One Tree, the Memories of Many Generations

 

From my life’s experiences, I have learned that when a tree you have seen grow before your own eyes is cut down from the earth, it feels as if not just a tree has been removed, but your own roots have been torn out. It is not merely a tree; it is an entire bygone era. It has witnessed the rise and fall of countless people, a silent yet magnificent storyteller, an eyewitness to many ages. Within its chest lie countless buried secrets. How many travelers must have rested in its cool shade, and how many birds must have built their nests in its branches.

At my father’s house in Lahore, there used to be a very large and dense rubber plant tree. Whenever I went to Lahore, I would make it a point—especially—to go to the back of the house and ask after it.

That tree was a part of our home, but unfortunately, adversaries had it cut down.

I felt immense sorrow, because it was not just a tree. It carried with it the memories of my grandmother, my maternal grandmother, my mother, my father, and countless others.

At that moment, it felt as though someone very dear to us had been taken away, as if someone had cut our roots.

And that is exactly what happened. Just a few months later, those liveliness faded away; my mother passed away, and after that we were never able to stay in the Lahore house for more than a day or two.

Even today, this thought brings deep pain to my heart.

Then, when on our lands the tenant farmer uprooted around twenty to thirty kikar (acacia) trees, I screamed in that moment.

My father, sister, and brother began listening to the farmer—whom they called “Chacha”—and his explanation, but I was no longer capable of listening to anything.

I silently went and sat in one of the rooms of the house, because I had already understood that the time for us to depart from this place had begun.

They were not just trees; they were an entire era, a long tale.

My mother used to say that if trees had a language, they would tell us the story of every age and every human being.

They are the sole witnesses of a place—custodians who not only safeguard every event that happens there but also protect it.

In my current home, I have seen every flower smiling sadly, then blooming and laughing again. A few months before my father’s death, four trees dried up.

Even today, when someone, out of malice, comes and damages the plants, it becomes a deeply distressing incident.

Some time ago, under the name of protest, trees in the Blue Area were set on fire—without thinking that we were burning living history, the storytellers.

Where are those people who set their own good times on fire? Where did those people go who revived the age of ignorance?

Even today, those who harbor enmity toward trees should know: these are not just trees. They are time itself, an era, storytellers, gentle and smiling beings.

Trees always take their revenge.

My father often used to say that if someone breaks a single twig today and is not stopped, tomorrow he will cut down the entire tree—and he would narrate a story of his grandfather, Ghulam Nabi.

There, when a man broke off a twig to use as a miswak (tooth-cleaning stick), my grandfather ordered the tenant farmer to take the miswak from him and bring it to him.

When the man was brought before my grandfather, he was asked, “With whose permission did you break this miswak?”

The man replied, “I was passing by, I saw a good twig, so I broke it.”

My grandfather scolded him and said, “Do not ever be seen here again, or you will be severely punished.”

After the man left, my father says that I said to my grandfather, “It was only a miswak; you could have let him have it.”

He replied, “My son, you do not understand. If I had allowed him the miswak today, his courage would have grown. Today he would break a twig; after a few days, he would cut down the entire tree. That is why it was necessary to stop him at the very beginning.”

In contrast, I saw my father’s habit as completely different. I always found him to be a giver. If someone asked for 100 rupees, he would give 500.

If someone extended one hand to ask, he would place something in both hands. While narrating my grandmother’s stories, my father would often say that when he handed over his entire salary to his elder sister, within two hours he would be completely broke.

He would ask, “Where did the money go?”

The reply would come: “So-and-so’s child was sick; so-and-so asked me for money, so I gave it.”

And I would respond, “You did the right thing.”