Deep inside the warm lands, where flowed grand and ancient rivers, stood tall the tallest mountains, where slept the still and silent deserts, where the pasturelands stood proud, lived a boy in a village. The boy did as all the other boys in the village; he woke up at dawn, worked in the fields, went to school, fed the animals and played with the rest of the children in the village.
But all the other boys in the village did not do as he did, for he sat under a tree, a big old tree, the oldest in the village and the horizon that encompassed it. He sat under that tree at dawn for breakfast; he watched the birds get at up first light and sing their morning tune as their search for crumbs and worms began. He sat under that old tree when he wanted to rest from working in the fields and he would enjoy the shade and the fresh breeze that it brought him. He would sit there and think. He would think about his past and the tree’s past. As far back as he could remember, when he first came across the tree, it had not grown much. It still had the same number of leaves, branches and twigs, yet he had grown to almost twice his size. Maybe the tree was immortal.
He would sit there and think about his present and the tree’s present. He would think of why the tree bore no fruit. Maybe the tree was wise. He would think that for a long, long distance, no tree could rival this one. But a lot of boys could rival him. He would also think that the old tree was his tree, but was he the old tree’s boy? He was the tree’s friend, but was the tree his?
This question made him uneasy and he would sit under the tree and he would spend many an hour thinking about it. One day, when he could take it no longer, he decided to ask someone. He asked his friends, they told him to go ask someone wise. He asked his siblings, they told him to go ask someone wise as well. He asked his father, he told him to go ask someone wise. When he asked who in the village was wise, his father said go ask your mother. He asked his mother, who in the village was wise; she said that his father was. He asked the workers in the field and they told him that they were wise, but they did not look it. If they were wise they would not be working fields, instead they would be sitting in the shade and talking in the city.
No one he knew was wise. People he knew were either honest, dishonest or fools. If they were honest, they would tell him to put forward his question to someone wise. If they were dishonest, they would claim to be wise. If they were fools, they would claim their husbands or masters to be wise.
The days went by, and he stopped going to the tree for the question caused him much pain. He would work slow, eat less, not play with the other children anymore, he would just sit and think and worry. His father saw that the boy was disturbed, and he asked him why he would not go to school regularly. The boy told his father what disturbed him and he told him that nobody in the village was wise. His father laughed, as he did when he knew everything, and he told the boy not worry, for if he went to school everyday, he would one day become wise and answer his own questions himself along with those of others.
His father was wise, the boy thought, but not the sort of wise that would answer questions for him. And his mother was not a fool; she was wise to marry his father.
The boy then never missed another day of school. He would be the first one to reach school, and the last one to leave it. His teacher could not help but appreciate the boy for his enthusiasm. He did so one day after school, and he asked him what it was that brought about this change. The boy told him all. He told him of the tree, of how there was nobody wise in the village save his father but he would not answer his question for him and wanted him to be wise, which is why he came to school; to answer his question for himself. The teacher then asked the boy about the question that bothered him. And he did.
The boy thought that the teacher, too, was wise, as he did not answer his question for him. The teacher told the boy, that the tree is not an enemy of whoever does not harm it. Yet it is not a friend of whoever does not harm it either.
The tree gives so much, what does it get back? Thought the boy on his way home and there he found his answer. The next day, he went to the tree to eat his breakfast. He did not eat all his bread and he did not drink all his water. He spilled the water near the roots of the tree, to feed the tree and he left the small pieces of bread on the grass for the birds of that tree, so that they won’t have to leave the tree that loved them so much so as to let them build their houses on it. The boy then knew that the tree was his friend as well.
The boy went and told his friends and siblings that he had answered his question. He thanked his father for the advice he gave, he told his mother that she, too, was wise. He told the workers in the field that if they were wise, they would work extra hard on the fields this year and he told his teacher that he wanted to learn more.
That night the boy slept peacefully after many days. He slept so soundly that even the storm, that kept half the village awake that night, did not stir him in his sleep. He awoke to a morose morning mood in general. The roofs leaked, the firewood was half-wet, the floor muddy along with the usual platter of post-rain problems. None of that would dim the boy’s mood. The boy grabbed his breakfast and walked towards his friend.
When he jumped across the canal, the spot where he would first get a glimpse of the tree, he saw it not. He saw all the other trees, the shorter ones but he did not see his friend. With dread in his heart he ran to where the tree once was and saw it lifeless on the ground; dead birds scattered near and under it, and the homeless ones mourning their loss.
The boy ran home and told everyone of what had happened. It did not seem to bother them too much. They were not the tree’s friend and the tree was not theirs'. He told his father and his mother, they told him not to worry, and that another tree would take root. But the tree was his friend. He told his teacher, and he told the boy that everything in life must one day come to an end, and that the boy should not worry as another tree would take root.
The words of his teacher did bring calm upon him but only managed to do so for a little while. Nobody was the tree’s friend, hence nobody cared. He sat next to the fallen tree in the heat; he sat next to his shade. He thought about the future that he had imagined; his and the tree’s. That when he would be old, the tree would be the same and they would still be friends. He alone felt the pain that day; only he was sad for the tree. If another tree were to take root, would it also be his friend?
The boy did not move from where he sat all day. The longer he sat, the angrier he became at the cause of the tragedy. He was like a boiling kettle left on the stove. An old man sat down beside him and tried to make conversation with him. The boy kept silent. The old man told the boy that he too was sad for the tree, and that he too was angry and wanted revenge but his weak bones would not allow it. The old man said that he would not live long enough to see another one take root and that he would only be at peace when he’d avenged the death of his friend.
Confused, the boy asked the old man how he planned to attack storm and lightning and the will of God? At this the old man laughed, he told the boy that it was not lightning and storm that brought down the old tree, but evil men from far away lands.
There was cunning, vile and deception in the old man’s eyes. Yet only he understood his pain and suffering. The boy did not know whether to believe the old man or not. It was almost dark and the boy got up to leave, the old man said that he would camp next to his friend that night and in the morning he would leave for his revenge.
The boy got home, still sad and silent. That night, the village was to celebrate the beginning of the monsoon season, there was to be food and dance and singing. He got to festival to see that his face was the only sad one among the hundred that surrounded him. It was as if nothing had happened and no one had died. He thought of the crazy old man, untrustworthy though he seemed, but he was a loyal friend to the tree. He thought of the crazy old man and his crazy ideas. And then he thought that grief had stricken the old man too hard. But grief had stricken him too... not hard enough?
The celebrations were cut short by another storm. That night, however, everyone slept soundly. The boy, too, it seemed slept soundly. The storm, however, was just as fierce as the last one. When morning came, the tree’s friend was missing from his bed and so was the old man from his camp.
Months later they found the boy, wounded and taken prisoner in a desert land far away. In the time spent with the old man, the boy was exposed to a cruel world where injustice was law. He then harbored injustice. Any friend of the tree was also his friend, and prejudice and war against the friends of his friends was unacceptable. He then harbored prejudice and war. He let the tree fall; he was not going to let his other friends fall. The old man was his counsel; he had brought him this far.
He would take revenge for all the pain and suffering that he’d witnessed. He felt he was fighting the fair fight, for when he was mortally wounded and was being carried away, he did not fret at all for he knew that after he would be gone, another one would take root.
But all the other boys in the village did not do as he did, for he sat under a tree, a big old tree, the oldest in the village and the horizon that encompassed it. He sat under that tree at dawn for breakfast; he watched the birds get at up first light and sing their morning tune as their search for crumbs and worms began. He sat under that old tree when he wanted to rest from working in the fields and he would enjoy the shade and the fresh breeze that it brought him. He would sit there and think. He would think about his past and the tree’s past. As far back as he could remember, when he first came across the tree, it had not grown much. It still had the same number of leaves, branches and twigs, yet he had grown to almost twice his size. Maybe the tree was immortal.
He would sit there and think about his present and the tree’s present. He would think of why the tree bore no fruit. Maybe the tree was wise. He would think that for a long, long distance, no tree could rival this one. But a lot of boys could rival him. He would also think that the old tree was his tree, but was he the old tree’s boy? He was the tree’s friend, but was the tree his?
This question made him uneasy and he would sit under the tree and he would spend many an hour thinking about it. One day, when he could take it no longer, he decided to ask someone. He asked his friends, they told him to go ask someone wise. He asked his siblings, they told him to go ask someone wise as well. He asked his father, he told him to go ask someone wise. When he asked who in the village was wise, his father said go ask your mother. He asked his mother, who in the village was wise; she said that his father was. He asked the workers in the field and they told him that they were wise, but they did not look it. If they were wise they would not be working fields, instead they would be sitting in the shade and talking in the city.
No one he knew was wise. People he knew were either honest, dishonest or fools. If they were honest, they would tell him to put forward his question to someone wise. If they were dishonest, they would claim to be wise. If they were fools, they would claim their husbands or masters to be wise.
The days went by, and he stopped going to the tree for the question caused him much pain. He would work slow, eat less, not play with the other children anymore, he would just sit and think and worry. His father saw that the boy was disturbed, and he asked him why he would not go to school regularly. The boy told his father what disturbed him and he told him that nobody in the village was wise. His father laughed, as he did when he knew everything, and he told the boy not worry, for if he went to school everyday, he would one day become wise and answer his own questions himself along with those of others.
His father was wise, the boy thought, but not the sort of wise that would answer questions for him. And his mother was not a fool; she was wise to marry his father.
The boy then never missed another day of school. He would be the first one to reach school, and the last one to leave it. His teacher could not help but appreciate the boy for his enthusiasm. He did so one day after school, and he asked him what it was that brought about this change. The boy told him all. He told him of the tree, of how there was nobody wise in the village save his father but he would not answer his question for him and wanted him to be wise, which is why he came to school; to answer his question for himself. The teacher then asked the boy about the question that bothered him. And he did.
The boy thought that the teacher, too, was wise, as he did not answer his question for him. The teacher told the boy, that the tree is not an enemy of whoever does not harm it. Yet it is not a friend of whoever does not harm it either.
The tree gives so much, what does it get back? Thought the boy on his way home and there he found his answer. The next day, he went to the tree to eat his breakfast. He did not eat all his bread and he did not drink all his water. He spilled the water near the roots of the tree, to feed the tree and he left the small pieces of bread on the grass for the birds of that tree, so that they won’t have to leave the tree that loved them so much so as to let them build their houses on it. The boy then knew that the tree was his friend as well.
The boy went and told his friends and siblings that he had answered his question. He thanked his father for the advice he gave, he told his mother that she, too, was wise. He told the workers in the field that if they were wise, they would work extra hard on the fields this year and he told his teacher that he wanted to learn more.
That night the boy slept peacefully after many days. He slept so soundly that even the storm, that kept half the village awake that night, did not stir him in his sleep. He awoke to a morose morning mood in general. The roofs leaked, the firewood was half-wet, the floor muddy along with the usual platter of post-rain problems. None of that would dim the boy’s mood. The boy grabbed his breakfast and walked towards his friend.
When he jumped across the canal, the spot where he would first get a glimpse of the tree, he saw it not. He saw all the other trees, the shorter ones but he did not see his friend. With dread in his heart he ran to where the tree once was and saw it lifeless on the ground; dead birds scattered near and under it, and the homeless ones mourning their loss.
The boy ran home and told everyone of what had happened. It did not seem to bother them too much. They were not the tree’s friend and the tree was not theirs'. He told his father and his mother, they told him not to worry, and that another tree would take root. But the tree was his friend. He told his teacher, and he told the boy that everything in life must one day come to an end, and that the boy should not worry as another tree would take root.
The words of his teacher did bring calm upon him but only managed to do so for a little while. Nobody was the tree’s friend, hence nobody cared. He sat next to the fallen tree in the heat; he sat next to his shade. He thought about the future that he had imagined; his and the tree’s. That when he would be old, the tree would be the same and they would still be friends. He alone felt the pain that day; only he was sad for the tree. If another tree were to take root, would it also be his friend?
The boy did not move from where he sat all day. The longer he sat, the angrier he became at the cause of the tragedy. He was like a boiling kettle left on the stove. An old man sat down beside him and tried to make conversation with him. The boy kept silent. The old man told the boy that he too was sad for the tree, and that he too was angry and wanted revenge but his weak bones would not allow it. The old man said that he would not live long enough to see another one take root and that he would only be at peace when he’d avenged the death of his friend.
Confused, the boy asked the old man how he planned to attack storm and lightning and the will of God? At this the old man laughed, he told the boy that it was not lightning and storm that brought down the old tree, but evil men from far away lands.
There was cunning, vile and deception in the old man’s eyes. Yet only he understood his pain and suffering. The boy did not know whether to believe the old man or not. It was almost dark and the boy got up to leave, the old man said that he would camp next to his friend that night and in the morning he would leave for his revenge.
The boy got home, still sad and silent. That night, the village was to celebrate the beginning of the monsoon season, there was to be food and dance and singing. He got to festival to see that his face was the only sad one among the hundred that surrounded him. It was as if nothing had happened and no one had died. He thought of the crazy old man, untrustworthy though he seemed, but he was a loyal friend to the tree. He thought of the crazy old man and his crazy ideas. And then he thought that grief had stricken the old man too hard. But grief had stricken him too... not hard enough?
The celebrations were cut short by another storm. That night, however, everyone slept soundly. The boy, too, it seemed slept soundly. The storm, however, was just as fierce as the last one. When morning came, the tree’s friend was missing from his bed and so was the old man from his camp.
Months later they found the boy, wounded and taken prisoner in a desert land far away. In the time spent with the old man, the boy was exposed to a cruel world where injustice was law. He then harbored injustice. Any friend of the tree was also his friend, and prejudice and war against the friends of his friends was unacceptable. He then harbored prejudice and war. He let the tree fall; he was not going to let his other friends fall. The old man was his counsel; he had brought him this far.
He would take revenge for all the pain and suffering that he’d witnessed. He felt he was fighting the fair fight, for when he was mortally wounded and was being carried away, he did not fret at all for he knew that after he would be gone, another one would take root.
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