by Sudha Subramanian
We met during Ashada, the inauspicious month of the Hindu calendar.
Your arms latched onto the grooves, and your foot fumbled between the ridges of the giant trunk. “Careful.” I stuck my hand out.
Too late. You toppled to the ground, arms splayed to the sides. Your knees bore scratches, and your elbows had red marks, but your deep brown eyes set my heart on fire. You were twelve and I was ten, the age my mother warned me against speaking to boys.
The Big Banyan Tree was only a mile away, and every evening, I looked forward to more than playing in the swing or feeling my hair in the wind under its vast canopy. You led me along the lowest branch, and we sat with our legs dangling below. We gazed at the sky through the crack of the leaflets. My cheeks burned as our arms brushed. I was twelve, the stage my mother thought I should stop running, swinging, and climbing trees; also, the time I began practising the rangoli and stringing jasmine flowers — skills girls had to master to become suitable brides.
The dark mole along the tapering of your lip soon played hide and seek with the first spurt of a moustache. We scaled to the highest part of the wood to explore the nests tucked in the crook of its arms and huddled behind the fresh burst of foliage. The whir of the wings stopped us in our tracks, as we watched a hatchling struggle to fly. You untangled the lint from its feet, and when it took its first flight, we wondered what freedom could mean to us. I was fourteen, the age my mother grew suspicious of my evening trips.
I caught you staring at me more than once. You pointed to the tallest perch, where a spotted eagle sat alone. “He is lonely,” you whispered, your breath grazing my neck. “They are monogamous,” you said, explaining how the large raptor would spend the rest of its life soaring the skies alone. We laced our fingers and promised never to part. You picked a sharp stone, I chose a broken knife, and we carved a heart on the trunk and filled in our initials. I was sixteen, the time I started cooking, also the period when my mother called my bluff more than once.
We met behind rooted pillars of the Banyan grove that stretched hundreds of miles away from prying eyes. “Banyans live hundreds of years,” you whispered, caressing my face with your fingers. We sealed our partnership with a gentle kiss, promising to meet again three years later on the first day of Ashada. You went to the University while I counted the days with marks on the bough. I turned eighteen that winter, the phase parents begin to think of marriage for girls.
I was nineteen when Mother draped me in a silk saree before introducing me to my prospective groom. When I arranged the stalks of the jasmine on a string and bound them together, under the watchful eyes of the boy, I felt your fingers twine into mine. When I sang your favorite Kannada song, I remembered the soft touch of your lips.
The tree, the branches, the leaves, the flowers, and the birds, ebbed in and out of the waves of musical instruments and Sanskrit hymns as I garlanded a stranger on my wedding day.
And I carved more hearts with our initials and left messages on branches and prop roots.
And after forty years, we stand a few feet apart — the silver brushing your forehead, the mole dancing on your shaven lips — and we watch the spectacle unfold with our hearts in our mouths.
The first dash of the axe sears our hearts.
The only way to save the tree is to clip the disease before it attacks the enormous expanse.
We hold our gaze as the one witness to our partnership gives way. It is slow and gentle as the massive pillar tumbles, breaking our hearts in two.
I am sixty, entering a new dawn with no mother or husband.
The birds sing, the branches creak, and we stare at our broken hearts.
My fingers itch to carve a new one, but you are long gone.
Your arms latched onto the grooves, and your foot fumbled between the ridges of the giant trunk. “Careful.” I stuck my hand out.
Too late. You toppled to the ground, arms splayed to the sides. Your knees bore scratches, and your elbows had red marks, but your deep brown eyes set my heart on fire. You were twelve and I was ten, the age my mother warned me against speaking to boys.
The Big Banyan Tree was only a mile away, and every evening, I looked forward to more than playing in the swing or feeling my hair in the wind under its vast canopy. You led me along the lowest branch, and we sat with our legs dangling below. We gazed at the sky through the crack of the leaflets. My cheeks burned as our arms brushed. I was twelve, the stage my mother thought I should stop running, swinging, and climbing trees; also, the time I began practising the rangoli and stringing jasmine flowers — skills girls had to master to become suitable brides.
The dark mole along the tapering of your lip soon played hide and seek with the first spurt of a moustache. We scaled to the highest part of the wood to explore the nests tucked in the crook of its arms and huddled behind the fresh burst of foliage. The whir of the wings stopped us in our tracks, as we watched a hatchling struggle to fly. You untangled the lint from its feet, and when it took its first flight, we wondered what freedom could mean to us. I was fourteen, the age my mother grew suspicious of my evening trips.
I caught you staring at me more than once. You pointed to the tallest perch, where a spotted eagle sat alone. “He is lonely,” you whispered, your breath grazing my neck. “They are monogamous,” you said, explaining how the large raptor would spend the rest of its life soaring the skies alone. We laced our fingers and promised never to part. You picked a sharp stone, I chose a broken knife, and we carved a heart on the trunk and filled in our initials. I was sixteen, the time I started cooking, also the period when my mother called my bluff more than once.
We met behind rooted pillars of the Banyan grove that stretched hundreds of miles away from prying eyes. “Banyans live hundreds of years,” you whispered, caressing my face with your fingers. We sealed our partnership with a gentle kiss, promising to meet again three years later on the first day of Ashada. You went to the University while I counted the days with marks on the bough. I turned eighteen that winter, the phase parents begin to think of marriage for girls.
I was nineteen when Mother draped me in a silk saree before introducing me to my prospective groom. When I arranged the stalks of the jasmine on a string and bound them together, under the watchful eyes of the boy, I felt your fingers twine into mine. When I sang your favorite Kannada song, I remembered the soft touch of your lips.
The tree, the branches, the leaves, the flowers, and the birds, ebbed in and out of the waves of musical instruments and Sanskrit hymns as I garlanded a stranger on my wedding day.
And I carved more hearts with our initials and left messages on branches and prop roots.
And after forty years, we stand a few feet apart — the silver brushing your forehead, the mole dancing on your shaven lips — and we watch the spectacle unfold with our hearts in our mouths.
The first dash of the axe sears our hearts.
The only way to save the tree is to clip the disease before it attacks the enormous expanse.
We hold our gaze as the one witness to our partnership gives way. It is slow and gentle as the massive pillar tumbles, breaking our hearts in two.
I am sixty, entering a new dawn with no mother or husband.
The birds sing, the branches creak, and we stare at our broken hearts.
My fingers itch to carve a new one, but you are long gone.
Sudha Subramanian is an Indian writer living in Dubai. Her works have appeared in Bending Genres, Reckon Review, West Trestle Review among others. She is a tree hugger and an amateur bird watcher. Connect with her on X @sudhasubraman or on IG @sudha_subraman
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