The green that glistens in baby leaves in springtime is invigorating — just staring at them reduces my mental age by several years. Being surrounded by maples, oaks, cherries, and sycamores that are 40-feet-tall or taller is something I count as a blessing in these times of climate crisis and as a constant reminder of how trees serve us during their long lives. In a world where natural disasters happen every day, every standing tree is a saviour and a survivor. And, it is our responsibility to protect them.
In the plot adjacent to of one of my childhood homes in Dhaka stood a 5-storey-tall krishnachura tree. During the summertime when the krishnachura would be in full bloom, the tree appeared as if it caught on fire. Its orange-red flowers were so blazingly bright! Thankfully, uncontrolled urbanisation of Dhaka City was some 15 years away, so the landowner did not yet cut down the tree to erect a multi-storeyed structure. We lived in that flat for a decade and that krishnachura tree was a trusted non-person neighbour.
Dhaka was not a concrete jungle in the 1980s. Well, there were, of course, concrete buildings, but jackfruit, mango, guava, banana, betel nut, coconut, palm, pink cedar, eucalyptus, shimul, polash, krishnachura, and many other varieties of native trees also graced the metropolis.
Three or more decades ago, if you had stood on the roof of a 5-storey building in Dhaka, you would not see the urban sprawl that you see today. In the 1980s and even until the mid-1990s, trees were everywhere or in most areas of the capital; trees and Dhakaites dwelled side by side.
Overurbanisation, however, has destroyed the trees of Dhaka, leaving Dhaka dwellers in an environment where the air is too toxic to breathe in. Land clearing has made the already-hot summer season hotter and prolonged.
The Dhaka I grew up in and the Dhaka I visit every year are very different in terms of heat index and air quality. If you factor in environmental factors, the Dhaka I left in 2008 was much better than the Dhaka I experience today.
We share a Kwanzan cherry tree with our next-door neighbour; it straddles the property line. The tree is about 40 years old, so it gets very tall and blocks the sunlight, if not trimmed regularly. Tree trimming is expensive, so I once suggested to my neighbour if we could just take it down. My elderly neighbour was horrified at the idea. She said, "It is a beautiful tree. It gives us shade in summer and beautiful pink blossoms in spring. It is not diseased or dying, so why would you want to cut it down? Yes, it costs to have it trimmed, but it's well worth it."
The conversation took place three years ago and I have never forgotten what she tried to mean that day. Today, when I watch the cherry tree bloom every spring, I feel ashamed of what I suggested to my neighbour three years ago. I have apologised to the tree and I hope it heard me.
The Kwanzan cherry tree in my driveway reminds me of the krishnachura tree I mentioned in the beginning of this piece. Like the krishnachura tree of my childhood, which delighted me with its orange-red flowers, this Kwanzan cherry tree enchants me with its pink blossoms. Tiny friends of feather sit on its branches and sing, sometimes solo and at other times in chorus. On a moonlit summer night, its leaves dance in the gentle breeze; the sound of the rustling leaves carries me back to my childhood.
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