Babul Tree (Thumma Chettu)

Original in Telugu by

Tripuraneni Gopichand

Translated by

GRK Murty

Tripuraneni Gopichand (1910-1962)

Tripuraneni Gopichand of Tenali, Andhra Pradesh, India, is a Telugu short story writer, novelist, editor, essayist, playwright and film director. His writings exhibit an exceptional interplay of values, ideas and ‘isms’—materialism, rationalism, existentialism, realism and humanism. He is well known among Telugu literati for his psychological novel—Asamardhuni Jeevayatra (The Incompetent’s Life Journey). He was posthumously presented the Sahitya Akademi Award for his novel, Panditha Parameshwara Sastry Veelunama (Will of Panditha Parameshwara Sastry), in 1963. Radical humanist, profound thinker, philosopher, social reformer and an inveterate votary of truth, Gopichand was a versatile genius, which reflects well in his scintillating stories that are told in crisp language. His stories pose many questions that challenge the wit of readers.

Looking at me, you might laugh! You might wonder: “What,

reminiscences? For a Babul tree?” You are all youngsters. You can’t but

feel that way. Looking at the grandpas, grandchildren think that they

were always like what they are today. How will grandchildren know of

the grandpas’ experiences? What does the chick-crow know about the

power of the sling shot? So, you can’t but grimace looking at me. That

too, I am not simply a babul tree, but a black babul tree.

You forget all the past events. I won’t say you should not learn new

things. But why forget the old? After all, where from the new came? Isn’t

it from the old! Aside of our pondering, the ignorant may not know even

the new.

If you want to know about me, do ask your grandpa and grandma. They

know about my greatness. They brought us, selecting the best and

planted us on the field bunds. Indeed, hardly was there any field in those

days without me! Valuation of a field that had babul tree on its bund was

always high. Fields sans us were valued less. Farmers might give off their

life even, but not us. In claiming their right over us, they even fought

among themselves bitterly. Such was their attachment to us. What do

we mean for you today? We have simply become a useless black stump.

So, you could as well casually say, “Cut it off.” How unfair!

My habits are quite petty. I need neither much water nor fertilizer. If you

provide me a little space, I can live on my own. No one need to labor to

put any fence around to protect me. I can protect myself from the cattle

and others! You are seeing the thorns that I have all over my body. It is

these which protect me from many threats. They ensure that nobody

dare touch me.

It’s true that once in a while farmers encounter pain because of my

thorns. Why pain? There is no place in their feet that my thorns have not

pricked. Yet, they won’t leave me. You know why? ‘cause, they know my

value. They know I am their well wisher.

Farmers gain many advantages out of me. Many plants and trees are

known to suck nutrients from the soil making the fields less fertile and

less productive. I am not of that kind. My soil becomes more fertile and

productive. Why do you stare at each other like that? Not able to believe

my words? My words are true. If you want to be doubly sure, you may

ask the wise. You might have seen many bigger trees than me. Might

have seen trees that marvel themselves at their big leaves and large

inflorescences. But, farmers are more interested in me than such trees.

For, nothing lives under such big trees. Theirs is a highly self-centered

life. I am not like that. Mine are petty small leaves. Intentionally I put

forth such small leaves. So, I can be sown anywhere, even on a field

bund. No crop suffers because of my shade. You don’t know these

things. Your relationship with the land has totally been cut off. Hence,

you say in a disgusting tone, “Why farmers plant these thorny trees on

field bunds? These old-fashioned farmers don’t understand!”

You may of course ask me: Are there not less harmful trees than you?

Yes, there are. But, I can say with certainty that there are no trees that

grow giving least disturbance, and be of immense use to the farmers.

You children—you may not know of it. Enquire with your grandpas.

There is no single part of mine that is not useful. My timber is used by

farmers for making carts. It comes handy as a handle for the sickles that

the farmers use. You might have seen the gum that oozes out of me.

Would there be anyone who hasn’t heard of ‘arabic’s gum’. You know it’s

useful for pasting things together. But you do not know that my gum is

highly useful in making many medicines in a variety of ways. My fruits

make a good feed for cattle. They help in strengthening their bodies. You

may not know today how the cattle hanker for my fruits. You enquire

with the cowherds.

Otherwise, you may rear a

lamb to know. By the bye, I

have forgotten, even my

bark is not useless. It highly

helps the leather industry.

There is no other material

better than me to clean the

hide and restore its

temper.

You may however say that I do not appear pleasing to your eyes. True!

Maybe. Mine is pomp-less appearance. Even my habits are such. But,

have you ever seen my flowers? Might have seen just like that. Might

have not seen them attentively. Your not having love for me might have

crept onto my flowers too. If you happen to see me again, forgetting me

for a while, look at my flowers. Like the stars, they glow in their yellow

shade. They spread a fragrance that delights your mind.

It’s based on these flowers that I have been described by the Sanskrit

poets as golden flower. Which means, I am a golden flower. Why are you

looking at me so surprised? For sure, you might be wondering, where am

I, the smoke-colored tree with petty leaves, thorns and crinkled fruits,

and where is the golden flower? No wonder even if you think that the

Sanskrit poets who gave me that description might have said in their

senility. When the sight changes, no wonder it might seem so!

It’s not only here, I am everywhere in the country. In Punjab, they call me

kikar. In Tamilnadu, they say karuvelam. In Karnataka, they call me by two

names—the first one is gobli and the second is ball. In every place the

earlier generation used to grow me with lots of affection. I used to

express my gratitude to them by helping them in very many ways.

True, I do have a life of my own. And I do have my own longings. At the

same time, I have my own pleasures and pangs. I do wish that my race

should flourish. Whatever might be my wishes, I am always willing to

sacrifice myself for the good of those farmers who love me. Is there

anything more to be said of me, while I am offering myself—even at the

cost of annihilating my very uniqueness—to protect other plants, other

beings taking the form of a fence? Helping you in these many ways, what

is that I desire from you? One kind word, one kind glance! But today, that

has become extinct.

Normally, it is not my nature to speak high of myself. I do not like

speaking high of me. But, it has become a must now. The farmer who has

nurtured me this far like his own child died recently. It was a sudden

death. That evening, after overseeing the farm work, he, sending away

the cattle along with the undertenant, sat on the bund for a while and

later pulling four twigs from me for brushing his teeth the next morning,

he left for home. Next morning, I came to know that he had died in the

night itself. Lying on the bed after having dinner, he was said to have

died in the sleep itself. What a blessed death! A death which every one of

us could desire—but, my heart quivered. Anyway, what is that one could

do! Retaining the sorrow within, I remained quiet.

My master had no male children. Had only one daughter. I know her from

her childhood. In those days, my master used to bring her to the farm

once in a while. She loved my flowers and gum. Looking at her I used to

feel as though I were seeing my sister. After growing up, she stopped

coming this side. She got married last year. This morning her husband

came to the field. You know, how proudly he stepped in? His disposition

gave me a feeling that he had never come to the fields before. Hoping

that his daughter would lead a happy life, my master got her married to a

government employee. Standing on the field bund, he stared at me for a

while.

He asked, “Why this stump here?” His words made me feel as though a

knife had pierced through my heart.

The undertenant who stood by him, explained my uses.

“Those are all beliefs of old times. Now, whatever type of timber is

required, it’s available everywhere”, said the new master.

“It seems the land gets enriched with this kind of trees”.

“How is it that a land gets productive by virtue of trees growing?” said

the new master smilingly. “Is it greater than fertilizers?” said he.

“If not anything, it shall at least come handy for the madam in her

cooking”, said the undertenant.

“It would be alright if we get enough firewood for a year’s cooking from

the town,” said the new master.

“Dora was thinking of getting a new cart made for the use of new

cattle”, said the undertenant.

“If at all we need to have a cart, we shall get teak timber—first let this

stump be removed with roots”, said the master.

How indifferent! He is not having even an iota of pity on other living

creatures. Otherwise, speaks about all great things. Claims to have

invented many new things which their ancestors did not know. Talks

about the invention of scientists that plants have life and they do sleep.

Claims it as the invention of the new generation and the ancestors are

not aware of it. Though the earlier generation did not know about this,

they did treat us as though we were one of their family members. Now

the present generation says that every living creature has life. But do not

hesitate to annihilate that life.

I do not fear dying. I was born to die in the use of my master. I would

gladly sacrifice my life for the man who knows my utility. But, for whose

sake is this death? What for? Moreover, my new master is ordering to pull

me out along with my roots. He doesn’t like my very race.

Here they come! New master—coming with two laborers. Look at the

axes in their hands! Have you seen the gait of my new owner? Fearing

that his feet might get soiled, he is stamping his feet carefully. It made

me amused even under the current duress. His disposition appears as

though he was coming to win over a life-long enemy. I pitied his

ignorance. For a minute, I felt like telling him a little of myself. Even if I

say, would he be patient enough to listen? Even if he hears, could he

understand? Let it be, I felt it’s better to die than to live this life. Closing

my eyes, I stood there. Am I a man to do something or the other in my

longing for the life to save it!

****