‘Rooted sentinels’: These trees have tales to tell

Spice of Life: Scientists believe trees like human beings carry memories of trauma within their subconscious. I sometimes wish they would speak in a more coherent tongue so that they could share an authentic account of their endless recollections.

A tree is a memory keeper. Tangled beneath our roots, hidden inside our trunks, are the sinews of history.

Four trees on the college campus have a special place in my heart. Securely nestled behind the second row of classrooms, they stand ‘en garde’, weathering severe winters and scorching summers. Around 10m tall, and with trunks bereft of verdure, these are probably the oldest trees on campus. (HT PHOTO)

Elif Shafak, The Island of Missing Trees

From time-to-time, I enjoy a tête-à-tête with trees – the grounded sentinels of history. Sometimes we have a muted conversation, and at other times the trees lend a patient ear to my monologues. At times, these conversations embalm me in my tribulations, and at other times tickle the funny bone.

Once, while in college, I surveyed the row of fig trees standing tall on the path that leads from the gate to my department, and realised that their foliage had been recently pruned, it seemed like all of them had been given a uniform haircut in the ‘crew cut’ style. That day, I christened them ‘the crew cut soldiers’.

Four trees on the college campus have a special place in my heart. Securely nestled behind the second row of classrooms, they stand ‘en garde’, weathering severe winters and scorching summers. Around 10m tall, and with trunks bereft of verdure, these are probably the oldest trees on campus.

My colleague from the botany department confirms that the trees have been around since the inception of the college in 1948. However, the gardener who tends to them, is of the firm opinion that they are centenarians, still counting and kicking strong.

I call them the ‘rooted sentinels’ for, though grounded, they have seen history unfold around them. If the gardener’s approximation holds true, these trees might have been witness to the greatest uprooting, the Partition. I wonder whether they were in their infancy at the time or their early youth. However, these young trees must have been silent spectators to the ruthless carnage, the brutal maelstrom, severing of filial bonds and camaraderie.

Scientists believe trees like human beings carry memories of trauma within their subconscious. I sometimes wish they would speak in a more coherent tongue so that they could share an authentic account of their endless recollections.

The fig tree in Elif Shafak’s novel The Island of Missing Trees, says, “The water sucked up through our boughs is the blood of the earth, the tears of the victims, and the ink of truths yet to be acknowledged.”

In my heart of hearts, I am sure that even though the trees are not as old as the caretaker claims them to be, they are certainly old enough to have witnessed the history of the institution– erudite scholars disseminating the seeds of knowledge, inquisitive minds instilling the flame of acquisition, philosophical minds cogitating on the propositions of life, commitments made and broken, fulfilled love and peine d’amour, and above all the memories created by discerning minds and etched on the impressionable ones. The trees know it all –they are the muted and rooted sentinels of history.

sonrok15@gmail.com

The writer is an associate professor at SD College, Ambala Cantt