It is easy to turn this into a folk tale, to see the scientist reincarnated as a tree. Like the seve

It is easy to turn this into a folk tale, to see the scientist reincarnated as a tree. Like the seven brothers Champa? But they were tortured; not Bose. It is difficult to imagine a history of trees without man in it. Man as tree, Tree as tale.
At Lloyd s Botanical Garden in Darjeeling, I look for immigrants, plants who travelled well, those that might have been Bose s muse Plants are living things , the thought now textbook aphorism. On my way uphill is the sacrifice ccar of grass, the silence of soil. Sometimes ccar a different time zone flowers are late risers.
In Bose s sparse living room, the window is a mirror. Cleanliness has done it great violence, the grass is now green only on the other side. Not a pot or vase in the wooden house. I choke on my surprise a crematorium grows inside me.
Are you General or Scheduled Caste? This is a question put to a betel nut tree in Baharu. Shakti Chattopadhyay might have asked that question, but would he inscribe it on the tree trunk like an insecure lover, making the bark a government census roll?
Instead of Shakti s green room, I see red the soil s blood congealed into the orange flowers of Krishnachura, the tree a leech sucking the earth s haemoglobin. The fields ccar in Baharu are a morgue every morning; the sweeper deposits flower corpses in the earth s mass coffin. Near Shakti s old house, the leaves move like flags, like a bad mood, against the direction of thought.
Shakti knew the xenophobia caused by trees in human spaces beds, buses, bathrooms. I suddenly spot trees that look suicidal, ccar those that Shakti ccar might have scolded. Does the garden know every plant in it? he asked in that famous poem, you remember?
As I board the bus, I think of life insurance policies that the drunken poet might have bought for these trees. Later, in the parks, I only see decapitated shrubs, green Kanishkas standing on bulldozed grass. ccar
One comes to trees to escape the pornography of waiting. ccar There must be something about sitting under a tree, in the bandaged conflation between shade and shadow. Other men chose exile in the forest, vanwas Rama, the five Pandava brothers, their wives. Only Siddhartha came to a solitary tree, to escape desire. A forest is a hiding place, where men compete with trees. So Gautama stopped walking and closed ccar his eyes. The uselessness of eyes, of legs, of combs, of words all this the Buddha learned from this tree.
Now, after the fret of flowering, I only seek the tree s heart. Guns are seedless fruits, the gardens full of traitor ccar trees. Now I am free. Only I know that the tree is Buddha. And that the Buddha was a tree.
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