‘This plant is mine.’ Beena said. ‘How can it be yours?’ I asked. ‘My father planted it last year.’ I added. ‘But this is mine.’ Beena sounded aggressive.
The plant in question was what father had bought as a tiny twig of a red rose from Ranigunj Bazaar from a known plant seller. The seller sat under a post near Indian Sweets, an iconic sweetmeat shop of Burdwan at that time. Indian Sweets first introduced rose looking dry sweets to the people of Burdwan. Perhaps they were inspired by the man in front who round the year sold various rose plants with roses of multiple colours at the head of twig.
Father first dug the earth deep. Then he removed the polythene cover from the dough of soil that held the plant at its roots. He downed the plant with its soil in the pit. He covered it with loose earth that he dug out. Then he sprinkled water with great care; followed it up every morning like morning rituals.
After a month he poured organic manure round the healthy looking plant, making sure the manure did not touch the plant directly. The plant perhaps got what it badly needed. That winter it broke into maddening burst of flowers. The colour was dark-red-black.
The garden drew visitors from that very day. The neighbouring people came with their friends and rose-lovers alike who stayed at various places of Burdwan. People coming back from offices at the end of day spent some of their times in the garden. They all were unanimous in their verdict: Mitra babu can do wonders. Look how difficult roses bloom where they cannot maintain even creepers properly at their homes.
The rose plant became a tree after months. It spread its branches wildly. Father allowed it up to a point. The moment seven leaves appeared, he cut the branch from its base with a cutter that looked like the ones used in cracking betel nuts. Five leaves he stuck to from a branch like nit-picking umpires who were quite fussily precise with their decisions of leg-before-wicket. Decisions, until given, kept both the batsman and bowler on their tenterhooks. After given, while one rejoiced, the other left the field with a vigorous shake of head. Umpire was unflustered. Father too. He would collect the cut-off branches lying down like extras that were clipped, gather them and throw outside the boundary wall into wasteland.
‘Your mother and I will be off to Shantiniketon for a week from tomorrow,’ father said just the day after my annual exam. He did not consider my elder brother and me taking with them along, knowing very well that we would not entertain any idea of leaving 20. Nutanpally sacrificing kite fly and badminton.
The day they left, Beena came from our next house and claimed straightway that the rose tree belonged to her! Beena and I read in the same school and class. She was known for her haughty intransigence in school and locality. So I did not take her seriously naturally.
‘Your father bought it from the very man who owed my father close to thousand rupees. He is showing no interest to repay it. So this plant must be mine to recover a small part of loan my father gave to him.’ Beena said.
‘Then settle the matter with him. Your logic is laughable.’ I pooh-poohed her.
‘When I get things closer to home, why should I bother to go as far as Ranigunj Bazar?’ Beena demanded to know in her own brand of logic.
‘If you want flowers you can pluck all the ones in it,’ I said, desperate to placate her. ‘Why should you demand the whole plant?’ I asked.
‘Flowers bloom in a tree, not in sky. I want the tree only, not your house.’ Beena replied impetuously.
‘But…’
The word got stuck to my lips as Beena pickep up an axe that stood against the boundary wall at a hand-shaking distance and whacked it at the base of blooming tree.
Rose petals fell off. So was the tree.
The whole act took place at such an electrifying pace that I did not get time to respond.
Beena leapt up in joy as the tree tilted down to a side, shedding all its flowers. The earth underneath got covered with dark-red-black petals. Then she ran away giggling all the way back her home.
I tried hard to get the half-hacked tree stand on its own as it did earlier. I failed. It lay down completely after some effort.
‘Beena lives up to her expectations.’ Father said as he painstakingly planted another one immediately after coming back home from a week-long break. From the abode of peace he was plunged to slaughter- house of anarchy at his own house.
‘This plant will grow again and bring flowers,’ father looked as unperturbed as he did always. ‘But we need to keep vigil against garden- vandalisers in future to keep it smiling all the time.’ He said with a bit stiff-jawed.
We left 20. Nutanpally a decade back. I hope his garden is smiling on in his perennial absence, our absence, withstanding plundering raiders like marauding Beena.