THE JAMUN TREE

A fierce gale blew at night. A jamun tree standing in the lawn of the Secretariat came down with a crash. In the morning when the gardener came there he discovered a man lying crushed under the fallen tree. Within minutes a crowd collected round the tree.

“It was a beautiful tree”, a clerk said.

“And what luscious fruit!” another said, smacking his lips.

“I used to take home a bagful of jamuns when the tree was in fruit”, said a third almost in tears. “My children loved the fruit.”

“But what about this man?” the gardener pointed towards the man who lay crushed under the tree.

“Yes, what about this man?” The Superintendent suddenly became grave and stood there thinking hard.

“God knows if the man is dead or alive”, a peon said.

“He must be dead”, the second peon said.  “A man on whom such a heavy tree falls – what chance has he of surviving?”

“I am still alive”, the man groaned as he lay crushed under the tree.

“It’s a miracle!” a clerk looked around, surprised.

“We must remove him from under the tree, quickly,” the gardener said.

“But it’s a difficult job”, a fat lazy peon shook his head. “Don’t you see how big and heavy the tree is?”

“What’s difficult about it?” the gardener demanded. “The Superintendent Saheb has only to give word and fifteen of us, peons, clerks and gardeners will put our backs to the tree. It can be done in a minute.”

“The gardener is right,” the clerks said together.

“We are ready. Let’s put our backs to the tree and pull. Heigh ho!”

And many bystanders came forward to lend a hand.

“Wait!” the Superintendent cried. “First let me have a word with the Under Secretary.”

The Superintendent went to the Under Secretary, the Under Secretary to the

Deputy Secretary, the Deputy Secretary to the Joint Secretary, the Joint Secretary to the Secretary and the Secretary finally to the Minister. The Minister whispered something into the Secretary’s ear, A file was started and it moved down, stage by stage, right from the Secretary down to the Under Secretary, Half the day was gone.

At lunch time a big crowd had gathered round the man who lay crushed under the tree. There were as many suggestions as there were tongues. Some enterprising clerks from among the crowd decided to take the matter in hand without waiting for orders from the high – ups. They were about to get down to the job when the Superintendent came running, a file in hand.

“We can’t remove the tree ourselves,” he said waving the file. “The issue in hand concerns a tree which comes under the purview of the Agriculture Department and rightly so. I’ll mark the file urgent and send it to the Agriculture Department. As soon as orders are received from there, I’ll have the tree removed.”

Next day a reply came from the Agriculture Department. The tree, it said, had fallen in the lawn of the Industries Department. And so, it was entirely up to the Industries Department whether to remove the tree or let it remain where it was.

The people in the Industries Department fumed. They wrote back that the responsibility for removing the tree squarely rested on the shoulders of the Agriculture Department. The Industries Department was very clear in its mind. Removing the tree was none of its concern.

The second day the file kept moving from table to table. The reply came in the evening – the matter was being referred to the Horticulture Department. The tree, the Agriculture Dept. Pointed out, was a fruit – bearing tree. The jurisdiction of the Agriculture Department did not extend beyond food grains and agriculture. The jamun tree, it emphasized, was a fruit tree and hence it came under the jurisdiction of the Horticulture Department.

At night the gardener gave the man some rice and dal to eat. The police had by now moved in to prevent the people from taking the law into own hands and shifting the tree from its place. A constable took pity on the man and allowed him to be fed.

The gardener said: “Don’t worry, your file is being attended to. I hope there is a decision by tomorrow.”

The man was silent.

The gardener looked at the tree, “You are lucky,” he said. “The tree fell over your shoulders. Had it fallen on your back your spine would have been crushed to pieces?”

The man was again silent.

“Have you any relatives?” the gardener asked. “Tell me where they live. I’ll try to contact them and tell them about this mishap.”

“I’m alone in the world,” the man groaned. “I’ve no relatives.” It was with great difficulty that he could speak.

The gardener shook his head regretfully and moved away from the place.

The third day a reply came from the Horticulture Department. It was harsh and full of sarcasm.

The Secretary of the Horticulture Department, it appeared, was a man with a literary turn of mind. “I’m surprised,” he wrote, “that at this time when the ‘Grow More Trees’ campaign is in the full swing, we should have thoughtless officials in the country – so thoughtless that they would not baulk at cutting down a tree and a fruit-bearing tree at that, which in this case happens to be a jamun tree whose fruit is relished by all, high and low. Under no circumstances can our Department connive at such sacrilege.”

“How do we resolve this deadlock?” A wit among the crowd asked. “I tell you what. Why cut down the tree at all? Why not saw off the man himself in two, right in the middle. The tree will remain intact where it is. We can take out the half of the man from one side and half from the other.

“But that will kill me outright,” the man objected.

“Yes, he’s right,” a clerk agreed.

The man who had come up with this suggestion waved off the man’s objection. “Don’t you know how much plastic surgery has progressed these days,” he said. “I’ll still maintain that if the man is cut in two he can be joined together at the thorax with the help of plastic surgery.”

So the file was sent to the Medical Department. The Medical Department acted with unusual promptness and sent the file the very next day to the most outstanding plastic surgeon in its Department asking him to study the proposition and give his verdict. The surgeon personally went to the site, tapped the victim’s body, studied the state of his general health, recorded his general blood pressure, noted down his pulse, examined his heart and lungs and declared that he was a fit case for surgical intervention and that the operation would no doubt be successful. The only snag was that the patient may die.

The suggestion was therefore promptly ruled out.

The gardener while putting dal and rice in the man’s mouth told him that the matter was now under consideration of the high ups. It had been decided to call a meeting of the Secretaries of all the Departments, tomorrow, and he had every hope that all would be well.

The man sighed and mumbled a couplet:

‘I know it’s not in your nature to refuse.

But I’ll be dead by the time you get me the news.’

Taken aback, the gardener put his finger in his mouth. “Are you a poet?” he asked.

The old man nodded listlessly.

The next day the gardener told the clerk about it and the clerk told the head clerk. Soon the news spread throughout the Secretariat that the man was a poet and a stream of people jostled along to have a good look at the poet. The news carried to the city as well and by evening poets from every lane of the city flocked to the lawn of the Secretariat. There were poets of all description and it appeared that a poetic symposium was being held round the man who lay crushed under the tree. Even the clerks and Under Secretaries from the Secretariat who had only a nodding acquaintance with poetry stopped to have a glimpse of the poet. Some of the poets started reciting their verses to the man and others humbly invited him to comment on their verses and if possible brush up their latest poetic effusions, for them.

When they learnt that the man was a poet the Sub-Committee of the Secretariat that had been formed to solve the tangle, declared that since the man was a poet, the matter concerned neither Agriculture nor Horticulture but Culture and Culture alone. The Cultural Department was therefore approached forthwith to take necessary steps to relieve the unfortunate man of his agony.

Passing through different sections of the Culture Department the file ultimately landed on the table of the Secretary of the Sahitya Akadami. The poor Secretary immediately got into his car and hurrying to the lawn of the Secretariat got down to interview the man.

“Are you a poet?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man replied.

“Under what nom de plume does your honour write?”

“Dew!” the Secretary exclaimed. “Are you… are you by any chance, the same Dew whose collection of prose writings has recently appeared under the title The Flowers of Dew?”

The man nodded.

“Are you a member of our Akadami?”

“No.”

“I’m amazed,” said the Secretary “that such a great luminary and the author of The Flowers of Dew should not be a member of our Akadami. Oh, what a serious lapse! We can’t forgive ourselves for this terrible omission. It’s unthinkable that such a great poet should keep gathering dust in oblivion.”

“Not in oblivion,” the poet hastily corrected the Secretary, “Call it under the tree. As you can clearly see I’m lying under a tree. Please help me.”

“I’ll act immediately,” the Secretary promptly assured him and rushed back to his office.

The next day he came rushing back to the poet. “Congratulations,” he said, his face beaming. “You must celebrate. Our officially sponsored Sahitya Akademi has elected you a member of its central body. Here take the enrolment paper.”

“But first take me out from under the tree,” the man groaned. His breathing had become laboured and his face was twisted with pain.

“That’s one thing I cannot do,” the Secretary said. “What lay in my powers I’ve already done. As a special case, if you die I can arrange for a stipend for your wife and children. All you are required to do is to sign along the dotted lines.”

“But I’m still alive,” the poet said haltingly. “And I want to live. Please help me.”

“The trouble is,” the Secretary of the Sahitya Akademi said wringing his hands, “that our Department is concerned with culture. One can’t cut down a tree with pen and ink. For that you require a saw and an axe. I’ve written to the Forest Department and have marked the letter urgent.”

In the evening the gardener came and told the man that the people from the Forest Department would come in the morning to cut down the tree. That could be the end of his misery.

The gardener looked very happy. The man who lay crushed under the tree was in bad shape but he still struggled for life. He must at any cost, keep his body and soul together till the morning.

The next day when the men from the Forest Department came with saws and axes they were stopped from cutting down the tree. At the eleventh hour the Foreign Department had put its foot down. The reason: Ten years ago the Prime Minister of Patonia had planted this tree in the lawn of the Secretariat as a gesture of good-will. If this tree was cut down there was every apprehension that it may be create bad blood between the two countries.

“But a man’s life is at stake,” a clerk said.

“So what? It’s equally a question of maintaining good-will between two States.” another clerk coolly explained to the first clerk. “And don’t forget how helpful Patonia has been to our country. Surely, what’s one man’s life weighed against the good will of a foreign power?”

“Do you mean to tell me that the man should be allowed to die?”

“Precisely.”

The Under Secretary passed word to the Superintendent that the Prime Minister had returned from his tour that morning and that the Foreign Department had decided to put up the file for his attention at four in the evening. The Prime Minister’s decision, it went without saying, would be final.

At five the Superintendent came in person to the man. “Listen,” he said cheerfully waving the file in the air, “the Prime Minister has ordered the tree to be cut down. He has taken upon himself the sole responsibility for any international complication that may arise there from. The tree will be hacked down tomorrow. That will be the end of you agony. Do you hear? The last word has been said. Your file is complete.”

But the poet’s hands had gone cold. The pupils of his eyes were lifeless and a long line of ants was going into his mouth.

The file of his life was also complete.

Krishan Chander