
Ever so often, I hear a branch of the Neem tree outside my window rubbing against the metal awning, and a little farther, the sound of the Peepal tree doing the same. I wondered whether the sounds were a conversation between the two, the Neem tree with its sweet voice and the mighty Peepal, gruff and overbearing.
"What's he doing?” asks the Peepal, too lofty to be able to peep into my window.
“Writing,” smiles the Neem.
“Tell him it’s no use,” says the Peepal wearily, “The people of this country are beyond being moved by what he writes. Either they can’t see the wrongs committed by those in power, or his spiritual writings are falling on deaf ears!”
“I’m not going to tell him that,” says the Neem firmly, as I tap away on my laptop.
“Why not?” asks the Peepal, as I hear the harshness of its branch grating my metal awning. “Why not?” asks the Peepal tree again, “Why don’t you tell him not to waste his time, and instead spend more time on the swing with his book?”
From the corner of my eye I see the Neem look directly at the thick muscular Peepal, then hear her say, “Do you remember last week?”
“What happened last week?” asks the Peepal.
“When you messed up his terrace garden!”
“I messed up?” asks the Peepal and is it my imagination which hears his bark bristling.
“Yes, when you threw down thousands of your little seeds in their pods. I used to watch him walk gingerly over them to reach his little garden seat, and I remember he never complained about the mess you made on his terrace!”
“Those seeds grow into trees like me,” said the Peepal tree angrily.
“How many?” asks the Neem simply, “Out of the thousands of seeds you threw down, I wonder if even one or two took root?”
“We Peepal trees are like that. We have to come up the hard way, clinging to the side of a rock or wall, and hoping we will take root!”
“And that is also why he writes,” says the Neem looking fondly at me, “He knows that those thousands of words he taps onto his laptop may not move a single person some days, or sometimes…”
“That like some seed of mine, it may grow into a mighty tree like me!” says the Peepal tree nodding slowly.
“The job of a writer is to plod on,” says the Neem, “To keep trying to make people see what they believe in, hoping that here and there a mighty leader will spring up moved by their thoughts or that one single soul will turn to God, moved by words from their pen.”
I continue writing, pretending I don’t understand the talk between the Neem and the Peepal outside my window..!
Robert Clements is a newspaper columnist and author. He blogs at www.bobsbanter.com and can be reached at bobsbanter@gmail.com