“The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.”
~Pablo Neruda
I was young when I first read those lines, from a poem I still regard as one of the finest I have ever read. Back then, I believed the heart changed less than the world around it. I was, of course, only a boy of ten, less scarred by the claws of nostalgia. How could two people not remain the same from one night to another if they remained pals or lovers?
Growing older, I would discover that places rarely exist in isolation. They become repositories of people. Every road, every room, every tree remembers someone. Yet, as Neruda reminds us, the person a place remembers may no longer exist in quite the same form. People go on finding new people in husbands, wives, children, families, friends and neighbours, until one day the maps of their lives are no longer the same. And then, the person you may still be looking for in someone may already have vanished. The same night whitening the same trees…
Then people keep drifting away, across longitudes, latitudes and oceans. And when they return, they are like Lazarus. They have come back, yet they are no longer truly there. Some journeys admit no return. They cross that last line too, into that indelible darkness, cut down in the noon of their lives by illness, violence or mere accident. Then there is a someone-shaped black hole in the universe.
I also hate it when places change their faces, though they all inevitably do. Couple that with people who leave in body or in spirit, and a place is left without its soul. Perhaps that is what the Portuguese mean by saudade.
Early in my childhood, my father took us to our village. Of all the things I came to love there, one was a small hut in a clearing east of the village, nestling beneath a peepal tree. The hut belonged to a branch of the family that had split from ours generations earlier. There was no open rancour between us, only an old resentment that had quietly survived the generations. An old woman, always dressed in the white saree of widowhood, lay curled upon a cot and was as much a part of the place as the hut and the tree. Her grandniece came from time to time with food and water, and soon it was she who drew me back to the hut. We would sit on the cot facing the old woman, while my dangling legs waved like pendulums.
“Stop that!” The rasp would escape her toothless mouth. The grandniece would draw her legs up and sit cross-legged like a demure child, her mauve-coloured frock covering her knees. She had large black eyes set in a heart-shaped face, with short bobbed hair falling across her forehead. The peepal leaves would susurrate a ceaseless music, even as the ears of corn stood motionless in the fields beneath the afternoon sun. A scarecrow, its head a soot-black pitcher, leaned to one side, an old broom drooping from its bamboo-stick arm.
The old woman broke into a story, unsolicited by her audience of two. Perhaps she wished to impress the new visitor; perhaps she told it every day. It was the story of a prince and a fairy who had been cursed to live as a poor village girl. They became friends and grew up together until one day the king’s generals arrived and carried the prince away.
My visits to the hut were discussed among the elders at home, who eventually agreed they were harmless enough. I visited the hut, and the ladies, young and old, twice more before we returned to the city. The following summer, when we returned, the hut was still there, and so were the white-clad old woman and her grandniece, who had grown a little shyer, lost a tooth, and somehow become even more charming.
The old lady, though, seemed frozen in time, and so did the stories, most of them woven around the same theme. I had carried a few rolls of Poppins and gave her one each day. I soon learned to time my visits so that I would meet the grandniece. Once, I believe, she was ill, and a gruff, greying man appeared in her place, carrying the food. He gave me a dismissive look and left without so much as an introduction after dropping a cloth bag into the old woman’s lap. The peepal tree swayed noisily in the strong summer wind that day. The little girl was not at rest; nor, it seemed, was the tree.
The next summer, when we returned to the village, the hut was gone without a trace. The old woman had died alone beneath its thatch the previous winter, and with her passing the hut too had disappeared. Although her grandniece was still there, tucked away somewhere beneath the clay tiles of her sprawling family home, there was no longer any place where I could have met her. Because ours was a pucca house, I would slip onto the terrace and gaze wistfully at the brown earthen spires adorning her rooftop. Perhaps it was then that I first felt the pangs of longing.
Our family did not return to the village for the next few years because my father had been transferred farther away. By the time we returned, I was older and a little wiser. But by then the little girl’s family had sold their land and belongings and moved to a city. I didn’t have the heart to visit the peepal tree beneath which the hut had once stood. But one particularly listless night, I slipped out of the house and found my way to the tree. It was a half-moon night, and the peepal stood high, all its leaves quivering and whispering. It didn’t say anything to me.
One Grain Amongst the Storm 
Loved that. I can see the Peepal and the crouching old lady and the toothless smile of the grandniece. Life flows on swift; Sun sets and darkens the waters. There may or may not be a next morning….
Come to think of it, I had not planned to write about the peepal tree when I had started. I am glad I could convey what I ended up writing. That is a poetic comment, Balan Saheb: I am indebted.
Over and over again we must learn impermanence…something we know and yet seem hard-wired to wish otherwise. Such beauty and longing here, and so well written….I have read it and re-read it with a lump in the throat.
“There is a someone-shaped black hole in the universe” …I will remember this always, I think;—it is such a perfect line of poetry.
Cynthia, look forward to your poem about the “……black hole in the universe”….
Cynthia, you have nailed our eternal battle with impermanence in one sentence. Thanks for those kind words. The idea of the hole has always been there.
“Won’t you say something, old friend?” This one has left me speechless. Perhaps the peepal said nothing because there are some things that can’t be said… Stunning…
“Won’t you say something, old friend?”And we could say that to you as well Mr Goodman, miss your stories….
Writing a post seems to be the only way to spur you back in action, old friend! There is a Bruce Goodman shaped hole in the Blogsphere. Thanks a ton for encouraging my fumbling pen.
Uma Shankar, this is beautifully written and two Hindi songs came to mind as I read this, the first one “Bhooli Hui Yaadon, Mujhe Itna Na Sataao” – the late greats Rajendra Krishna, Mukesh and Madan Mohan and “Karoge Yaad To Har Baat Yaad Aayegi” – Bhupinder, Mirza Shauq and Khayyam. Your story is a song in itself…..
I do love those songs you have mentioned, especially the one from Bazaar, it could easily mist my face if it were allowed that. As for the story, when pain becomes larger than life, it becomes a song.
I am fully with your appeals to both Bruce and Cynthia.
Beautifully put, succinctly romantic & unapologetically nostalgic – Your forte Uma.
I take pride in your assessment, Ian. I needed the boost.
Such a poignant and wistful story from your youth, Umashankar! “We, of that time, are no longer the same.” There is much truth in that line by Pablo Neruda. How often I have reflected on people and places from my youth and to go back again, if I can, it is never the same as the memories I held. This is expressed so well in your poetic lines…”It was a half-moon night and the peepal stood high, all its leaves quivering and whispering. But it didn’t say anything to me.” Perhaps that is as it always should be, that there is no more to be said because the romance of nostalgic memories is that they are unique snapshots forever frozen in their time just “to be” as they were at their moment of creation. Beautifully written, a story and memory to treasure!
Yes, Madilyn, it is never the same, sometimes even when the same people are present. You have summed it beautifully with your words, “romance of nostalgic memories is that they are unique snapshots forever frozen in their time just “to be”.
The susurrating of the peepal leaves…the woman in white saree telling a story…your description made me feel the moments. We often forget to enjoy such fugacious pleasures of life. But, you did, and, that too, in a way that left a lasting impression on your life. 🙂
‘Fugacious pleasure, indeed! They have a way of bouncing back upon you years after they have gone. Thanks for the reassuring comment.
I keep your posts to read at leisure as I always expect to unearth a treasure. And I have never been disappointed. Thanks for such a lovely gift to your readers.
“People keep finding people in husbands, wives, families, children, friends and neighbors, in ways that rearrange the maps of their lives irreversibly. In that sense, someone I may be looking for in someone may have vanished for ever..” This thought will dwell in me for some time now…
The opening line of your comment is an iambic pentameter —what else can I say! Thanks for being there, Asha.
What do I say? A masterpiece about time and its mystique that will stand the test of time. 🙂 Lots of little gems in this brilliant piece.
Exquisitely penned. A true masterpiece about time and its mystique that will stand the test of time.:) Lots of little gems in this brilliant piece.
I guess I have managed to transfer a bit of my longing across the table. Many thanks for the breathtaking compliment.
A fan of your writing style I have always been Umashankar Ji and this one tells me that I have not been wrong –I find this one is the simplest of you writings depicting and explaining the most complex human emotions not only relationships and feelings of the romantic kind but also those of the kinds required of humans to practice and execute and the beautiful description of the natural surroundings and their contributory importance for the exact screenplay —beautifully vivid story —thanks for sharing
Sometimes it takes the simplest of words to transfer the melancholia onto a piece of paper, sometimes all the words in a dictionary fail to do the same put together. I feel fortunate to have been able to touch your feelings at times. Thank you ever so much, Rajni Ji.
That was yet another literary gem from you, exploring human emotions through detailed descriptions of physical reality surrounding the events.
Karthik, I keep looking forward to reading your feedback. Thank you for the continued attention.
Words fail me as I try to describe how beautiful your writing is. Thanks for being a writer’s writer. This post is one to be bookmarked.
With a compliment like that, I can keep writing for a lifetime. Thanks a centillion!
I sincerely hope you do. It’ll be great for all your readers 🙂
Breathtakingly sad, uma, and so poignantly written. The past is indeed irretrievable and memories are never really enough. One can only sigh, take a deep breath and move on.
Trust you to strike at the heart of the matter, Marty! Move on! is what life expects us to do —lingering is trouble. Thanks for the kind words.
Compelling read. A bit of sadness and yet a dash of sweetness coming from poppins. And very visual, as always.
It is a bitter-sweet life, is it not?
Reads like Premchand in English 🙂
That is an honour I am not fit enough to receive. Thank you, sir.
What an ending. It syncs beautifully with your assertion that places have no meaning without people.
That was the whole point of the story. Many thanks for agreeing.
A very nice story, makes me think of the many aching moments I get when I visit and think of my home town.
Unlike your story when I go back to my hometown everything is still in the exact same place, my old house is still sitting there, still the same color, the same doors and windows, the same trees in the same place and the garden with the same shape as before, as are all the other houses around it. What is missing are all the people I used to know, most have passed on and the rest I no longer have any contact with.
I can feel your pain, my friend, that hollow feeling in your gut when you stand before your old house, the same doors and windows, the same trees in the same place and the garden with the same shape as before… but missing people.
Which is why I hate revisiting the past. It rarely lives up to nostalgia.
You have said it.
Once again you took us to the countryside and its people and another little story that will refuse to leave my mind for some time. Your words have created vivid pictures again and I feel I have actually seen that hut and the old woman in white and her grand niece.
And the story — soul stirring, USP.
I guess we can all relate to this piece because we’ve all seen places change without certain people in them. And that hole that they leave there, is one that another cannot fill.
I feel so blessed to be able to read your work. It’s so, so, so beautiful.
Desirous of making a point, I sauntered down that valley of memories yet again. I am happy to have kept you interested, blessed for your continued encouragement.
‘ The same night’ and yet so different. How time takes away all that it gives! My Sunday evening is enriched with your beautiful narrative. Keep feeding us those thoughts always 🙂
The other face of time is called destiny. Thanks for enriching this corner, my friend.