Trees, family, and the quiet work of letting go
This house was built 25 years ago, and the year we moved in, I found a mango tree near the house.
I shifted it to the vacant plot in front of the house, and our home was complete.
It found a garden.
Years went by, and the garden is now a jungle of five big trees.
I wake up every day to see the beautiful, lush green outside my window.
The mangoes bear fruit every summer. Alphonso. The best quality.
I am used to this sight. It blocks the view of other naked buildings around.
These trees, for years, remained silent companions.
I watch them while sipping a cup of coffee on the balcony. Many birds call it home.
They have witnessed my life; they have witnessed my absence when I was not here.
They know I will water them every two days, and I have witnessed them grow with this trust.
The garden is an extension of my room and my consciousness.
I am aware of them, and they conduct a kind of non-local communication with me. I simply know what they want.
It is a tiny ecosystem of love and affection. Camaraderie.
We have known our wounds, and we have healed together into scars.
I continue my gaze into them, and my gaze belongs there—like it is where it is supposed to be.
They made this formality of existence a bit playful. Joy nests in them.
***
I was torn between the choice of growth and preservation when my mother announced that she was going to build a house in the garden.
It was a sudden realisation that no matter how long sustained, the garden was temporary—just like everything in nature.
But I did not predict a man-made end for my beloved trees.
Yet, we need to make space for human life.
I don’t want to go into the rationality and logic of this decision, but when it comes to choosing between trees and humans, it is obvious that we choose humans, not life versus life.
Soon, the design for the new house will be ready, and the trees will be taken down.
I will not be here to see it. My family doesn’t want me to be here. But I am mourning in anticipation.
I want to mitigate this sorrow with awareness.
I want to cry. I want to throw tantrums at my mother for cutting the trees—this is a physical release of the pain I am feeling.
But this writing, and communicating with you, releases much that needs to be let go.
My tarot master advised me to let go of something in life that is close to me.
I guess it is the expectation of permanence. I let it go.
Death is an inevitable part of life.
It is time for me to surrender what I am holding onto at the feet of death—
the death of the trees, and the ego of permanence.
I hope it drains everything that is not needed from every cell of my body.
Once the dam is broken, let it empty the reservoir of stagnation.
The river will start flowing again.
***
I didn’t sign for this, and I didn’t ask for this. Hence, I didn’t give any consent.
Families should consider consideration, and I consider the side of the family.
I have seen my parents grow up just as they have seen me.
We have transitioned. We have matured together—as parents, as children.
I want it to grow further, and so I second what they believe in.
Right now, for them, expansion is more important than conservation.
We have a democratic system in our house after my father’s demise. We argue and fight, but the majority wins.
I have lost.
Yesterday, while watering the trees, my hand paused on the tap longer than usual—as if delaying an ending I cannot stop.
I am aware that the trees in the garden will not survive this transition.
All I can do right now is mourn. I want to be ready for this.
Because right now, I don’t see anybody understanding where I stand.
For people, it’s just trees. They will grow again. But no one considers what they have lived.
I don’t hope or expect anybody to empathise or sympathise, and I am not here to judge other people’s sensitivity either.
When I say I don’t expect, I really don’t expect anything. Nothing.
***
I sense this demise like the demise of a family member—and a cycle of being active.
When my father died, my nephew was born.
The joy he brought into our lives counterbalanced the sorrow of my father’s passing.
The trees in the garden have five offspring, which I have conserved in small pots.
Additionally, I am planning something big—something I wouldn’t have thought of otherwise.
Human life is considered superior to that of other living beings. I want to rectify that.
And I want to do it without the false pretences of activism.
All lives are equal.
This is not a social cause; this is personal.
I am not doing anything to please someone else, but to feel aligned within myself.
***
I am the only man in my family right now.
In the culture where I was born, I am not supposed to show sensitivity and must remain strong all the time.
I am breaking that norm. I am breaking the fourth wall of the role I perform in this setup.
Mourning is not weakness; it is recognition of a relationship.
When you operate within the mind–body stream and interact with the world, you form relationships with it.
The world within you aligns with the world without.
Something breaking apart in the physical realm is often something breaking apart internally.
There are many things I am letting go of right now.
To be frank, I am surrendering my being to the spirits, and deeply rooted beliefs are being uprooted—
beliefs about what it means to prosper, and what it means to succeed in life.
Grief is part of the process. I want to go through it.
Not as penance, not as punishment, but as housekeeping of the mind—with awareness.
I accept grief without social validation.
Accepting the cycle of life and death, joy and sorrow.
Carrying tears for trees in a world that finds them unreasonable.
***
The flood of tears is washing the ground of possibilities,
making it ready to return.
This time, not in denial, but with intention.
The loss is a lesson in impermanence.
The loss is also a reminder that nature never ceases to grow, despite anticipated death.
This is the motivation a man must seek within.
To use whatever resources we have and keep growing—
in every direction possible, without confusing growth with convention.
You strive to grow, and that itself is success.
A tree never stops breathing intentionally.
Let the loss inform future care rather than bitterness.
We always have the option to respond rather than resist.
I choose to respond with sorrow and convert it into something meaningful and creative.
***
I have a small piece of land near the forest in Sahyadri.
I have decided to dedicate that land to trees.
I will plant 500—if not more.
I intend to understand death as participation, not failure.
I am already using writing as a compensatory ritual, but that is not the sole aim of the art I practise.
It is to express and to inform.
The reason behind this plantation is to invite nature back into my life.
My friends have promised to help with the plantation.
An engineer friend has also promised to build a lodge using natural materials at the heart of this mini sanctuary.
It will take time, as growth cannot be rushed in nature.
I will take time to heal, as nothing new compensates for the loss of the old.
But this space, I am growing at the heart of the jungle, will facilitate healing and letting go.
Let me water it with tears and turn them into lush, breathing life.
I allow mourning to become creation.
I channelise.