The tree of life called mother

We have a lemon tree at home planted by my mother, brought on the spur of the moment from a self-respecting beggar who did not want alms but wanted to earn money by selling saplings. He assured her the plant would yield good-quality lemons. We couldn’t know but later it seemed that the lemon tree had chosen our home, not vice versa.

The plant took roots. Whenever the wind passed through the burgeoning shrub, wafts of lemon-scented air filled the house. It made no demands in terms of watering or manuring but blossomed on its own. The first fruits were actually of good quality, seedless, soft skinned lemons, and we were happy. Sometimes, the wrong train takes you to the right station. It was not a planned tree but it came to be the best loved.

One day I got a call from my mother that the tree had fallen and broken from the stem because of the heavy wind and rainfall the previous night. She wanted me to come and have a look whether it could be saved.

I was to have coffee with a colleague that evening but postponed it, as saving the tree took precedence. A well-known dialogue from an iconic Bollywood film came to my mind, “Bahut na insaafi hai”.

I visited home in the evening to assess the damage. It seemed as if the plant was asking me not to let it die without a fight.

"Khaak se khilta hoon

Shaakh pe hilta hoon

Jo rang bikhara

Jo khushboo uthi

woh tumhari"

So, with the help of Ustadji, our handyman, we made the tree stand erect again with the support of a solid branch of another tree, and ‘bandaged’ the damaged stem with mulch and manure, and hoped that the damage was not permanent. It did shed all of its leaves once but it survived.

The coffee friend called to ask whether the tree survived or not, and I gloated that it did, telling her foolishly that with good intentions anything could be made whole. The tree grew and thrived, and is currently a full-grown tree which has risen up the boundary wall, with branches both inside and outside the house.

Twice a year, the tree would be full of lemons, and mom would get special bags to collect them and would gift the fragrant, organic lemons to any visitor. The lemons thus reached far and wide, turning into nimbu pani, achaar and whatnot.

We had another tree at home — in words of poet Prof Mohan Singh “ghan chhavan boota” — our mother. This one could sing melodiously. Coming from an ordinary family but extraordinary lineage of simplicity and grace, she had three biological offspring and honed the minds of hundreds, maybe thousands of young men and women, as her students — on how to read and enjoy the likes of Henry James and Arthur Miller et al over a teaching career spanning 35 years.

All who knew her, spoke of her erudition and gentleness, no competition with anyone, simple stress-free life….

My friend, a tea connoisseur, after having tea made by mom, declared that she never ever had such a flavourful tea. The ice cream my mother made from ghiya (bottle gourd) was legendary among her small but well-knit social circle.

One day I got a call from my father that mom has had a fall and a fracture of a thigh bone, which necessitated a surgery. But she made good recovery, though she limped for some time which was expected. But post-surgery X-rays pointed out another issue which was happening unbeknownst to us — multiple myeloma. And again I was reminded of the same sentiment, “Bahut na insaafi hai”.

Her movements slowed down but she continued to write and sing poems and started eating more ice-cream and marmalades, becoming half woman, half child. Ustadji’s wife Amarjit adopted her as her own mother and served her with a dedication which defied common norms. It was based on pure love and respect. Our father became stoic and took care of my mother like a baby, and we siblings, as well as the occasional visitors, relished the human touch, the safety, security and comfort in the gentle caress of her finger or the brush of lips on her soft cheek.

Despite my father’s realistic approach to life, my mother did not want realism. She must have wanted magic. She never complained even once. No dissatisfactions, no anxieties about the future, or worries that her life was difficult. At times, it felt that she misrepresented things so that we would not worry. She did not tell the stark truth but what ought to be true.

And we hovered between light and dark, between hope and despair.

“Shab-e-intezaar aakhir

Kabhi hogi mukhtsar bhi

Ye chirag bujh rahein hain

Merey saath jaltey jaltay…”

She once had quoted on being asked whether she was afraid of death.

Whenever any of us would tell her “You are a strong woman”, she would ask “Am I?”

This tree, this "ghan chhavan boota", we realised, was not going to be whole despite the best of intentions and the most fervent of prayers.

And when it was time, she went away quietly. She became a Sufi, thankful for what she was given as also for what she was denied.

I am quite sure she is being chased by mad raindrops and golden sunrays at this moment.

I will end my homage to her with a poem from Walt Whitman, who was her and my favourite poet.

“O Me! O life! of the questions of these recurring…

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

That you are here — that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”

My verse for my mom would be

“In the misty moonlight

by the flickering firelight

In a faraway land

On the tropical sea sand

Way up on a mountain

Way down in a valley

She is now dancing

wearing a river’s disguise...

Whimsical, windblown, windswept….”

The hole in our life by her physical absence is permanent. But there is a full-grown lemon tree at home reminding us that one has to grow around the holes like tree roots do.

Hargunjit Kaur, Chandigarh