Just a tree

I am just a tree. Standing wherever my seed was sown. Feeling the wind blowing through my branches, rustling my leaves. I feel the bright rays of the sun caressing my crown. I feel the water getting absorbed through my roots. I am just a tree.

I still remember the very first time I felt alive. How, after suffocating for so long underneath the moist soil, I tore my seed coat and saw blue. Yes... blue, clear blue above me. Quite fascinating. Vast. Endless. I later came to know that it's called the sky.

Sky.

Amongst the cold, rushing air striking me and making me dance, I heard a faint voice. "The sky's so clear today." A young boy... a child said that with his face tilted upward. That's when I realized the vast blue thing above us is the sky. Sky... a really beautiful thing. Soothing. Calm. I always wondered how far it stretched. What's beyond this sheet that lingers above us? That almost seems to engulf us. Sometimes I'd see white things floating a little beneath the sky.

That day, I realized two things: I was alive, and the one who planted me was this boy named Nazar.

As I grew older, I came to learn many things. I was planted in a small courtyard of a small house made of mud and clay—Nazar's home.

Nazar lived there with his family: an alcoholic father, a hopeless, industrious mother, and a younger brother. Nazar's father was a jobless drunk, often coming home late—not from work, but from the gatherings of his drunk friends. Nazar's mother, a really beautiful woman if not for the many bruises and wounds covering her face. Her old wounds would not heal, so new ones would always be there. She was kind to her sons—and to me. Sometimes she'd water my roots when Nazar would not be home. I couldn't see much of her face, but with a gentle smile, she'd hum a melody, fill a small mud bowl with water, and pour it at the base of my trunk. At times like those, I realized what it would be like to have a mother.

Sometimes, from one of the two small rooms, I'd hear loud crashing noises along with Nazar's mother sobbing when his father returned after losing in his petty games of gambling. He'd get so mad in his rage that sometimes Nazar would also fall prey to his abuse. His younger brother, though, was fortunate enough to avoid getting hit because Nazar would hide him under the stairs in the courtyard.

"Azhar! Cover your ears and don't come out unless I tell you to. Okay?" he'd say to his brother. And Azhar, being too young and fearful of his father, would comply. At night, after everyone had fallen asleep—roaming in Dreamland—Nazar would wake up and sit beside me. He'd gaze at the sky under the moonlight, and we'd talk.

He'd tell me about his dreams, what he did all day. Our conversations used to be very peaceful. He'd talk, and I'd respond with a rustle of my leaves. He'd ask me something, and I'd reply by moving my branches a little. He'd make a joke about the funny moments, and I'd acknowledge his jokes by waving a little. Sometimes, I'd convey my words to the owl sitting on my branch, and it would tell them to Nazar by hooting—though I doubt Nazar understood its hoo-hoos. We'd talk the whole night, and in the morning, Nazar would go out to work. We spent most of our nights talking like this.

Nazar and his family were so poor that sometimes they'd only be able to eat once a day. Other times, all of them would have to eat from one plate. Sometimes, Nazar's mother would have to skip her meal. Sometimes they'd start their day with a glass of water. Nazar's father was jobless. Occasionally, people would hire him for a day or two, and he'd earn a little money—only to waste it on gambling and drinking. So Nazar and his mother often had to sacrifice their appetites for Azhar's sake.

As time passed, I grew from a young plant into a big tree. Not as old as the ones growing in that forest a little distance from Nazar's home, but still a tree—a young tree.

Watching that forest full of so many of my kind, I sometimes wondered what it would be like to sway with them when a cold breeze blew—what it would be like when, in the morning, dewdrops fell on our leaves. After all, I was planted in complete loneliness, away from trees and so very close to humans. I could never walk away from here to those green creatures with whom I had more resemblance than with humans. I could never go to them for help when I heard their screams while being cut down by humans. I did not have legs like humans. Nor did I have a mouth to express my desire to meet my kin.

After all, I was just a tree.

With time, I've become quite interested in humans. They can do anything for their survival—from lying to get bread to satiate their hunger to killing their father in the name of defense. Of course, it was not their fault—Nazar's and Azhar's, I mean.

Their father had returned home in a drunken and half-conscious state. It was not his fault either. Blame it on the circumstances—or perhaps the alcohol. Nazar's mother just complained about their poverty. But maybe that was more than enough to infuriate him. He grabbed her hair violently and dragged her into one of the run-down rooms. Fortunately or unfortunately, Azhar was already in that room. I know that because I saw him go in, holding something sharp. I've seen Nazar's mother cut food with it once in a while.

You see, Nazar, being the older son, was quite mature. Maybe he was more flexible than Azhar. He had adapted to his life much faster. But Azhar was quite the emotional one. He had always despised his father with great severity. No—he had always despised his life. He wanted to get away from their misery the most.

You see, once Azhar’s mother dragged him home. And when she entered through the wooden door, she slapped him across the face.

"Why did you do that? Did I raise you this much only for you to tarnish my reputation like this?"

Another slap. She had started sobbing now.

"I didn’t steal that bread!" yelled Azhar, crying.

Another slap from his mother, and I could see the red bruise forming on his face.

"Liar. You stole it," his mother yelled while shaking him.

"I didn’t steal it. I was just hungry. I’ll return it one day."

His mother, now a sobbing mess, fell on the floor, grabbed her hair violently, and started crying louder.

"First, I was unlucky to get married to your father—and now you."

Her words weren’t very clear. Maybe because of crying and talking at the same time? But they were clear enough to mean that she had given up on her life a long time ago.

"It wasn’t my fault. I am unlucky to be born in this house. I never wanted to steal," Azhar yelled, still crying.

"I want to sleep with my stomach full like my friends. I want to wear new clothes too."

He fell down and hugged his mother. Both the mother and son—helpless against their circumstances—cried and cried and cried, and I couldn’t do anything.

After all, I was just a tree.

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