A tale of two trees

In front of our flat in Delhi, there is a large silk cotton tree. While this is flanked by other makes and species, and is partially obscured by a brash Ashoka that started as an upstart shrub, it is the ‘semul’ or cotton tree that dominates the windows and balcony. As the day passes and the seasons change, the tree, expectedly, changes. When the power goes off, as it occasionally does, the drama in the tree provides greater delight than numerous TV shows.

The morning begins with a race up and down the tree’s trunk by a drey of squirrels — or are those chipmunks? I don’t know the difference. But they are frisky, ‘kinda cute’ and have long, bushy tails. They seem to have nothing better to do than lose calories in their fidgety scurry for food and whatever else that they fill their days with. Having got its waking and sleeping cycles all wrong, the occasional rat also races along a parapet by the tree and dives headlong into the bowl of grain that has been left out for the birds by our neighbours. Then is the turn of the parakeets, who announce their arrival, or departure, with loud screeches.

The highest branches are taken by a pair of kites, whose sharp eyes search for prey and then, with a sudden swoop, off they go to grab their next meal. Quite like squatters, bulbuls and barbets arrive to claim space on vacant branches and refuse to budge. When the flowers emerge a bright red in early spring, is when the fruit bats arrive and the evening hours are taken over by these unusual pollinators.

The other tree is in the hills and is one that I have known all my life. This is euonymus, sometimes called a mock lemon. This fine person was meant to spend life as a small shrub, but somewhere along the line changed its mind and grew into a delightful, small tree. By its side were three other companions that time has taken to the place where good souls and good trees finally go. One has put down fresh cuttings in the hope that one day they, too, will emerge over the small plants around.

Unlike the cotton tree that discourages climbing with its straight trunk and conical spikes along the bark, the euonymus welcomes its scramblers. This tree, with its dense foliage and intricate sculpture, was where we would vanish as children. In its lushness lay castles and forts. Branches could transform themselves into ships or aeroplanes and the occasional spaceship could come visiting and zoom us off to a distant planet.

At other times, this tree could emerge as a real-life hiding place. Take the moment when a good neighbour, somewhat older than me, decided that all the little ones and the somewhat older girls of the area were entitled to the protection of his well-developed biceps. Now, someone who had moved more recently into the area, and was far older, did not know this. Nor was he particularly kind or polite to the girls who were now under protection of the aforesaid biceps. A moment of crisis occurred when the new neighbour pushed one of the girls aside while she was skipping on the path that he had to cross. Her legs got tangled in the skipping rope and she hurt herself. The biceps did not approve of this. This required suitable action. Quite like a scene from the inimitable ‘Malgudi Days’, the biceps were ably assisted by us minions. We waited till the ‘person who pushed’ was to return home. A confused mass of caws, whistles and barks announced the impending arrival of ‘he who had dared push a girl’. The person passed under the euonymus tree where the biceps lay in wait. An arm swinging a frying pan shot out of the foliage, and a certain somebody lay flat on the path. In moments, the biceps and assorted underlings had vanished. None spoke of the incident again.

No one climbs the euonymus tree now. Another generation of tree climbers has also grown and gone. It has now been passed on to monkeys who, taking their lesson from a frying pan-wielding human, now use this tree to ambush and waylay anyone who is carrying something edible. In winter, the rhesus monkeys give way to the large dark langurs, who eat the leaves and gnaw at the bark. When they are dissatisfied with other nooks and crannies, house sparrows occasionally make their nests in the deep innards of this tree. A few days back, with the first lashes of monsoon rain, a disused nest fell out of the tree. This may not have had the artistry of a weaverbird or the determination that makes a woodpecker’s cavity in a tree, but, from a little distance, was neat enough. A closer inspection revealed the materials that it was made of. Here was a sign of our times, the much-threatened sparrows had made their nests from the very materials that endanger them and other birds — the whorls of long pine needles and strands of hair were interspersed with strings of plastic and polyester stuffing.