Uncle no. 54 coughed twice. All the other uncles (and two aunties) immediately quietened and sat slightly straighter on their plush, ergonomically designed chairs.
He surveyed the boardroom with beady, watery eyes. He folded his hands, “Welcome, welcome, my friends and family. Today is a special day. Today, we have finally moved one step closer to our dream.” All the uncles (and two aunties) began drumming on the long wooden table on which a bonsai stood. Uncle no. 35 rang an ancient brass ghanti, Aunty no. 2 blew a conch, while Uncle no. 67 banged a spoon against his gold-rimmed chai cup. It was truly a landmark moment for The League of Extraordinary Uncles (And Two Aunties), also known as TLEU (ATA).
Set up in the early 1900s, The League of Extraordinary Uncles consisted of some of the most powerful uncles who made some of the biggest decisions about the country and the world. They were uncles who knew the right people behind banks, industries, real estate companies, film studios, governments, media houses. Not the actual CEOs, chairpersons, or trustees. They were the silent uncles, whose names never appeared in newspaper headlines or scandals. A whisper here, a nudge there, and entire forests were felled down to make way for mines and roads, banks decided which coal company to invest in, and malls came up where beaches stood. In the mid-2000s, they had admitted two aunties—Aunty no. 1 (no relation to Bollywood) and Aunty no. 2—to their India branch, in an attempt to be more diverse and inclusive.
Across the world, not a soul outside these elite groups knew about TLEU (ATA). When a certain Jan Havesomemore stumbled upon the League, he was dubbed a hipster by an Instagram influencer, and no one took him seriously again. When Ms. Doorander began asking nosy, inconvenient questions, her identity was deleted from the Internet, her social media accounts vanished, and she was reduced to a Nobody Knows Her—a fate worse than death in today’s times.
Power oozed out of every crevice of the boardroom. It smelled of cold steel, new money, and iron left out in the rain for too long.
“At last, TLEU (ATA) has the upper hand in the Treeson Project,” Uncle no. 54 was saying. “The tree is wearing down, its hold is finally weakening. This city will soon be ours, and that tree will be felled at the altar of Progress.”
It had taken decades. But it had been worth it.
At first, TLEU (ATA) had tried wreaking havoc on Tree by:
Poisoning its roots—the tree vomited it out.
Petitioning for it to be cut—denied, it was a heritage tree.
Trying to get someone to cut it down in the dead of the night—some hooligan wasps attacked the axe-wielder.
Trying to get someone to drill copper nails into its trunk—the same hooligan wasps attacked the nail-wielders.
No one and nothing could touch that &^*$%# tree!
But then, one uncle—Uncle no. 34—had seen a TED Talk about trees by some tree scientist and had said, “This tree cannot survive alone. It is connected to other trees, which makes it strong.”
Uncle no. 34 had tried to explain the extensive root network that connected trees across Shajarpur, and that there were fungi that helped them communicate with each other, but all the uncles (and two aunties) had fallen asleep listening to him. When they had woken up and refueled themselves with adrak chai and filter kaapi, they unanimously agreed that the best way to launch the Treeson Project would be to attack all the other trees in the city.
Slowly, over weeks and months and years, TLEU (ATA) got permission to cut down trees everywhere. East, west—it did not matter. Mangroves, rain trees, baobabs, laburnum, banyans, bael, breadfruit, tamarind, cassia, copper pod, peepal, flame of the forest, jamun, jackfruit, mango, margosa, and so many more. All gone.
Soon, the tree cover in the city diminished by 43.35 percent, making way for more roads, highways, train sheds, malls, flyovers. As it did so, the tree weakened. Its family was decimated, one by one, and TLEU (ATA)’s fat wallets grew fatter.
The tree was finally dying, which got them permission to cut it down. Of course, permission only came with the promise of building an Olympic-sized swimming pool at the very spot. A pool party, Uncle no. 78 had said with a snigger.
“I’m so glad I thought of it,” Uncle no. 54 said, pressing the stray white hairs on his forehead down. “Such a good plan it was.” Uncle no. 34 grimaced as Uncle no. 54 continued, “Soon the tree will be properly dead.” His ample belly jiggled with laughter.