Saptaparni: Holding Ground

Right in front of the aged mien of my house stands a saptaparni tree. Its branches seem to grow by the minute, while the number of leaves on each node never crosses the superstitious seven. Since its first planting in the 1940’s, the saptparni or blackboard tree has become a common sighting across Delhi. Every second house seems to be shadowed by its characteristic seven-leaved shadow. And yet anecdotal claims call it Shaitan ka Jhaad — a harbinger of bad luck, of the devil’s wicked destruction.

Rich in pollen, the tree has been known to afflict many with headaches, while others with asthma. But never once have I felt personally felt anything but comforted under its dark grey cover. Ironically, the juice of this same tree is known to cure the ailment of breathing. Many consume it to treat malaria and skin diseases, while claims have also been made about its help in curing epilepsy.

For me, this tree has been a marker of age and time growing up. There are no pencil-drawn lines on the walls of my room. But each season, as leaves would shed to welcome fresh blooms of white flowers, I knew I had grown a little with the tree. I’d stand by the French window of my brother’s room, staring for hours at the forest of greenery that shielded me from the concrete jungle beyond it. In its rustle I found my music, in its silence I discovered secrets of the unliving.

This was a haven that saved me from pondering over the murkiest of conflicts. Be it a family fight or the woe of a broken heart, the ever-changing green in the window was always there to brighten my mood despite it not receiving any sunlight of its own. But if I looked to long, the branches revealed a darkness of their own. Never a ray of sunshine reached its spine, and never the branches stopped topping one another to make the depths darker.

I am 22 years old today, and a little uncertain of what to look for. But as I stand in the balcony, observing the tree’s top, I find an answer I haven’t decrypted yet. The canopy of the saptparni has now found the light; it is tall enough to go past the tall buildings that cover our house on each side. The dark shadows that used to cover the corners of the bark seemed to have held no inch of it back from growing. The tree has expanded quietly, feeding on the simple nutrition of rain water and a decades old soil.

October means flowers shall begin to blossom on my dear friend’s bosom. Many will revere the leaves for their medicinal properties, but many will condemn the questionable scent of the blossom that fills the air of an already unclean Delhi.

Evidently, there is no big mantra to growing, to finding the light. In the moments when your natural inertia attracts you to the golden sunlight, you should allow yourself to get swept away. This is what my natural sensei has taught me today. Like the saptaparni which changes every season, to come back to the same form it was in a year ago, you give in to the forces of nature. In its subtle, disciplined routine, you find yourself climbing the steps to your utopia. No fable matters, no judgement holds weight against the strength with which you hold your ground.