Wisdom Through the Branches
“Grandpa, how did this Banyan tree grow here? Who planted it?”
“No one, my boy. In our country, no one plants a Banyan tree. You know little birds? Like sparrows? They eat figs of these trees, then they drop the seeds. Perhaps this was the place destined for this Banyan tree where a bird would do that. Then they grow naturally, no one waters them, no one provides fertilizer. Nature, my boy, itself, nurtures it. Then we all get the benefit of it. That's how mother nature has blessed us for billions of years.”
This is how I came to know how I was born, thanks to that wise old man. This is my process of learning. I know things when I hear things. Which is a lot. Because people are around me all day long. My branches have spread like a high gigantic umbrella after all these years have passed since my birth. I reside at the center of one of the most prominent parks of the capital Dhaka, Bangladesh. Though I remember, before this park, there was almost nothing but us, trees, and our closest friend, the small lake. As I grew day by day, my branches spread widely. My trunk got thicker and stronger. Peasants, hawkers, workers, all sorts of students started to sit down and rest under my branches’ shadows. They rested, talked, talked about their daily life, struggles, sorrows, success, happiness. Some talked about politics, economy, national issues; they were also interesting. Over the course of years, these conversations have made me wiser than I ever expected. I now know a lot of things, and remember a lot of things. I share them with other trees, they also share. Our roots are all connected, sharing stories and memories deep beneath the earth.
This country, Bangladesh, is quite new. At least, younger than my age. I still remember those days of 1971, when the busy city went quite suddenly. People wouldn't come out for the fear that they might get killed by Pak army. Those pak armies, they were new here, I never had seen such people, foreign, brutal, pitiless. It was September of that year, at night, after a long time, I heard some voices of the native people, rooted here, the Bangalis. Not that that was a good encounter, one of them was deadly injured. There were four of them in total. They dragged the injured one to me and made him sit, putting his back on my trunk. I later understood that they were hiding from the armies. The injured one was being called Rajib. Rajib had a bullet on his shoulder. At that darkness of the night, even darker here among the trees, they were whispering about their mistake. That they shouldn't have taken the risk of crossing this area at this hour. They were calling themselves Muktis. One of them whispered, “Those paks are now fearing the Muktis. Victory is now near brother! Just hold on.” A military jeep passed by the nearby road. They all went silent. The bullet was shot from that same jeep from afar, they were discussing later.
Dawn was near. Rajib said to the others, “Leave me here. There is no good in dragging me all over the city. You must return to the den before the sun.”
Of course, none of them wanted to leave him here. But his condition worsened. He could barely talk, breathing like an asthma patient. In the end, they had to do it anyway. The toughest decision they had to take. Leaving Rajib by my side with never ending tears in their eyes, they left. Before leaving, one of them put his hand on my trunk and said, “Please take care of my brother.” And so I did, holding him close through the night, my roots listening to his fading heartbeat. After a while, I saw that boy die for his country, silent, powerless.
In December, the streets were busy again. It was the 16th, all the people were out, celebrating. I heard that the Pak army surrendered. A new country was born, named Bangladesh—the land of Bangla speakers. In that new country, many struggles, political unrest followed. Some good things also happened. Not to mention, one of them was this park. Every Bangla new year, the day starts from here, right in front of me. Isn't it unbelievable? A cultural organization called Chayanot performs their cultural programs about Pohela Boishakh (the first day of Bangla calendar). When in 1960, Queen Elizabeth II visited this park, I was really hoping that she'd come here and sit before me, on the round concrete seat, circling my trunk. But that didn't happen of course, she was too busy to visit the whole park. But now I don't mind that incident, because this country's own people, my people, celebrate their new year in front of me every year.
Amidst all these, the country has grown a lot. The streets I see, the people I see, even the nature I see; have changed a lot. But what hasn't changed is their spirit. Their voice against oppression. Again, last year, these brave people, especially the brave students, came on the street, in protest for justice. They protested for a discrimination less job system, yet the fascist government and its political party attacked them. Then they protested again, for the deaths of their brothers and sisters. Soon the whole country joined. Again these people, these students were ready to face the fascist wearing the red green flag. Without any fear of death, they filled the streets, fearless, even as fascist police and soldiers surrounded them.. Soon the protest turned into a path of revolution.
It reminded me of those days of 1971. People running and hiding from the Pak armies. This time, they're running from the fascists. But the only difference is, the resistance is larger than 1971 this time. The unity I am not sure of, but the streets were full of people. Teachers, professors, bankers, businessmen, day labourers, rickshaw pullers; people of every profession, caste, creed, religion — joined the students.
Indeed, the revolution was successful when the fascist prime minister left due to the mass uprising throughout the country. The people of this country proved again that they can't be bound by chains.
After that, the streets were again filled with joy. I saw people crying out of joy, as if they were free from a cage. The park was livelier than before. The trees, the birds, the animals were also celebrating.
It's been almost a year since that day. An interim government is now operating the country. The students are back in their classes. All the demands of the last 16 years under oppression, all the cries for justice are now backfiring on this government. The unity of the July Revolution seems broken. The political parties are now acting on their own for their slice of the election cake.
But I think that's the way it is. You are an individual, with your separate identity, value, ideology. You look for people who are similar. That's how you create a friend circle, a club, an organization or even a political party. But sometimes, some things go beyond all these. Sometimes it's the matter of right and wrong, justice, survival. The time when you all must unite. And after that's done what needs to be done, you go back to being yourselves. But that doesn't mean that you can't unite again. These people have united before, and I believe, they will unite in future again if necessary.
Of course there's still some people with the same fascist mentality, the same urge to loot everything by misusing power. But on the other side, I see those people also who have the righteous spirit. Never accepting anything wrong or unjust. That's why I keep my hope on them. As long as the roots of righteousness run deep in this soil, I know the people of this land will always find their way back to the light—just as I did, growing from a seed, into a guardian of memory, resistance, and rebirth.
Eftekher Anower Nahin