Tuesday, March 21, 2006


Dada is like a "Bargat Ka Ped" at the heart of any village. The sarpanches, read leaders, meet under it and blurt out their judgement, mostly nonsensical. The kids, read newjoinees, play on its branches and move on in life. Some village youth sit under it and ogle at the village babes, read As and some others, read P, sleep under it. But the tree doesn't speak, doesn't revolt, doesn't even show discomfort, just watches the world go by. The tree watches generations grow but is itself rooted by its branches, read convictions and beliefs. The tree doesn't have the wish to grow tall and it can't even relocate since its a tree. It's its own ghost.

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