When my mother landed in her new home,
her joy was greater than her house and it
inspired her to start life anew. She wiped
and cleaned and chose the nooks and corners
for herself and dad, for the children too.
The working maid slept in a dark corner
of the attic with tiles sloping down
to a low wall. And all was well and good.
A house not shared with cousins and relatives
asks for a boundary, but there was none.
The neighbor’s well supplied water for free.
But neighbors had to have a fence lest they
fight for a handful of soil. So, she
planted a bottle-brush sapling to stop
possible encroachment and ill-will too
and kept the human touch alive with a tree.
It grew. It grew taller than she was.
As it grew green, red, brush-like flowers spiked
from their cylinder as they waved to us
to taste their sprinkle of honeyed drops
on the back of our hands. We cried with joy.
Even when a wall enclosed the tree and house,
it found a place in the backyard. This tree,
ancient as our childhood, stood tall in time.
New neighbors sought to hew it down so that
its leaves and flowers would not fall in their
clean-swept yard. Yet we protected it
like a family member from the ax.
Then came the museum people who sought
to rebuild everything into something new.
They tore the house down to rebuild anew
a larger one where antiques could be placed.
They could have left the tree standing there
away from the construction site, but down
it came. The honey-suckle, the jasmine,
the roses, the marigold, and the rest
found a common grave on top of which
a garden for the visitor’s eye was planned.
But, O! Did the bottle-brush have to go?
Or is the new always built on the tears
of the old by those with a different past?
June 11, 2026
