Jacaranda tree
The tree and the raven.
The Jacaranda tree stands deeply rooted, glowing in pure purple under the summer heat. It is tranquil and bright under the sun’s rays. Just like humans, do trees also have souls? A soul is the ultimate shape of humans; this Jacaranda tree is the one that holds it all together. It’s forenoon, and a raven flying here can’t find another shade nearby. Is it a habitat shift or usual logging? Only humans have the answer to this.
The raven enjoys resting in the Jacaranda’s aesthetic appeal, but this is not the only reason for its perch. Tree felling and forest fires are significant causes. Humans take logs home for various uses, but the raven and its kindred have lost their home. The sun shines brighter than ever on the blue planet, but this umbrella-like purple canopy of Jacaranda is their home now.
The black raven wonders and asks its boon companion, “If all the flowers disappear, what will they smell?”
The old friend speaking through air and electric signals exclaimed, “Bah, I don’t know what to say? I have been serving them through the generations. Your sage-grouse nests are nowhere to be seen. Do you think they care about smelling flowers? All they know is power and polity.”
“I feel my wings heavy and muddy. I need rest,” said the raven.
After a power nap, the bird flapped its wings, cautiously observing the branch on which it rested. No wind or rustling disturbed the Jacaranda this time. It swung around, and the raven’s small eyes shifted before adjusting the hallux to face the tree’s crown.
“I dreamed of giants, satyrs, and gryphons heralding the apocalypse.”
The Jacaranda took a deep breath, lolled, and said, “We’re living in the apocalypse of melting glaciers. Here we are in the dungeon of carbon and toxic gases. Don’t you feel the roughness on my leaves?”
“You’ve been in here for a long time. What kept you alive all this time? Some tips on socialising would help lest I’m driven out of the cityscape.”
“Bare bones,” said Jacaranda reflectively.
“What bones?”
“The bones of his grandmother. When she died in WWII, hurried hands and furtive eyes buried her here. They planted me as a sapling on her. Today, I’m a memory, more than just a beautiful purple bloom; a symbol of resilience and transformation. I am a Jacaranda. I lose my leaves in autumn. That little boy is now a frail-looking octogenarian holding a walking stick. He often visits this place because he sees me as his paternal shade.”
“Lucky you to have dear friends.”
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The purple Jacaranda snapped, “They aren’t here for me, but for calm, shade, and serenity. I’m the stamp of the cherished old memories. Humans come to check this very place and the memorial soil. Nature is beyond his control, and that’s what brings him here. He trades his sincerity for hypocrisy. He sheds tears in my shade, and I shed my leaves to calm him.”
The raven looked wide-eyed and said, “Maybe he wants to trade pain for love? Nevertheless, resurrection is not possible; thus, they seek love.”
“Who says you can’t resurrect the dead? Time does, memories do! Only time is the most neutral entity; it never evades the ‘stamp of being.’ I’ve seen ‘broken hearts,’ ‘glad tidings,’ ‘natural calamities,’ ‘loud cheers,’ ‘unkept promises,’ and ‘unrequited love.’ I have sensed it all. You can count my rings for this.”
The sad tree spoke with resentment, “When they cut me off! There’ll come a day when they’ll cut me too!”
“They won’t cut you. You are devoted to human needs,” the black raven responded quickly.
“But why would they show mercy towards me when they showed none for the Hercynian woods? That once-vast, green expanse is now a memory. The Romans built roads and forts, paving the way for future generations. Eventually, the post-modernists will reach me.”
The brooding raven flapped its wings and said, “God will only save the world if any of it is left. It’s evening and I still feel the flames of an afternoon sun. Can the sun protect us against this anthropological destruction?”
“But why only the sun? What made you think that?”
“He’s punctual, sincere, and keeps us all alive. So, I thought, why not him?”
“It’s a pleasant thought, though, I’ve heard the sun is too stubborn a star. It doesn’t let anyone come closer. Is there any way to talk to it?”
“If none, the withered buds. It will, at least, attempt to rejuvenate us after seeing the withered buds blanketing the earth. When the blossoms fall, they form a violet layer across the ground, enhancing their visual distinctiveness. Yet when it’s gone, it will serve as a poignant reminder of the lives that have faded on our planet.”
The Jacaranda tree went into intense meditation for a few minutes only to affirm,
“None of the holy books mentions the fallen leaves as the world’s end. They often talk about other signs, but not this!”
“You mean god knew all this?”
“I think so, that’s why it filled us with so much ‘life’ and ‘patience.’ To see and experience the changing times.”
This conversation between the raven and the jacaranda tree was interrupted by a falling bud. The night descended, and the two hadn’t concluded what to do next. The raven took leave, croaked, and left for its place.
A few weeks passed. The raven didn’t come to see the tree, and the jacaranda grew worried, thinking, “Was it all bluff like humans do, or will it come back to talk about climate change?”
