THE TAMARIND TREE.

The sweet chirping of birds used to awaken us daily from our sleep during our childhood days. The Tamarind Tree was a huge structure providing shelter to them all round the year. It was just outside my bedroom window, obstructing my view of the road. A few gaps in the foliage however gave us clear view at times during autumn. The crows used to build their nests with all the available twigs and babies used to be nursed by the happy mothers who used to feed them small morsels of food brought by the father crows. During this time the cawing used to be less shrill and melodious. Soon the baby crow would fly away and the cycle used to continue so on and forth. The sweet sparrows used to flock in groups, but never nestled here in view of the dangerous thieving crows. We used to sprinkle grains for them on the window sill. The squirrels used to play hide and seek untiringly on the large branches of the tree with their usual gay abandon. The meek doves sadly avoided this tree.
The kids would come armed with their sling shots and aim for the mouth watering sweet n sour tamarind. A stray stone would often break window panes of the members, which would be repaired with news paper and adhesive tapes.

The spirits always preferred this tree in the night and we used to shut our windows tight. The fear used to quadruple during stormy rainy nights. A couple of bats used to hang upside down at dark scaring us. We would shiver and sleep in the comforting arms of our brave parents.
The tree used to be a magnetic attraction for all the paper kites which used to entangle and soar in the air but with their anchoring thread firmly rooted with the small branches.
It was a vibrant and a colourful tree, full of life.

One rainy afternoon, I heard sobs of an elderly couple beneath the tree. They were sitting with all their belongings wrapped up in small cloth bundles. A small kerosene stove was getting wet under the steady downpour. Their clothes suggested a lower middle class status and their faces were sullen, with the tears matching the flow of the incessant rain. As the rains held up, a few people inquired about them. The wrinkled father in a slow staccato manner revealed their sad story.
Their son was an unemployed rogue who had promised them a bigger home and made them sell their small one. He had asked them to wait under The Tamarind Tree where he would pick them up. A day had passed and there was no trace of their son. He had duped them of their money and shelter. They had nowhere to go now. Soon, a crowd gathered and a plan was made to shift the aged parents to the old age home in our town. The samaritans in our town got them tea and chapatis which were devoured by the hungry couple in minutes. Slowly, they ambled to the old age home. They accepted their tragic fate, cursing their only wasted son.
A few months later, a new sad spirit joined The Tamarind Tree.
He was destined to stay there for a long time, like the entangled kites.
The devil would never liberate him.
It was the spirit of the rogue son who had died in a strange mishap, unheard of, in our small town.