The tree house

This was a creative writing test given to us. I had written this short story in the class.

During our school vacations each year we would make our pilgrimage to Dehradoon, my grandparent’s home. Preparations would start days before, what to take along, whom to ask to come over and house sit, tend to our kitchen garden etc etc.

The train journey would be very hot and excruciatingly long.

“When will we reach there?” we would ask every 10 minutes.

“Wake up tomorrow morning and we will be there”, mother would reply.

After endless comics, getting down at stations to brush our teeth, wash our hands, fights with my brother and disciplining gazes from my father, we would finally reach the beautiful Doon valley. Somebody would be there at the station to take over the responsibility of looking after us. Arriving home was the next important thing for me.

Initially everybody thought I loved my grandmother a lot. Well, yes, I did and still do, but it was the mango orchards which were calling me. I loved those big shady mango trees. I was so content sitting on the branches. I wished if some kind of house could be built on the tree so I could even sleep there at night.

Every morning for the next two months I would be up before everyone else, find a comic book to read and perch on the highest branch, read  and reread it till I knew it by heart. Then, go down and get some more books. My family fortunately did not interrupt me during those escapades. Food and milk would be regularly sent up for me. I guess they were also happy to have me out of the way, one kid less to humour! I saw squirrels eating things, birds flying around with twigs to build their nests, pale eggs in a nest, worms wriggling their way up the tree, ants swaying with loads way more than they weigh. Everybody around me was busy, too busy to notice me.

As the vacations came to an end, I would be in tears not ready to leave my paradise so soon.

“We will come again next year.” Mummy would console.

“We will plant some mango trees at Puri so we don’t have to make this expensive trip every year.” Papa would laugh.

“Why don’t we pack some mango trees for you?” Grandfather would comment.

“Please let me live here. There are schools in Dehradoon too.”  I would cry.

The scene would be similar to an Indian bride crying for her parents during her vidai. It was heart breaking for me, and a matter of few laughs for everyone else.

Then during the last year of schooling, I saw the mango trees being cut down. My grandparents had sold the orchard. One by one they were all killed, the mango trees, the pale eggs, the birds with twigs, the ants with heavy loads, the wriggling worms, everyone.

I no longer wish to go there.  I often visit the orchard in my memories, sit on the highest branch and eat the ghee-chini- roti (chappatis rolled with sugar and ghee) that used to be my food during those summers.