The Hindu Business Line : 60 years gone by, nation holds precious little

"I was born 60 years ago. Like my country. The lady who planted me is about 70 years old and has lived all her life in the same flat across the road. Now I am a tall and strong banyan tree and often let down my hair in profusion; I peep into her house, pass on a bit of the wind which blows over me and when in the mood talk with her.

"Every morning she comes to the window with a cup of coffee, sits on a large cane chair and examines the nests of birds when it is nesting time. It is mostly the crows who build nests and unknowingly lease it to the koyal; in the fruiting season, parakeets, warblers, magpie robins and others visit me through the day. For me that's the best time of the year as one always has some company. Sometimes the lady scribbles for hours on a fat notebook.

"For some reason, the lady never married; after the death of her parents, she lives in the apartment alone. I believe she worked as a journalist in some business newspaper and now lives a retired life. Till she worked, the phone rang continuously; visitors searched her out; the phone does not trill anymore; she lives within herself.

"After her morning and evening walks, she rests on the stone bench built round my trunk. With something close to a smile she nods at some of the permanent residents of the area but rarely talks to them. Over the last week, she has stopped parking herself on the stone bench after a few women placed a few gods and goddesses at the base of my trunk and prayed loudly. After lighting a few diyas, they tied a white thread round me and performed aarati.

"One day, a family came and planted an ochre flag and the National flag on one of the branches. It was shortly followed by a crowd which fitted a mike to spray some prayers on the devout. I have become a god and have lost out on my birds and the lady. I feel a bit sad and a bit happy. Sad because I have been left alone; happy as the municipality will not cut me down with all the gods and goddesses for company. Or, that is what I hope."

It was a Republic Day essay in Hindi which one read on the paper-wrapper after eating bhel puri a Sunday evening in Borivili. Shyamala, the ninth class student, had got 9 marks out of 10 for the essay and she should be good at stitching tales. The banyan tree speaks of the years when he was young and part of a forest. One asked the bhel puriwala where he got the sheaf of answer papers and he pointed to a coaching class nearby. "Every month the school kids dump a lot of used paper on me as I am always in need of them," he said.

I have preserved the answer paper for future reference, as the banyan tree is as old as India. Possibly, India has the same tale to tell.

Unlike the banyan tree, India was born in a fit of wild fury with none caring for the peace prayer of an old man called Gandhi. We had to shoot him as otherwise the Old Man would have been a bigger nuisance. Whining like one's conscience. The man stands wasted on India. Only a firm trace of guilt remains. Every government office has a picture of Gandhi with some in a meditative pose.

It is like the fading, framed pictures of past generations and the many gods nailed to the walls of our homes. Years rolled by and the country settled down in the belief that the next day would be better than the previous day. This writer has a black and white picture of Nehru bending over with laughter in the company of the Mountabattens taken by one of the major artists of the 20th century, Henri Cartier-Bresson. Does anyone laugh like that anymore? There is the sarcastic sneer or the lewd guffaw. Has anyone come across the Common Man of Laxman in a jovial mood? Like Jeeves, the Common Man helps you have a laugh at his expense. A photo caption run on the death of Henri said evocatively: "Cartier-Bresson was master of the decisive moment." The caption writer had poetry running in him.

After Nehru, a grimness descended which continues to hold the nation in thrall. It does not seem to lift. For a few moments one thought Dr Manmohan Singh as the Finance Minister, will bring back a little cheer. As the Prime Minister, Dr Singh is a disappointment. In 2006, there are more prayers and more temples with the Indian no wit happier. If someone runs a poll on what today's young men and women want, the replies could well be: "We want a US or Australian visa. We want to leave India. There is nothing for us here." If they are reminded that life is not that easy in white man's land they will admit: "We will have to work hard. With that we can buy a comfortable life."

They will remind you that the young of the ruling political and business elite have built nests abroad and will scoot when the weather turns stormy. India holds precious little, if anything. Except for the 60-year-old banyan tree and the aged lady journalist.

P. Devarajan

More Stories on : Politics | Reflections | Lifestyle

Article E-Mail :: Comment :: Syndication :: Printer Friendly Page

Stories in this Section
60 years gone by, nation holds precious little

Home-grown variety

Virgin is James Bond's new flying partner

Memorable moments

Sudoku