The Tree of Life…and Death

The yellow flame tree (Peltophorum pterocarpum)

We first saw her on our first day of school. She stood midway between the playground and the entrance of the school building. A giant yellow flame tree, her luxurious canopy provided a welcome relief from the ruthless sun. On our first day, separated from our parents, we had anxiously huddled in her shade while waiting for our teachers to take us to our classrooms. Days passed. Holding hands and playing ring-a-ring-o roses around her trunk, we made friends for life.  We would hang around her-talking, laughing and fighting-while waiting for the school bell to ring. If we couldn’t find our friends, we knew where to look for them.

Time passed and we grew up. The ring-a-ring-o roses gave way to blindfold tag games and kabaddi. The lunch hour became a race to gobble up food and secure a play spot beneath our tree. There were several others vying for the same spot, and bickering over boundaries was commonplace. During the flowering season, our tree spread a carpet of yellow flowers on the ground. Our happy time was sitting on the beautiful carpet and eating candy. Birds would come and sit on the inflorescence to feed, and we competed to catch the flowers raining down. Our necks hurt from looking up for so long, and yet we played the game, day after day.

As high schoolers, we often rode past the school to catch a glimpse of the open playground and our favorite spot. We had done our growing up in the gentle embrace of our tree. She had offered us her shade, and a peaceful place to engage in fun games and deep conversations. Standing like an imposing matron, she had heard our happy laughter, our chitter-chatter, our hopes for the future and our deepest fears. Then, one day, she heard the screams of a dying child.

I vividly remember every detail of that day. The rain which came on suddenly and had me dump my bicycle on the road and scurry for cover. The two bolts of lightning which seemed to obscure everything else. And the surprise, when it was all over as suddenly as it had started. The hour passed, and a disquiet engulfed the neighborhood as terrible news started to trickle in from the school. A bolt of lightning had struck our tree. She had been sheltering three little boys from the sudden rain.

My former primary teacher went weak on her knees as she raced to the aid of her stricken students. A little boy breathed his last under our tree. The two other boys were fighting for their lives. Weighed down with grief and guilt, it would be a while before she found herself again. And a while longer before another child dared to seek out the shade of our tree again.

But whose fault was it, really? The tree, who became the lightning rod, or the innocent child, who fled to the only spot he thought was safe? The teacher, who was caught unawares, or the dark clouds, which swept in suddenly and spelled doom? The little boy did what so many of us before him had done during light drizzles, except that this was no ordinary drizzle. He died, and I lived to tell the tale of our beloved tree with beautiful yellow flowers.