The Death of A Rain Tree

By Shevlin Sebastian 

Just like that, workers of the Forest Department chopped down the massive rain tree at Padivattom, Kochi, near my house, in the name of development. According to news reports, over 250 trees will be cut,  because another section of the Kochi Metro is coming up. This will connect Jawaharlal Stadium in Kaloor with Smart City 2, comprising 11 stations and covering a distance of 11.2 kms.

The branches of the rain tree provided a welcome canopy during hot summers and rainy days.

For years, a few parents with their children stood under its branches, in the early mornings, waiting for the school bus.

While some came in cars, others arrived in two-wheelers and those who lived nearby walked it. We smiled and greeted each other while the children milled around us in their uniforms and bags.

The tree remained a soothing presence, even as our minds and bodies felt stressed, as we tried to balance jobs, marriage, parenthood, and household responsibilities.

The children began as toddlers and ended up as teenagers. Now many of them have moved on to colleges and post-graduate studies. I haven’t gone to the bus stop in the early morning for a few years. I am out of touch with those parents, too. What are their children doing now? 

I am sure new parents and children are going through the same routine at the same bus stop. The cycle of life continues from one generation to the other. When I saw the fallen tree, I realised time had passed. 

The time when children listened to whatever we said, observed and picked up their attitudes and nuances of behaviour from us. Now they have independent minds and are on the way towards independent lives. Some of us are facing the ‘empty nest’ syndrome, especially wives who were so enmeshed in their children’s lives that they forgot their husbands.

I remember meeting one woman, in her sixties, who told me she felt shocked when the children no longer needed her. Like most mothers, she had focused completely on the children. It is the most fulfilling job of their lives, no matter even when they say they had fulfilling careers. 

She realised the relentless tick-tock of the clock had now pushed her to a new space. A space where children do not exist except on once-a-year visits, voices through the phone, in online chats, and as images or videos on WhatsApp.

Why is she shocked? All she has to do is to look back. She also had to leave her parents and stayed in touch only occasionally. This woman told me she had to work very hard to rebuild her relationship with her husband. Her husband, a sporting man, took her back into the marital embrace. Not all men are accommodating. Marriages have broken up because of this neglect.

But how can you blame a woman? These children have come out of her womb. Hence, she feels a biological and emotional imperative to protect and nurture them. In the early years, it is the mother’s nurturing that is so vital for the all-around development of the child. It is time-consuming and exhausting. More so, if the woman has a career. Former PepsiCo Chairman & CEO Indra Nooyi details this aspect in her recently released memoir, ‘My Life in Full: Work, Family, and our Future’.

Here is an extract:

“I’ll never forget coming home after being named President of PepsiCo back in 2001. My mother was visiting at the time. “I’ve got great news for you,” I shouted. She replied, “It can wait. We need you to go out and get some milk.”

So I go out and get milk. And when I come back, I’m hopping mad. I say, “I had great news for you. I’ve just been named President of PepsiCo. And all you want me to do is go out and get milk.” 

Then she says, “Let me explain something to you. You may be President of PepsiCo. But when you step into this house, you’re a wife and mother first. Nobody can take that place. So leave that crown in the garage.” 

The death of the tree also reminded me of the various deaths I am coming across now. Parents, uncles and aunts, friends of our parents, and relatives. They are all exiting the planet one by one.

One feels a keen sense of mortality. In our fifties, we can no longer pretend life will go on forever. There is a finite nature to it. Sometimes, you feel sad your time is limited.

Some have regrets about the career they chose. A few recounted mistakes that hampered their professional growth. Some underwent financial stresses. 

Others have emotional sorrows. I remember a friend, who passed away a year ago, had told me, “I made the biggest mistake of my life by having an affair. It destroyed my marriage and affected my children. I am no longer with this woman. It was a total loss for me.”

It is a time when we look forward as well as look back. There is a desire among some of us to embark on a second career. 

But surely, a day will come when we will become a physical blank. Like the rain tree at Padivattom. There is a lot of sunlight there, but sadly, I saw blocks of concrete where the tree once stood. 

The vanishing tree is a metaphor for our lives.

We will become dust-laden photographs on the wall. And nobody will look at us. The next generation will be busy with their lives like we had been once. Now our destination is getting closer. Depending on your religion, it’s six feet under the ground or 100 grams of ash floating in a holy river.