It was almost an inoccuous bit,in one of the long and drawn-out conversations with my Mother over the telephone,the ones she used to refer to as her weekly checks on her son in a distant land.She mentioned in passing about how the big  old jackfruit tree in the front courtyard has become a living threat to our compound wall,with its sinewy roots striking terror at its very foundations( for a moment it sounded hysterically funny),and she wanted my consent to cut it down,and I remember as usual searching for an appropriate response, while she had moved on to other filial emergencies in her agenda worth discussing.
It was only later that the full import of that part hit me,dragging me out of my part languid stupor approach to most conversations with Ma,of families I never know(which am supposed to),and events I should bloody well be informed about,to which I never seem to rise to the bait.
I could remember that venerable old sentinel in our courtyard,standing there as long as I can remember,without impatience and perchance a smile,at this brat of a toddler raising hell,playing hide and seek with a tired and visibly furious mother with her son’s untouched meal in her hands.
They say every tree has a million shades of green,a shade on each leaf and together they give your eyes,another resplendent shade of the velvet verdant.It had stood there as witness to all our family’s events.the joys,the sorrows,the passing aways and the coming of age of its adopted family.Maybe it knew what exactly the toddler brigadehad in their little hearts,and grew an extended branch right into the courtyard,low,long and strong for our special swing that went up during our Harvest Festival every year..It was as if its endless reservoir of unconditional love never changes as the seasons passed by in its natural progression.
Monsoons was lying indoors,mostly in the nights,with an ear to the window,listening to the virtual cacophony of the Nature’s Overture # 7 in Staccato major,with the leaves holding endless conversations with the raindrops that passed by,before they continued their onward journey to a different place called the Parched Earth.Maybe the leaves,in their natural curiosity had a million questions about the skies they came from and the lands they have seen,and them raindrops were trying to answer all their questions at the same time,with the limited time they had in hand and the schedules they had to keep.
And the gentle truthts they taught you about life,though you didnt realise it then.About how high you climb in your life, in your driving ambition to touch the sky,every leaf fall down to its roots,and how regardless of whoever comes to its shade,the relif and succour are in equl measure,without malice for anyone.
And without a murmur of dissent,it still protects the woodcutter from the blazing sun,while he cuts it,one determined,sharp and lethal blow at a time.
My compound wall wasnt made to keep the invading Huns or the Marauding Barbarians at bay,as far I can remember and to me that made all the difference.
The friendly neighborhood butchers from the local Wood Mill had still not paid a visit home till the time i called next morning.
As Joseph Campbell said,” God is the experience of looking up at a grand old tree and saying “Ah!!”.