I sat cross-legged on the window ledge in my room. It was like a rainforest in here, with plants spilling from each corner. Well, I had never seen a rainforest, but this is exactly how I imagined it to be. I hugged Bekku tightly until she yowled in protest and wriggled free, heading back to her favorite jasmine plant. Our favorite jasmine plant. It was thriving. All of them were, at least the ones that hadn’t died. They swayed in the wind. Every time I reached out to touch one, a bittersweet memory wafted up. But I didn’t mind.
Memories were what I had, and they kept Dad alive for me. And it was not just Dad, it was also Tree. Some of the memories were a blur, some sharp, most in-between. But they were a part of me, like Dad and Tree.
Dad’s plants—well, our plants—had drastically reduced in number. Finally, I had let them go into the composter, to become mulch, to replenish the other plants. Where the erstwhile installation of definitely dead plants stood, I had planted seeds gifted to me by the Ents—chili, tomato, baingan, and many more. Small shoots were finally poking out of the dark soil.
As they grew, the purple frog around my heart felt less heavy. I know I was much more bearable—in fact, I was even known to smile and laugh with the Ents, though I did tend to snap at Samar a lot, especially when he shoved me in front of his beloved squirmy earthworms. Not that he minded. He just gave me some more trivia about grief and anger and denial. In return, I would roll my eyes at him. He’d then slather on more trivia. Not that I minded.
Outside, a pigeon cooed, and I froze. I still had nightmares involving pigeons and uncles and aunties.
I took a deep breath. The climate hadn’t become better, but it had not gotten worse. A hefty price Shajarpurians had paid. But now at least the trees were thriving. On some days it still felt like the city that Dad had grown up in, with crisp air and pure water, but (mostly) nicer people.
Even though . . .
I turned and looked at my desk and bookcase. There was the family photo of Dad gardening and right next to it, a photo of me, pressing my left hand to Tree’s trunk. It never stops hurting, I realized, as sadness washed over me afresh, like a wave crashing onto the shore. It just finds new ways of being—some days it stung more, and some days it curled up into the feathered thing called grief.
TLEU (AOA)’s stronghold had lessened on the city as they found more and more citizens falling in love with nature—heads over heels, proper, filmy love. A song and dance kind of eternal love.
But they, the TLEU (AOA), didn’t just vanish. Ha! Wishes were not horses. The group was too big and powerful and conniving. Oh so many words to describe them. Amba Ma’am would have a field day with that. They were everywhere, and yet, this had been a big blow for them. A first for them. Or so our Uncle and Aunty khabri told us. Every time I thought of TLEU (AOA) standing there, sneering at us and Tree, I felt so angry. I wanted to yell, or do something. Worst, they were already regrouping, conspiring, throwing dance parties, building statues, and moving on to the next tree. But, so were we, the Ents. At least, our school had got collective amnesia over the need for an Olympic-sized swimming pool in the backyard, and was instead living up to its name. Mrs. Pankhida, it was rumored, had been spotted among the dancers around the trees.
TLEU (AOA) kept trying new things, new projects, their threat far from over. But now the people remembered. With the force of those memories, many rallied together for nature, for their future, and kept the meddling league at bay. The magic of Tree had also sealed the city against more destruction. But TLEU (AOA) continued to spread their Distraction, Destruction everywhere else. Across the country, internationally. So we were constantly on alert, swapping news with other eco clubs across the world. Well, most of the Ents were, at least. I was still hibernating. However, it helped that Uncle no. 34 and Aunty no. 2 were on our side, feeding us bits of information. They also brought lots of snacks, and so, slowly, we had forgiven them. Kind of.
Bekku padded up to me and jumped onto my lap again. “Do you know why Dad named me Savitri?” I asked Bekku, who clearly didn’t care, as long as the gibberish-talking human kept her well-fed.
“He named me after his hero, Savitribai Phule. She was so brave, so very cool—a pioneer in girls’ education. She did so many things, including starting the first school for girls of all castes. You know, I wouldn’t be studying perhaps if she hadn’t taken that first bold step. Even though the upper castes tried to break her spirit. I LOVE it.”
Bekku meowed in response.
“When Tree was dying, they shared more of his memories with me.” I closed my eyes, transported back to that moment. “And then . . . the wasps told Gia that Dad would be so proud of me. That I was living up to the name that he had chosen for me.” I let out a sob. Immediately, Bekku moved closer and started purring and kneading my lap with her paws.
I started crying, sobs racking my body. It was a secret that I had kept to myself, deliciously close, bringing it out only when I needed it—like today. It was Dad’s birthday—a day that used to be special, a day of ice cream cake and parties, of dinners at fun restaurants, of cook-a-thons at home, and weeks of planning presents and quizzes.
What a year and a half it had been. And we had survived it. Kind of.
Meher (now at 11,002 followers and counting), Mom (no longer a Damien-type cleaning human), and me (a slightly more bearable person) had decided to mark his birthday by creating a new tradition. We would plant a tree in Dad’s name every year. And of course, there would be cake. Duh.
The only thing, there was one big problem.
Mom had threatened to bake a tres leches cake, another favorite of Dad’s. Meher and I had invented an emergency shopping trip to distract her. I giggled, distractions did work sometimes for the greater good. Like that of our stomachs.
Look at me, crying one minute and laughing the next. I moved Bekku gently and got up to wash my face.
Just then, my phone pinged. It was the Eco Ents. We had a club meeting today. I had skipped because of Dad’s birthday. They had offered to come over, but I wanted to be alone with my family. And anyway, I’d see them tomorrow before we left for Almora to spend the Christmas vacation with Baba.
I slid open the phone and my heart danced a little. It was a video—Samar, Sana, Rushad, Gia, Amba Ma’am, and Maharukh Sir were right where Tree lived. A pair of parakeets peeked out of a small hollow. A third tiny gray-green head popped out from the hole. Lichen and fungi lovingly embraced our grand old Tree. Always the Mother Tree, even after their death. A wasp was perched on Gia’s collarbone, while, yikes, a pipistrelle poked out of Samar’s pocket, its brown nose just visible. Pushpaji had gone back to her village to be with her son, taking over their family farm, where she was going to let the wild trees take over and practice organic farming. We had promised to visit her soon.
Right by Tree, a small green shoot poked out of the ground.
I looked closely—at the edge of Gia’s left ear, another wasp hovered. In the distance, I saw the hornbill fly from Tree to the silk cotton tree. I smiled through my tears.
The message on the group read: “They are back, Savitree!”