The Neem Tree

[Transcreation of a Bengali story by Banaphool. His real name was Balai Chand Mukhopadhyay. It was published in a collection called Adrishyalok, 1946. The original story is considered to be a classic in Bengali literature. Like the banyan tree in Adyar, Chennai and the one in the Botanical Gardens in Howrah, adjacent to Kolkata, it has defied the test of time. However, despite its title, it is a story about a human being, and not about a tree.]
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Some tear away leaves for grinding.
Yet others fry them in oil.
To apply on ringworm afflicted skin.
A panacea for a variety of skin ailments.
Many eat the tender leaves.
Raw, uncooked.
Or, sautéed with eggplant.
Helps the liver.
Endlessly many chew the young twigs … to keep their teeth healthy.
Practitioners of traditional medicine praise it to the skies.
The wise are pleased to see it grow next to one’s dwelling.
“Breeze filtered through Neem leaves is good for health. Don’t chop it down,” they say.
No one chops it, but they don’t care for it either.
Garbage collects on every side.
Some build a paved platform around its stem. That’s yet another piece of junk.
Suddenly one day a maverick arrives.
He stares at the Neem tree with rapt attention. He doesn’t tear any part of the bark, nor the leaves. He does not snap a single twig. He simply keeps gazing.
Spellbound.
And then he says, “Oh, how exquisite the leaves … magnificent! How pretty the flower bunches … as though a flock of stars has descended from the blue sky on to the green lake below … Lovely …”
He stands staring for a while and then goes about his way.
He was not one for diseases to cure, but a poet pure.The Neem tree wished it could leave with the man. But it failed. Its roots had penetrated deep inside the earth. It remained standing in the middle of the garbage heap behind the house.

The condition of the docile young girl married off in the crammed household next door, brimming though she is with housewifely virtues, is no different.

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Note: I sent this piece to the budding novelist at Stanford University, Professor Saikat Majumdar. Below was his reaction.

I have followed Professor Majumdar's suggestion regarding the first couple of lines, but not the suggestion regarding

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True enough Syamala. Yet you can write a story about them. I wonder if you can write a story about people who do not have real life counterparts. What matters, in my opinion, is the way you write it. That's what great literature is all about and a blog is not. And I will even include H.G. Wells' Time Machine in this category. There were people who thought of travelling on a time machine. They may or may not have succeeded. But the very fact that they thought about the experiment had inspired a writer's imagination and led him to produce a great work of art.

Also, let's recall what Oscar Wilde had observed.

Not that we need to respect his opinion.

oj

 

Dear Sri,

Let me tell you a true story. I have set up the Indus Ladies site for my computer in such a way that my home page is your snippet "In Search of Solitude". Whenever I log on to IL, that's the first thing I see. You are the first person I get to remember. And then I begin to swim in the ocean of affection I feel for you. But for this piece of writing, I would still admire you perhaps, but not swim in an ocean.

So, the question is: What difference does this piece of writing make? The answer is simple. It's a work of art. And since it is a work of art, it is utterly useless. The most magnificent effort of useless work you ever indulged in and thereby earned my eternal gratitude.

Do go on leading the march at IL. Call it In Search of Useful Trees, if that gives you satisfaction. In my turn, I will sit alone and dream about the beauty of useless banyan trees in Chennai or the Botanical Gardens, Kolkata. Therein will lie concealed yet another truth. The sages had called it भिन्नेष्यैक्यस्य दर्शनम् ||

I don't think I need to waste my time translating this for you.

Be happy good friend. Our bondage lies in our diversity.

oj

 

Thank you Doree. If I have been able to reveal beauty to you, I have achieved my goal. Once again, as Oscar Wilde had said,

I write because I enjoy sharing beautiful things with people. Most importantly, I have no moral to preach.

Best regards.

oj

 

You are right Viswa. Some can see and some are blind. If all humanity could see, then this story would not have been written.

oj