TREES

It was a beautiful morning. Birds chirping, peace exuding the atmosphere, trees swaying gently in subtle,
chilly wind of December. The clouds were like massive cotton balls looking sharp against the dark blue
sky. The sun had not fully risen though traces of sunlight were washing over the tall green trees that
heavily inhabited the Afsar Colony and surrounded it with their magnificence and secrecy. The colony
was known for its beauty and aesthetics, its resemblance to natural habitat, for not a single tree had
been cut here for more than 105 years.

“Aik so paanch saal ke darakht hen yahan tou…” Daadi used to say while sipping on her sweet
cardamom tea.

But the truth was, not a living soul knew how old the trees were that towered over the large houses of
Afsar colony. It was rumored that they preceded the colony itself. That houses were built around them.
Not a single sapling was cut down for as long as the inhabitants of Afsar colony remembered. For every
tree that was cut down, there had been a death in one of the large and beautiful houses of the Colony
….

How could a posh and high society like Afsar Colony be left in the midst of overgrown trees?
Unattended, unraveled and abandoned…It was not a haunted place, nor the trees ever harmed anyone.
They were just there. Quiet and shy, hiding in plain sight. Indifferent and absolute. Yet the atmosphere
was heavy. The silence was loud, the wind was like a quiet whisper begging to be blown away…away
from Afsar colony and the old swaying trees. And Daadi…was always curious. She was one of those
people who started the association of uncalled deaths of the residents with the cutting down of trees.

“Ye kya baat hui Daadi, every soul has to taste death. Don’t you say so yourself? Isn’t this what God has
informed us about hundreds of centuries ago…”

“Puttar….Death is a solace for some, but an everlasting prison for others.. Dying with fear makes it more
brutal, leaving your body is painful..but to leave it in a state of agony that prevails even after death is
excruciating” Daadi responded while mixing a heap of shakkar in her tea, her gaze fixed on a distant
Banyan tree, that had its roots spread to miles under the ground.

Sure, people died in Afsar Colony normally too. The business of life went by as normally as it had been
for 80 years. But I couldn’t help wondering…Maybe, what Daadi says is true, maybe some of the deaths
were unnatural, unexplainable… for example, how could a 7 year old boy jump from roof of a three
portioned house? People called it suicide...Suicide of a 7 year old boy living with loving parents, studying
in the best school and having a personality of a Chimpanzee…always on his toes, beloved, happy,
fascinated, curious…..

Curious….

Curiosity is where it all begins and ends… Where the fate gets sealed. Either you act upon the curiosity
or you don’t.. Butterfly effect, where the consequences follow the actions. A different course of action
takes you to a different path. A different destination. For young Hassan, the destination was death..and
it came too soon.

Obviously people came up with logics of their own.

“Kid must have been bullied.. You know what kind of brats are roaming around in these gora complex
schools..”

“Sexual harassment….The kid must have been sexually harassed, ask the servants! The drivers! The
parents..Arey! what drove him to take his own life! I say this matter must be investigated properly.”

“He was a happy child…he was so open, maybe we failed as parents”

“He just asked me to build him a tree house…..”

Of course. Thinking about the matter vaguely, it did seem like a 7 year old kid, disturbed psychologically
and suffering from some deep trauma decided to jump off the roof. But whenever I sat with Daadi next
to the West facing window in her bedroom… My thoughts strayed to the deep hollow of mystery Daadi
had dug in the past 28 years…Hassan was loved, he was joyful. Once he knocked on our gate to ask for
his ball, lost in our lawn..I met him. He had a shine of a mischievous young boy in his eyes. By the time I
found his cricket ball, he had bombarded me with hundreds of questions that he answered himself
before I had the chance to respond.

“Do you play Cricket? Because girls don’t, right? Yeah girls play with dolls..” he smirked

“Little tyke..” I muttered.

Those 15 minutes, it took me to find his cricket ball, I had known everything about Hassan’s life. His
ambitions, his plans, his best friend, his favorite snack, his favorite subject. Even the color of his favorite
underpants. He spoke maximum words in a single breathe, shifting his weight on his feet and grabbing
his nose once in a while ,like he was about to sneeze. I thought he was holding his sneeze so that he
could speak more..

“Chirpy mouth, you are…” I told him grumply as he left..

He giggled, “I’m going to build a tree house for myself, when I do, you can come over and we can do
puzzles..”

“Sure…” Like hell I was going to spend 10 seconds more with this quirky kid.

“Bye Aunty!”

The same night…the very same fateful night, Hassan departed the world….jumped off the roof and took
his own life.

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11 in the evening, the roads were barren. Chilly winds were blowing outside the house, singing a song of
mourning. There was a strange reverb in the air. I felt sad… I couldn’t understand why I felt so gloomy.
Everyone had gone to bed earlier than usual. Maybe I was missing Jahanzaib, my late husband, who
embraced martyrdom at the border 2 months after our wedding. Even though we never got to know
each other well, he was a good person. I didn’t love him, but I had accepted him. I never wanted him
dead…but I did wish him away from my life. Least did I know that he would never come back. Eventually
I moved to my grandparent’s house. For the longest time, I blamed myself for Jahanzaib’s death. But
with time, comes maturity and acceptance. It was not my fault. True, I did not love him. But his death
was written the day he was conceived. It was from God. Or maybe I am a cold hearted person who never
knew how to be grateful. Ungrateful in his life and ungrateful in his death.

I felt a pang in my stomach and burning in my eyes. I was someone who hardly cried. I couldn’t
remember the last time I had cried. Wiping my tears I blamed hunger for my gloominess and got up to
boil some readymade ramen for myself. Daadi and Shakeela were already in their rooms. Our house was
huge with many rooms and corridors, but only 4 people inhabited it. My 87 years old Daadi jaan, our
helper Sakeena and her daughter Shakeela that stayed in the house till she was to get married. I brought
a hot bowl of ramen back to my room and started gulping down the spicy soup. I like my food spicy…A
way to feel warm..and not very lonely…

Suddenly, I heard a cry..

A loud, heart wrenching cry. A cry that would shake the heavens and shatter the mountains. Torturous
and mundane…a woman was being tortured.

I ran to the window… It was a woman, crouched over a small figure, shrieking at the top of her lungs,
crying her breath out. A man was standing besides her, still as a rock, about to crumble. In no time, lights
started popping up in houses of the dark street. A horrible sight presented in the dim yellow lights of 4
acre houses…

Little Hassan lying down flat on his back on the ground, in front of the open gate of a three portioned
house. His mouth gaping, eyes staring blankly at the dark sky, a trickle of blood oozing from his
forehead. His mother was clutching him like a vulture, shaking him, slapping him. Begging him to speak,
to move. His father stood helpless and shocked. Looking down at the still and vacant body of his 7 year
old boy, his heart shattered into million pieces.

I gasped, it was unbelievable, like a dream..The one you don’t like but can’t wake up from. By now,
people had started to gather around the couple who lost their child. Their helper came rushing out and
started wailing. He must have been close to the kid. He often accompanied him to his little rendezvous
with friends and excursions.

To be continued…..

Saniya Inayat.