Life of Trees - A Story

There was once a valley—a kind of deep ravine, with a river running roughly through it. Along this torrential slope, two villages faced each other. They lay close; only a heavy pull of an arrow would reach from one side to the other.

The villagers were fertile in terms of population. Each year, the number of people doubled, and little by little, resources became scarcer day by day. For example, to gather firewood, they needed to go farther and farther into the forest each morning.

As I said earlier, the distance between the two villages was roughly the length of an arrow's flight. The people treated this space as a shooting field. They often played archery games, but they never picked up the poison-tipped arrows afterward! In response to this carelessness, a series of harsh words split between the villages. Little boys and girls, young and old—all threw their bad spits at one another. I mean poisoned arrows.


The root of these poisonous arrowheads was the river that ran between them. While it flowed geographically downhill, people on both sides declared ownership. The river became a point of dispute, especially in summer, when crop-growing time was at its peak. It turned out that every household claimed the right to dig its own canals for their rice fields.

The result? The river succumbed to exploitation. Countless tributaries and smaller branches dispersed from the mainstream. If you looked from the other side of the valley, you would see hundreds of finger-like, snaky channels spreading everywhere. This had wrought the land to waste. Because of these snaky tributaries, erosion often took place in summer in both valleys and villages.

On the whole, a spirit of contention had built up inside every mind: each household wanted its own running water canal. The consequence was disastrous. The river was too small to provide sufficient water for every household in both villages. Forty households were too many for a small river to feed, and nearly three hundred people needed to quench their thirst.



The trend quickly emerged that only the wealthy and tough house owners could secure large and continuous flows. The lowly and modest people often received no supply at all. As a result, the poor went to desperate lengths to get their share.

Many untoward problems became routine. People gathered in congregations at night to divert water to their own fields. It became a regular occurrence. There were times when both villages would be present at the river in the dead of night, each trying to redirect the water. Fights would break out, and there was constant nuisance after dark.

The river had turned into a source of sorrows and fury for both villages. No one could live without water—not even animals. Unless people had good rice cultivation, they would do anything. Some even cursed the river. Others blamed the untimely rains. Because of the scarcity of water, many unfortunate people lived their entire lives in poverty.



Soon, villagers began pointing fingers at one another. In broad daylight, they formed groups and yelled across the river. Each village did the same. They claimed their own need was greater, yet the source of the river—the thick tropical forest above the villages—was never properly questioned. Their claims were baseless, as that particular land belonged to what they called "the government."

"Who is the government?" several elders inquired.

It was nobody's land. Everyone had a right. And so the baseless arguments continued.

The villages became a perfect example of a lack of organization and cooperation. Everyone was a master. The natives muddled themselves. All were one, but one was not for all. They did not realize the importance of interdependence.


The river became an arena of fighting. Sometimes, there were funny scenes: allies from both villages stood face to face on the two banks, hurling thousands of verbal abuses and outrageous rages at each other. The watercourse acted as both a barricade and a judge—keeping them from actually hitting one another!

The corollary of such quarrels led to grave destruction of the village forest. People began hacking down trees from both sides—enviously, recklessly. Animals were let loose to graze mercilessly. The jungle caught fire. Within a short span, the land was reduced to an area empty of trees, for the simple reason that it was nobody's territory.



The cost of this deed was felt in the next cultivation season. The source of the river dried up. The course became a dry bed. Even a stone thirsted for water. The dripping wet drops that once appeared on leaves in the morning were gone.

People from both sides gathered with their spades and hoes beside the dry passage. It was vain. Every time, they stared at each other in consternation and then bowed their heads and walked away. It was high time for farming, but there was nothing to be done.

The village elders gathered and looked up at the sky, expecting rains. They performed numerous rituals for the rain god to release drops for their need. But even when the rainfall was heavy, the next day it would be gone. There were no roots left to hold the water. The soil washed away. The course of the river was parched. The source became earthen.

The village turned arid. The thin crops beat against the heat of the sun and soon bent and died. Birds and animals migrated—and never returned. The clouds above the villages thinned out and vanished.

No one understood who had taken the river. Was it because of the frequent fights between the two villages that angered the water demons? Was it because of the trees they had cut down thoughtlessly and acquisitively? No one knew.


What followed was certain: for several whole years, the rain was scant. Poverty settled over the villages. Some people set out in search of food grains to far-flung villages and came back empty-handed. Because of the reputation of their past absurdities, other villagers knew the nature of these people. So they were cruelly welcomed—or not welcomed at all.

Meanwhile, the fertility rate dropped drastically. People didn't even have the energy to work, as they lacked basic nutrition.

Poverty hit for many years. The two villages looked deserted. People became lean and thin because they had nothing to eat. Even then, they would never come together. Everyone played the blame game. One village said the other was responsible. But none accepted fault. Everyone reasoned, but nobody listened.

Villagers were flung apart. They wandered in dread of famine, as cultivation was no longer viable. People knew there was no way to live in their own village. They began to shift to different parts of the country. Some permanently locked their homes and went to relatives. Some went looking for any kind of work. A few groups from both villages had nowhere to go, so they had to stay. But whatever happened, they would not mingle or talk with each other.



That was the dark tragedy of these villages.

After seven years, the most terrific rains—unknown in their history—washed away many houses. The flood cost the lives of seven people: three from one village and four from the other.

This incident had a profound repercussion: it brought them together.

The tragedy alerted everyone. They did not think. They acted briskly. And in a strange way, the tragedy came as a blessing to the two villages.

Both villagers helped each other dig up the bodies. They showed sorrow and offered condolences to the affected families. Then, they noticed something curious. A few houses in both villages had stood completely unaffected by the terrific rains. They went around to look together. To their surprise, they found that each safe house was surrounded by trees and bushes.

There was no question left to ask. They stared at each other for some time and walked away indignantly. Nothing came to their minds at first—only the image of those trees. These few groups of people, who had kept their trees, now had to bear the brunt of everyone else's shame.



Soon, they decided to gather. They began to mingle. They talked about the life-saving trees. They agreed that the cutting down of trees had destroyed their lives. They agreed that the source of their river was the trees. They agreed that the trees were their food. They agreed that nothing would be possible without trees.

For the first time, they thought jointly. They discussed together to find a resolution to the water problem. They became good friends. They became like one family.

The river had been running between their villages for ages. They knew they had fought for it. They knew they had fought for individual benefit. They knew it was a mistake. But their realization would take another generation to fully restore. The brunt of their past needed to be borne by their children's children.


The people of these villages came together hastily. They held a gathering. The discussion was followed by a sumptuous lunch. Each household brought whatever food items remained in their homes. It was a grand celebration of a happy reunion. It turned into an informal gathering. Many even talked about private matters and common things with one another.

At that time, they had nothing in material terms—but they had happiness and unity.



In their public gathering, they decided that every person would bring seven saplings of any tree from the thick jungles below their villages. A date was fixed. On that day, they agreed to bring packed lunch and have a sort of picnic.

And so, on the said day, together, they planted two thousand saplings. The barren land was soon dotted with green shoots. They took care of each tree like their own son or daughter. They fenced them from domestic animals. These trees were their only hope.

The cost of their destruction was to wait another twenty years or more. And they did.



Seventeen years later, a forest of trees grew where their grandparents had once planted. The river once again flowed noisily. People who had left the village returned with congratulations. Birds and animals roamed freely once more. Their neighboring villages looked upon them with awe for what they had accomplished.

The river was shared properly between the two villages. It was equally divided. Each village received one big canal supplying water for all homes. And at last, there was no more nocturnal fighting by the riverside. Instead, a different kind of nocturnal activity grew among the two villagers: boys from each village traveled boldly to the neighboring village, hunting for their beloved ones.



This was the valley—a deep ravine with a river running through it. Along the torrential slope, the two villages lay close, facing each other.

Once, it was a place of disorder, differences, and contentions. But now, they no longer play arrows singularly. They play matches—archery matches almost every month. Now, little boys and girls, young and old, still throw their spits at each other. But this time, they scream playfully to distract the players.

I mean arrows of happiness.

These villagers remain continuously fertile. With free passage to and fro, the roosters have no use in signaling people to wake up. The young men walk out from the houses of their lovers—leisurely, at dawn.