circles underlining them. Her clothes were the same mishmash of colors, but now they hung loosely around her. Only her hair had escaped unharmed from Barkheda’s dusty, damaging winds. Tied in a braid, it was still the deepest shade of black. 

Suddenly he felt an urge to touch her face. Run a finger down her neck. Hug her so tight that she would crumble to pieces and disappear into the mud floor, never to be seen again.  

Or maybe just let her know how much he had always admired her. How six years away from her had done nothing to ease his longing for her. How every time he felt close to giving up, the memory of her courage and dedication inspired him to try harder.

But this was Barkheda, where arranged marriages were the norm and all other forms of courtship were frowned upon, especially those that occurred across castes. He had to tread carefully.

Gathering his courage, Jay began: “I’ve been…”

They killed him, Didi! They murdered him!” 

It was Ramdin, the blacksmith, leaning against the door frame, panting hard. 

“Hurry up…” Ramdin said, already walking back into the darkness.

*** 

He was alive. Barely so.

Mira knew the boy laying on the tatami mat - it was Chotu, a moderately bright 15-year-old student. The room was more shadows than light, but she could clearly see his ugly, blue bruises. 

“Thrashed a boy so mercilessly! How could they?” Chotu’s mother roared in anguish. 

“Who told him to loiter after the classes? And with a girl from another caste too,” Madan, Chotu’s neighbor spoke up. Jay was there, and he didn’t want to risk the ire of his family.  

“So? Even animals don’t deserve to treated like that,” Chotu’s mother now directly addressed Jay.

“The land is theirs. The holy banyan is theirs,” Madan spoke as if on Jay’s behalf. 

Jay stayed quiet. Arms crossed on his chest, he felt complicit in the violence. 

“Let’s take him to the hospital,” Mira said. 

“We could take my car…”

“No, thanks. He was beaten up, not shot at. He’ll survive a bullock-cart ride,” she said, with an air of finality. 

***  

July, ’90

“Dear brothers and sisters…”

The microphone squealed. Someone rushed to the mixer to check the controls. The noise settled down. 

Ashok Ranjan cleared his throat and continued. “The news of my imminent departure for London to live with my eldest son must have reached you. But I must tell you it pains me deeply to do this. I’m not selling my land; I’m parting with a piece of my heart. I’m not leaving Barkheda; I’m leaving my soul behind.”

A murmur arose in the crowd. Someone started quietly sobbing. If the Ranjans’ land changed hands, Hawai Qila was sure to go. The banyan was sure to be struck down. 

The children didn’t know what was happening, so they continued to enjoy the grand fair, running from rides to candy corners to toy-sellers. 

Ashok cleared his throat again. His back pain was getting worse, and he was feeling feverish too. But he wanted to get this over with, so he went on. 

“Barkheda’s land sale will benefit you all. The buyer - our state’s biggest builder - has assured that all of you will receive the best compensation and be relocated to a settlement closer to the city.”

Jay stood listening to his father’s speech from the front row. He knew why he was doing this. Ashok was the frontrunner for the MLA seat up until his political hara-kiri six years ago. He had hoped Chotu and his broken leg would be forgotten, except that it was endlessly reported in local papers, flogged to death by the rival candidate, and never allowed to fade from public memory. 

Ashok lived through one election loss, but the second defeat left him a bitter, broken man. 

As a peace offering to the locals, Nina Devi had suggested one final grand feast at the Hawai Qila. Ashok wanted none of it, but he finally relented.

“I promise I’ll return to Barkheda. I’ll breathe my last here…I…” Ashok couldn’t go on. The pain in his chest was now radiating through his shoulder to his arm - right up to his jaw. His legs gave way.

Jay rushed to his father. “Any doctor here?” He shouted in desperation. The nearest hospital was 11 kilometers away. 

“Make way; there’s someone here! Make way, everyone!” 

***

“It was Chotu, the boy your men left for dead six years ago,” Mira said when Jay asked her who had saved his father’s life. 

Jay flinched at her words but didn’t protest. Inheritance was an all-or-nothing deal. If Hawai Qila was his, so were the bigots who worked for his father, ready to kill intruders at the slightest provocation. 

They were sitting under the banyan. The place looked dull - the impending sale had disrupted everything in Barkheda, including Mira’s classes. Parents were no longer sending their children there. 

“How did he know CPR?”

“He works as a paramedic at the district hospital. It was pure luck he was at the banyan when the stroke occurred - it was his first visit to Hawai Qila since…you know when.” 

“Oh.”

“My classes weren’t entirely unnecessary.”

“Not at all.”

“The idea was never to know the state capitals. It was to keep boys like him…occupied.”

Jay didn’t say anything, so Mira went on.

“Chotu went there that night to seek closure. Your tree reminded him of his humiliation, but it was also where he got the education that took him to a steady career, away from a life of poverty, desperation, and maybe even crime.” 

Mira sure knew how to make her point. 

“Also in a way the tree blessed him - the injury got him a handicap certificate, which landed him the hospital job.”

“I could get him a better job.”

“Let him be. He’s doing well for himself.”

 Jay watched Mira’s face for a few seconds, then looked away. Thick clouds were gathering over the horizon, roiling noisily, partly obscuring the setting sun. The sky was a lovely shade of carmine. It would rain soon. He had to make his move.

"What are your plans now?”

“I’m finally doing my B. Ed. Once - if - I get the degree I might apply for a primary teacher’s job at Lakhimganj,” Mira said.

Jay decided to continue, even more awkwardly. “You know there are great opportunities for people like you in the capital. You may be able to help the villagers better if you…come with me,” Jay finished lamely. 

Mira was confused for a moment, but then understood what he was getting at. 

“You remember that ugly concrete structure they built some years ago around your tree? We had to remove it - you know why?” 

“You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t know the answer. Go ahead. Enlighten me.”

“The concrete wouldn’t let the tree breathe. As firm and unbothered it looked from the outside, it was withering from within.”

Jay sighed. 

“I’m asking you to not be the concrete to my tree.” 

“I understood the analogy.” 

“Because Barkheda is like wind, soil, and water, and being your wife will…”

“I got it. How daft do you think I am?”

“Very, because you know well that if I leave Barkheda with you, my family will pay for it. They broke Chotu’s leg for holding a girl’s hand. If I leave with you they aren’t going to stop at ‘nearly dead’.” 

Jay understood, except that he didn’t want to give up. He knew he’ll make it happen.

“But you do know you can do something else for us, right?”

He did. Jay stood up, brushed the dust off his pants, and started to leave. The builder’s visit was a few days away. He'll save their tree. For Barkheda. For her.