I DESPERATELY want to make a confession; until and unless I make it I cannot get rid of that sense of guilt and remorse, which has been haunting me day and night. My confession is not at par with good old Rousseau, it is much more painful and regrettable.
Let me confess that I have wilfully and intentionally committed two murders, one of a living breathing soul, a twenty-two-year-old araucaria tree which is native of New Zealand, and the other of a small pond in which reflected the green branches of Araucaria. At this very moment the slaughtered trunk of Araucaria is lying in filth dump and the debris of pond are scattered in my backyard like the aftermath of Bam’s earthquake.
Why did I commit these ghastly acts, you may ask. Simply because I wanted to modernize my backyard with tiles and to create enough space for garden chairs and a barbecue setup. And now when the araucaria and pond are a thing of the past I am like that Prince in War and Peace who loses his entire state and worldly belongings on a gambling table and then curses himself and wishes that the time should go back to the moment when he sat on this table and he would not sit on it and he will have all that he possessed, and now lost for ever.
Maybe right now there is a smile on your lips that I am mourning the loss of a mere araucaria tree and a dirty pond. Let me narrate in short their life span and then decide for yourself whether my mourning and depression is justified or not.
About twenty-two years back, I built in parts, my present small but functional house. And after spending my last penny, I realized that the windows are without glass panes, the roof has not been tiled, without the main door, and above all no electricity connection, simply because I had no money left, not even for the dozen electric bulbs required.
As I did not foresee any money coming my way for next two years or so, I shifted with some candles to celebrate. However, there was a small consolation. The famed architect white haired Javed Najam had designed a very small pond in a corner of the backyard in which floated lotus plants, two green tortoise and some water plants. Lovingly I planted different varieties of tropical ferns and a small cute araucaria of green frills.
Living in a unfinished structure this was the only corner where I sat on a cement bench writing reading and dreaming, dreaming that I was in a tropical forest where pink lotus flowers abound, wild ferns swayed in the mist and green tortoises sat on the wide lotus leaves sunning themselves. But above all, the magical form of araucaria in my imagination grew to such heights that the tropical parrots sat on every branch and chirped in unison. The fantasy of this small corner made me forget the unfinished house through which the winter winds howled, not finding any hindrance of a door or a window and at times extinguishing the few candles which we lit as soon as the evening approached.
During hot summers, my three kids splashed in this pond turning it into a small swimming pool, disturbing the tortoises and swaying the lotus flowers. Afterwards they dipped into many a posh and swanky pools, but never did I see on their faces that innocent glowing happiness which the small muddy pond generated. At times they floated their little paper boats in it and were amused vastly when a tortoise tried to hitch a ride on one of them.
However, the pond did present some unforeseen problems. When the rainy season came it became the abode of big fat frogs fit for a once in life time delicious French dinner. During the day these frogs were in deep meditation contemplating Darwin’s theory of evolution and wondering as to why it applied to apes only, while they were left out. But it was the night during which they decided to become full-throated, testing our patience and their lungs to the full. At times in the middle of the night, they blasted our ears like air-raid sirens. When I tossed in my bed trying to sleep, and could not, I would get up and with clenched fists and teeth, barge out of my bedroom holding a cricket bat hoping to beat the hell out of them. The problem was, I could not. Due to pitch darkness I could not pinpoint their position and in desperation thrash the whole pond, wetting myself in the process. Hoping that I had squashed them once and for all, I would go back, into my bed and fall sleep.
However, just a wink or two and then again, the orchestra would become operational. Again the cricket bat, me boiling with rage and attacking the unseen cowardly enemy. This became a regular exercise in rainy seasons. During summers, the stagnant water of the pond was the greatest mosquito-breeding farm in the world. Still, despite these froggy problems, the pond was a favourite rendezvous for morning teas and afternoon naps in the sun, even after the completion of our little house.
The very first day at school of my one and only daughter, Annie, was documented in the shape of a photograph in which one can see a rolly-polly pretty child, sitting beside the pond holding her nursery books and smiling like a rose bud. And now that very child is Dr Quratulann, MD in Orlando, USA, and I don’t have the heart to inform her that her pond has gone, where she frolicked in the water, started her first day at school.
There is another photograph in which my son, Sumair at the age of five, is standing beside the newly planted Araucaria, which is way below his shoulders. Both of them grew tall but the araucaria surpassed the six-foot height of Sumair and entangled itself in the branches of a neighbouring tree. The pond and the Araucaria grew and matured with my children. Even then I slaughtered both of them callously.
Many years back, twenty to be exact, I committed another folly. I bought my very first car and discarded my run down motorbike. As there were no buyers of a motorbike, which was ten years old, totally rusted, without guards or lights, I just pushed it in my side garden and forgot all about it. After some time, when per chance I went there, the bike was engulfed in creepers and there was nest of humming birds on its worn-down saddle. That day, the motorbike almost groaned and sighed at my forgetfulness. It had carried me and my wife along with three kids for ages, became a celebrity when I used it in a television serial, kept all my secrets as to who ever shared the back-seat with me. Finally my wife sold it to a scrap dealer and a chunk of my past was scrapped from my life. Somehow or the other I felt guilty as hell for a long time.
Granted I had to discard the useless motorbike but what was the crime of this pond and Araucaria that I, with my own consent, had them killed? Just for a wider space, for the sake of a few garden chairs and a barbecue spot? Without thinking I had them removed. The remorse and horror came when the evil deed was done, debris and broken branches littered in the back yard came under my feet and literally moaned, groaned like a patient on a deathbed. Then I realized what I had done. But now it was too late. The empty space where a few moments ago stood the Royal araucaria and the lotus pond, stared at me blankly, accusing me of robbing it of God’s gifts of greenery and water.
The debris of pond and the lifeless trunk of the araucaria lying in rubbish dump torment me and torture me.
If you ever decide to renovate your old house, my advice is DON’T. If at all it is necessary do not uproot even a small plant or remove an old structure to create more space. If you do you will never forgive yourself.
Just to atone for my horrible deed I have decided to plant another araucaria tree in my backyard, and, with apologies to it, I will never uproot it till my dying days. That is a promise.
I DESPERATELY want to make a confession; until and unless I make it I cannot get rid of that sense of guilt and remorse, which has been haunting me day and night. My confession is not at par with good old Rousseau, it is much more painful and regrettable.
