When I was about five years old, my father was transferred to Nandikotkur in Kurnool District in present-day Andhra Pradesh. The Residential building was on the back side of the Court and quite aloof from the town or even the main road. It was so further back from the Court that it was hardly even part of the Court complex. The entire empty area around the house was a dense forest. But the area immediately around the house was vacant land. My parents did not have a past-time, so they planned to plough the vacant land and plant some farms. This was not some kitchen garden. It was at a larger scale.

In the three years and a few months that we stayed there, we had grown groundnuts, kidney beans, pigeon peas, and several vegetables on a large scale. The produce would be filled in large gunny bags, much of which was eaten by us throughout the year, and some was given to close people.

On the sides, we also planted some fennel, banana plants, tomatoes, brinjal, bottle gourd, chillies, peas, etc. All of these would be used for daily cooking. I was highly interested in the growth of every single plant and would track it almost every single day. One distinct memory is that I had sowed some Tamarind seeds at the back of our house, one of which sprouted and grew well. By the time we left that place, in the year 2001, the plant was almost as tall as I was then. Of many things that I felt sad about leaving, one was this Tamarind plant which I called mine. Even my parents would call it “Asad ka imli ka jhaad”. It was my friend that grew up with me.

I had so much affection for it that, after we were transferred from there, someone from the staff at Nandikotkur court would call my dad to wish on New Years’ or Eid, and I would prod him to ask about my plant. They even went to see it and verified that it had become a tree. When I first got a computer at home, in the year 2004/2005, it had dial-up internet which was as slow as a snail. I had downloaded Google Earth and was fascinated with how I could see the entire planet by swiping the cursor. One of the places I had browsed was Nandikotkur. I went to my school and then to my house. I zoomed into my house to check the backyard. I could not see the specific trees, but I could see the general area which had several trees. I was sure that one of those trees was my tamarind tree. I was emotional to see it. It meant a lot to see it grow to such density and height. From a small seed that I had sowed, the plant that sprouted went on to become a healthy tree.

I am sure that tree lives to this date. I check Google Maps again and I can see that it is there. It must be there. I am certain that it has a wide canopy with its shade as sweet as a warm blanket on a cold winter day. I know that it must be home to several chirpy birds which built their nests in the arms of the branches with the twigs that fall from this tree. They must also be feeding on the sweet tamarind that it produces year after year. The seeds of that tamarind would’ve led to a lot of such plants to sprout. I hope the tamarind harvest is taken by the residents of the houses nearby and they make a sweet pickle out of it. I hope the tang of the juice that comes from its tamarind makes their food a bit more tasty. I hope there are kids who climb it to play peek-a-boo or to bring down a kite that’s stuck in it. I hope there’s a swing tied to it with kids challenging each other as to how far in the air they can swing. I hope there’s a mother roaming around the tree with her baby in her arms. I hope there are a few old ladies who draw a Ludo chart and play the game using the half-split seeds of the same tree. I hope it gives shelter to those who are tired from the struggles of life. I hope it provides respite to despair and hopes to dreams.

I hope it lives for eternity and meets me in heaven after I die.