Baba told me that I could measure a tree's life
by counting it's annual rings,
so I'd sit on Baba's lap and
count the wrinkles on his grainy face that would ebb and flow
like the gentle waves of a tranquil sea.
But my counting could never be completed,
because everytime I'd set on this quest,
his smile would create ripples of wrinkles
that would eventually turn into tides of laughter.
So I asked Baba if he could keep changing his age
and he replied that as long as he smiled, he could live forever.
Baba told me that most trees shed their leaves in autumn,
so when he started losing his stray strands of hair
and his eyes turned a dull grey
that could no longer tell stories of blindingly bright summers,
I knew his autumn had come to pay him a visit.
Baba told me that old trees are made up of dead cells,
so I started noticing festered wounds on his dry, brown skin
that loved his pain a little too much
to leave him with his peace.
Baba told me about the trees that would become hosts for unwelcome parasites.
I saw him struggle with the invisible creeper
slowly taking over his lean body,
making itself feel at home
by ousting its own host.
Baba told me a lot of stories about a tree's life,
but nothing about its death.
So when someone tells me that Baba died of old age
I correct them;
maybe he just didn't want to smile anymore.
-By Videsha Srivastava
B.A. Program
Third Year
[Edited by Harshita Khaund and Shreya Jathavedan
Art Curated by Esha Yadav]
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