April 27, 2021

I saw the pipal tree before I saw the house, battle worn warrior, silent chronicler of small things sleepless at night, mourning time through the day.

I saw the leaves wave me into the house, hardened skin softening, reaching out as I stepped under its shadow away from the fevered sun, feeling the cool breath of the pipal hold me close, safe, forever.

You, my dear, saw nothing but our new house, past the tree, past its darkening brows, gnarled limbs, half closed eyes and the sad sighing. You poured over plans, marking, chopping, changing, with red, blue and green lines –the tree a beautiful pink from where I stood. Did I forget to tell you of stories daadi made up about the pipal punishing those that would destroy it. “Fear it,” but we laughed for she could neither read not write and prayed to gods day and night.

You saw grand staircases, chandeliers, quarters for servants, garages and garden parties. I saw only the dark corners, heard whispers behind closed doors, silenced patter of tiny feet, a crescendo of hearts and a stolen kiss.

Did we both miss the shrine under the tree with shards of broken red bangles, spilt vermilion, little prints of hands in clay, rotting remains of chopped limbs of the pipal in a forgotten time? Did we?

From my window I see the sky for miles – with the tree and you gone, I wait for new leaves in the dead stump, and chant the songs daadi did with her gods in the shrine near the old pipal tree.