Even though the seasons changed over time, spring never came to Kabra's life. Before the leaves could sprout, the neighbors picked them up, covered them in salt, and put them in a box.
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The blood-stained water that flowed from the wounds on the palms and backs, quenching the thirst and sweat of the sand-pullers,
Even the flowing torrents of water,
A single, solitary, kabra tree, bursting through the rock,
How did it grow?
Did sweat make it grow?
Did the wind blow it away?
Did a bird scatter it?
Well! The job of a seed is to grow, it grew. Even if it fell, it grew, even if it fell, even if it was scattered, it grew.
Even if no one planted it, it grew.
Emerging from the rock, not getting water in the sun of Jethmas,
Like a cracked hole, the grasshoppers crawled on the cracked heel
A tree stood alone.
What dreams did it grow, gathering them?
Like a spring standing on the nearby soil,
Did it dream of touching the sky?
Till today, it has never sung its dreams in songs – or I have not heard them.
Instead, with the grassy tears that the trees made,
I carved and wrote my dreams at the bottom of it –
My name, my full name.
I must have forgotten the day I wrote my dreams on the tree’s chest,
He must have started living his dreams for me.
Otherwise, how can a tree with no roots in the soil continue to stand?
How can it live to give me shade?
It had no soil to root in,
Neither any desire, nor any desire.
It only needs soil to plant its roots.
How small is the volume of his needs?
The size of a dream is like a grain of sand –
A bowl full of rice
Chilli, garlic powder, tea with milk
The dust that falls in the rain and wind and courage in my eyes!
Sometimes it feels like – after growing on a rock, it becomes golden.
If it were a tree, it would be a red rose.
Or even if it were a twig, it would live for itself.
Did it have desires?
But, what compulsion made
the tree of Kabra.
Spreading the leaves of its own desires all over the ground,
Standing empty, naked?
Even though the seasons kept changing with time,
Spring never came to Kabra's life.
The neighbor stopped the tree by picking it up in the bush before it could grow, by covering it with salt, and by putting it in a box.
His freedom – somehow the tree that remained on the awkward branch!
When it became a leaf and was about to wave with the wind, the farmer cut it from the tree and fed the goat with grass.
And, at that moment, his
dream of touching the sky ended.
Carrying the cut wound,
The tree of Kabra stands on the barren stone – becoming my home.
My Kabra tree almost always became a parijat,
It bloomed for others for hundreds of nights.
Without even breathing for itself
The years-old polyester
, torn, with wrinkles on the armpits and back
The maxi is hanging from a single pole
Even in the pouring rain
It stands alone without anyone's support –
My Kabra tree.
