Marine Drive Trees
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The trees lining Marine Drive promenade are survivors. Some of them are Banyans, others the ubiquitous badams and coconuts and still others I have yet to identify. The ones with the headily fragrant silky blooms – silk cotton? (I checked: they are Fish Poison trees) Survivors because they handle the salt air, the stormy winds, the unrelenting sun, the unrelenting humans with equanimity. They have learnt to bend and sway, and so remain upright in the face of the storm. They have learnt to ignore the neglect and ill treatment, and so remain true to their selves.
The stray dogs and the pedigree breeds alike use the base of the trees as their news gathering spots. The strays look on, pitying the pedigree dogs as they are dragged away from the most intriguing scents and gossip. Why do humans insist on dragging their dogs away from grass and soil and scent to walk on concrete and tar? This is the closest some pampered Mumbai pooches get to a garden…this is where they get their daily updates. Who is top dog? Who is in heat? Everyone well? Someone unhappy? But before they can get to the tantalising scent, they are being pulled away by oblivious humans. If dogs had a single bone of retribution and revenge in their bodies, and of course they don’t, they would snatch away newspapers and hide tv remotes at news hour and chew up cell phones. Payback. Some kind soul has left stone basins at the base of some trees, which are filled with water by the gardening guys. It is a small sign of humanity in an otherwise bereft world.
It’s easy to spot the human newcomers to Mumbai. They are the ones squatting wearily under the shady trees, staring sightlessly at the ocean, their bundles carefully placed within arm’s reach. Is it the ocean that overwhelms them or the sight of the Mumbai skyline? The local strays don’t trust them. They set up such a howling and a barrage of mock attacks when they spot these aliens. Possibly the smell is the trigger – of the parched earth and dusty fields they have recently left behind. It’s not a smell these dogs are familiar with. After a few minutes though, the slouch of the back, the hopelessness in the eyes soothes the dogs. These are not dangerous humans, they think. They turn their backs on them and lie down with a snout to the sea breeze.
This morning, one sturdy tree acts as a jungle gym for a group of middle aged portly gents. Under the shaky supervision of one of their numbers, the others attempt to climb the tree. Perhaps exchanging childhood memories has flooded them with a nostalgia for a time of agility, lithe athleticism and what might never again be. Each attempt is greeted with a chorus of Jai Shree Ram. Invocation of a higher being is a common greeting on Marine Drive these days. Each group of older men especially strives to outdo the others in their choral offerings. The rest of us turn up the volume on our headphones.
Another tree is a prop in a curiously sad tableau. A greying man, slim and fit, has tied a cricket ball to the tree by a long string. He holds a long piece of wood instead of a bat and he is practicing the most elegant drives and strokes. Never missing, eye on the ball, lovely technique. His concentration and stylish shots are why the passersby turn to watch him. That, and the clothes he wears in the summer heat. Trousers, shirt, waistcoat, leather jacket, polished shoes, a beret and black leather gloves. Is he cricket crazy? Is he a has been, almost famous player? Or is it the proximity of Wankhede Stadium that has unleashed the master class this morning?
The Marine Drive trees are witness to ever-changing vignettes of life. Sunsets, moon-rises, lovers, suicides, children at play. Marathon runners, lolling dogs, hip hop dancers. Gypsies, tourists, lost souls all. Monsoon winds and summer sun. The trees have seen it all.