The Stubborn Tree

By Zara Fatima Ali

Inside my mind exists a stretch of earth, upon which there once lived a tree. The word ‘colossal’ was coined to define it. Its ancient roots clung soundly to the dirt it grew from; its branches extending in all directions. The ones beneath would kiss the earth’s mouth, their antipodes caressed the face of the sky. This tree, though visibly majestic, was aching inside. Sad, humiliated, exasperated, and utterly determined to stay that way.

Its dark presence was so dominating that it began to affect the lives of all other creatures living around it. No squirrels danced in its branches - they got swatted away. Nothing else grew from the ground, for the tree would use up all the earthly goodness to aid and abet its cause. The sun remained hidden above the thicket of intertwined branches, consistently failing in her endeavour to warm the earth. The quotidian aubade / the orchestra of chirp? fin. There was not a creature in sight. The soil had turned grey and lifeless, and something desperately needed to be done.

So, I brought out (or rather - in) an axe, and I hacked the tree to pieces. A tedious task, to say the least. I swung and swung until the tree reduced to a mere stump. The sun shone above me and the earth almost instantly began regaining colour. In an extreme state of exhaustion, I fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, however, the sun hadn’t risen. Dazed and still immensely tired, I stepped outside to investigate. To my horror, the monstrous tree was back with a vengeance, angrier and more bitter than ever. I frantically began hacking it down again, fear rising in my chest like the high tide. Surely it would not grow back this time. But it did, and I was helpless.

Then it hit me—the elementary truth. A truth that passes by us more often than we realise; a truth that we so blissfully disregard for its simplicity.

‘Eradicate the problem at the root.’

So this time round, I brought with me not only an axe, but also a spade, some kerosene and a match. Months were invested into digging out the roots of the obstinate tree, but when I finally dropped a match onto my most exquisite mess of a masterpiece, a single word flitted through my mind.

‘Annihilation.’

And just like that, the tree died. I died along with it.

Emptiness loomed over me, prodding at my corpse, whispering, “The tree is gone. Permanence has met its demise. Hold onto me for now. I will pull you through.” With not much more to lose, I reached out and held onto the cold, clammy hands of nothingness. He led me into an alley I had never been to before.

A wooden plank read ‘Repository’ in white paint. “It’s strange how we fail to know ourselves sometimes.” Pointing at the shelves, Emptiness said, “Pick one.” I did as I was told. We went back to the undulating ground where the tree had once existed. “Dig a patch and plant it. You are not alone anymore.”

Hope was born. I watched her grow into a beautiful sapling. When I rediscovered my voice, I sang her songs. She grew into a young tree, nourished not by the dreariness of others, but by the love I showered upon her. Birds nest in her branches; squirrels play at her feet. All is well in the infinity of my mind. Emptiness occasionally drops in to say hello. Our friendship has transcended the ‘misery loves company’ stage. He is as fundamental to my being as the other feelings that constitute me, for without him, Chaos would rule and Silence would never have a place in this world.

And after all, it is in silence that we connect with the darkest parts of ourselves; identify them, eradicate them, and sometimes, even accept them. In silence we flourish. Realisation dawns, and we set ourselves free.

By Zara Fatima Ali