Trees, teens and philosophical totems

I could have sworn this tiny mango sapling wasn't there the last time I walked by this patch at Random Rubble, about three weeks ago.  At that time, Balappa, the assiduous Pujaree whose work philosophy is to chop away relentlessly at things until the 4 pm timer goes off in his otherwise somewhat muddled head,  had cleared some overgrowth, the result of a vibrant monsoon.  

I have no problem with overgrowth - nothing better for the soil if it's rich grass - but, with the onset of summer (which should be a month from now, the risk of a blaze rises.  So, the undergrowth had to make way. 

Am I glad I got this done!  This little sapling is an infant, now thankfully no longer abandoned to its fate.  Seenappa gave it a supportive stick to lean on and I wished it well from my heart, for wild mango is the handsomest and most useful of trees, the branches beckon Apis dorsata to colonise there (that's the wild rock bee that can give you quite a sting, but are ecologically priceless) and the buzz, when the flowering occurs, rivals the whispers in the corridors of power in North Block.  The wild mango's roots bind soil too, which is why it is such a precious riparian tree.  And, if all these ecosystem services were not enough, the often-sour fruits can drive an elephant nuts (now, in my excitement, I am getting my puns all mixed up, isn't it?). 

What I did stumble upon three weeks ago in the same clearing was another
bonus though: a sandalwood sapling, carefully concealed behind the electric pole and peeping out at us in mock surprise.

I know that, with sandalwood, I should keep my emotions aside (preferably in a black UV-protected biodegradable plastic bag) for it could be here-today-gone-tomorrow, yet over the years, I have become more accommodative of these things, emotional, but indifferent to loss and gain.  I don't get angry as much, I guess, which is, on reflection, not a wholly admirable trait.  Is that what growing up does to you?

Just ahead in a clump of lantana, reaching for the sky and seeking to break free of the tangle that it is bound in, is the common Black Siris or the bhilwara sapling and, once again, I have no recollection of how it came to be (this is becoming a habit, this lack of cognition).  Bhilwara is grown for its wood and is a happily native species, attaining majestic height.  It has stature in local folklore too, as does most species that provide good wood, and Ananda's father speaks of a male and a female in bhilwara, which, I think, are two sub-species of Albezia; this one, Albezia odoratissima he says has a dark inner bark, while the other one has a reddish one.  

These tales are important, for they speak of deeper knowledge and understanding and a science that has got us this far.  And these tales are being fast forgotten, which is why we need to record them for we will never know what we have missed by not knowing what we do not know.  If that does not confuse you......

The lakkali saplings (vitex negundo) that we had planted four years ago are doing well after a growth spurt this last monsoon: as with most teenagers, these two couldn't be more different from each other: one is a scraggly tall fellow looking quite sorry for himself, the other better developed and seemingly more stable.  Give them their space and time, I have often advised others about bringing up teens, and have never followed it myself generally, but with these two, I promise I have done just that.  Lakkali will grow to be a large shrub and is a splendid plant for the border of any land; make an emulsion of its leaves with a couple of other species as well and you have a useful organic insecticide.  Does that leave you convinced?  (Did you need convincing? is a better question....)

A few feet away is the mahua tree that I had planted along with the lakkali.  Some years ago, my travel-till-you-drop buddy, Hanumanth, took my photo hugging a large mahua near our guest house in the Pench tiger reserve and I got a sapling shortly thereafter for the farm (the things that photos do to you....).  This teen has super potential to be a high performer (hi-po is what some folks term this phrase, which makes it sound like a bloody infectious disease).  

Mahua can grow to be a giant, provide flowers that get you high and seeds that get you oil (non-edible, unless processed) and is, generally, an asset to the forest.  Giant it will be one day, yet, for the moment, I am the one in charge and I shall watch - as bosses nauseatingly say - its progress with interest.  

...and, ladies and gentlemen, these are my twin-babies.  A fig and a peepal that are giants today, my little ones that have outgrown me by miles. At around fifteen, they are still teens - precocious, generous, social teens.  Every time I walk by, I give them a hug and caress their large trunk, the rough bark of which is a highway for a variety of ants and the canopy a perch nonpareil.  

On reflection, I am not ready to be that monk-who-is-indifferent yet.  It's a humbling thought. 

I walk up to the front, by the shed, and watch the rays stream through this patch of mango, laburnum, lime, tamarind and ficus, woven with creepers and shrub, a mosaic of wild melancholy, garnished by sunbeam.  You could stand there and watch the sun stream all day, which is exactly what I intend to do (well, until I get hungry, that is).

And then another little mango sapling catches my eye, lit by the rays of ebullience.  

This sapling has a low chance of making it big; the competition for light is intense in this wild little nook at Random Rubble, I think.  Should I dig it out and transplant it - change the nursery school, shall we say? Let be for now, for no infant would like to know that she was written off once as failure. 

That is about as erudite as a parent can get.   

Desideratum

All that I have learnt is that

Our only goal now is

To give land back - every square metre we can -

In the condition in which we usurped it

To the only Power that ever owned it

We own nothing

Except stewardship

The ephemeral thrill

Of the productivity drill

The harbinger of tillage

And every tool of pillage

The mechanical whirring of GDP and wealth

And winning a non-war and the stresses of stealth

We own nothing

Take them away.

Our joy isn't from them.  It never was

Our land isn't ours.  Honest.  It never was.

Our joy is when, from the stands, we watch

The Power at real work

Bring back the soil, the grass and a long lost shrub

And push a stone aside for a growing fig

Our joy is when fireflies light up the night

Where an insecticide once darkened the day

Our joy is when

We accept with humility

That we scarcely did a thing right

But, with rare courage,

In the end

Have done the right thing.