Anyone who entered the sprawling lawn of the bungalow always stopped before the tall and majestic Gulmohar tree. The tree had a mystical aura about it when it was in full bloom with its scarlet flowers, which exuded charm and radiance. ‘What a beautiful tree,’ they said admiringly and marveled at it. The tree felt proud of all the praise heaped upon it. It had, in fact, become vain and conceited all these years.
‘Well, look at me,’ it would boast to the smaller trees scattered around the garden. ‘How large and magnificent I am! Don’t get close to me. I cannot bear to be near you lowlifes.’
The little trees sighed as the Gulmohar scoffed at them.
The sun shone brightly on the Gulmohar. The breeze caressed and played with its leaves. ‘How elegant I look! Oh, I want to spread out my branches and reach the moon. Then, I can look over the world,’ saying so, the large Gulmohar tree cast its shadow over the smaller trees, who felt slighted at once.
One day, a flock of herons settled on the branches of the Gulmohar. It was such a fine sight!
‘How flamboyant I look with these big birds on my branches,’ gloated the tree. ‘Only little birds will come to you,’ it ridiculed the smaller trees.
Soon, more night herons settled on the branches of the Gulmohar. There was a canal close to the bungalow. It was teeming with fish. The birds had found food close to their new home.
♦♦♦
The birds spent their days resting on the tree’s branches. As dusk set in, they flapped their wings and flew down to the canal.
In winters, an entire herd of herons could be seen thronging to the canal. They would come back at frequent intervals, with dry branches and thorny twigs in their bills. Soon, there were quite a few nests on the tree. The birds noisily chirped all day. It was, after all, the breeding season. The noise and flutter of their wings kept increasing by the day. Birds flew up and down the tree from dawn to dusk.
This incessant chirruping of birds irritated the bungalow residents. They summoned the gardener.
‘Stop that nonsense!’
The gardener flung a few pebbles at the birds. The birds flew away. The Gulmohar was shocked. However, the birds were back in no time.
‘I’m so glad to see you all,’ cried the tree.
‘Drive them away!’ ordered the bungalow owner. Again, the gardener pelted stones at the tree. The terrified birds responded by cheeping angrily before flying off.
♦♦♦
‘Quark, quark!’
The bungalow residents once again woke up to the birds’ cries. The birds had rebuilt their nests on the Gulmohar. The men frowned when they spotted broken twigs strewn under the tree.
‘The garden is getting noisier and messier,’ they scowled. The gardener was ordered, ‘Cut down the branches of the tree. Get rid of these pathetic birds!’
And just like that, the Gulmohar’s branches were chopped down.
‘Why did they do this?’ wailed the Gulmohar in disbelief. The birds circles the treetop for some time and then disappeared.
‘I look so ugly!’ the tree lamented.
The birds were back soon, though.
‘Quark, quark!’
The Gulmohar was delighted to have the birds back. The birds took no time to resume nesting on the tree. The shallow canal beside the bungalow had fish, frogs, and other aquatic creatures. No other tree could shelter them.
Once again, twigs and the night herons’ droppings were strewn across the otherwise luxuriant green lawn. The men couldn’t stand to be on the verandah overlooking the lawn.
‘Is there any peace in this garden? Just kill the damn birds!’ they yelled. The gardener had no choice but to shoot arrows at the birds. One bird fell to the ground, dead. The rest of the flock flew away, protesting loudly.
‘Quark, quark!’
However, the birds came back the following day. The men were oblivious to the fact that the prey-rich canal was the reason the birds kept coming back.
‘Enough is enough. Call the woodcutter!’ they burst out. ‘Cut down the Gulmohar at once!’
‘Oh, no!’ yelped the Gulmohar, scared to death.
The woodcutter turned up the following day.
‘No, no!’ the Gulmohar shrieked in fright. The axe came down heavily on the tree’s trunk.
The axe continued to strike heavily on the tree trunk, bringing it down. The little trees looked petrified.
‘You can’t cut down the beautiful Gulmohar,’ they protested in vain.
The night herons circled the tree and then flew away in panic. The sturdy yet vainglorious Gulmohar had met its end. It fell to the ground with a tremendous crash. The other trees could only lament its poor fate.
As fond of writing a good story as he is of reading one, Pravin is one of the most promising writers at Ameya. He can be contacted at pravinkumar2788@gmail.com.