There was a storm last night. A
tree fell and died.
The weather had been so splendid
the week before.
People walked past the tree.
People stared at the tree. A dead tree brooks a strange fascination. It strikes
at the heart.
Unlike a dead man. A man is lying
on the bench. It is ordinary. He might be sleeping. Or at least, it is a
convenient fiction. If he is bleeding people notice. But then it is the blood
they notice, not the man.
The man who planted the tree is
dead. And now the tree is dead. No one knows that the man planted the tree. The
man did not put a sign. It is not done. So the tree has roots, but its roots
are forgotten all the same.
A dead tree is not a miserable
thing. The world has many trees. And trees have no name. It is a little uncomfortable,
the path being blocked, having to step off onto the wet grass to get home. An
unfamiliar feel, the lush grass against your feet. You complain about it
loudly. But there is also some wonder. A mighty tree, fell to the ground. It is
not such a bad thing.
But a dead man. A dead man is
miserable. Not if you know the dead man. Then you have grief, and you forget
all else. Perhaps others know the dead man. Then too it is lucky, for you can
feel their grief.
It is very inconvenient to
acknowledge his existence. There are norms to be followed. You are a decent
human being. So you will have to care for this human being you did not know
five minutes ago. You are not callous. So the happy song that’s still echoing
in your head, that must be stopped. Or it will take on a morbid quality of its
own, and the song will be ruined for you forever.
So you stand there, thinking. Strange
thoughts enter your mind. If you shake the man, will he wake up and be angry?
It is an odd dilemma. As long as you stand there, you want the man to be alive.
But once you approach him and shake him and pound his shoulders, you want him
to be dead. For how absurd would it be if you were shaking and pounding a
living man.
It is almost as if you are
holding the man’s life in the palm of your hands.
You shake your head. This is
ridiculous. It may be night but the laws of reason still hold. So you make a
decision. You look at the tree and sigh. But it must be done. So you slowly
approach the bench. And then you hear footsteps, and your resolve disappears.
You slink away into the darkness, and a new man appears.
This man is different from you.
He has energy and he is confident. He sees the man on the bench, and is
indignant. He goes over and starts shaking him. And gently admonishing. This is
a public bench. It is not for vagabonds such as you. I am not tired. But if I
was jogging, I might be tired. I might want to sit on this bench. Rest for a
few minutes. Who are you to take that right away from me. I am a kind man. Let
me help you get off this bench.
And then he realizes something is
wrong. He calls out for help, loudly, no hesitation. Your spell is broken. You
find yourself running towards the bench. As if you have not been hiding in the
shadows all along. You flag a cab. You help the kind man load the dead man into
the cab. The three of you are in the cab and it rushes towards the hospital.
How normal everything is now. You
even feel sad for the dead man. You wonder aloud if the dead man has any
friends and any relatives, and the thought makes you sadder. The kind man makes
many plans for the next half hour. What to tell the doctors. When to contact
the police. What to write in the letter to the local newspaper complaining
about the sorry miserable lives of the local poor. He is infused with the
energy of a man who knows he is doing great things. You stare at him and he
knows he is being admired.
The taxi driver turns his head.
He looks at the kind man. You have done a heroic thing, sir. Helping this poor
man. You did not need to. But you did. The kind man nods complacently. You look
out the window. And then your eyes find another fallen tree. Another bench, and
another man lying on the bench. You quickly avert your eyes. The kind man is
now talking. You pretend to listen, and the taxi moves on.
