The Baul Tree
By Maitreyee B Chowdhury
‘Humpty dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall..’ I’ve often wondered what if Humpty Dumpty had not sat on a wall, but a tree, would his fate have been better. For trees are known to resurrect, even heal, assuming which Humpty Dumpty probably would have had a better fate had he climbed a tree? But then throughout history and some literature, climbing a tree, sitting beneath one, or even falling off one, has been attributed mostly to unfortunate poets, à la Kalidas who happened to be cutting the very branch, on which he sat. And if this summation were to be believed, my search for a tree from which one could fall, and the resultant poetry one gathers, might be the subject of immense introspection not only for future poets, but for every anthropologist studying human behavior. But then who knows…
My journey of falling off trees and falling into them began pretty early in life. Most houses in industrial townships are yours only till your father’s next transfer to his next grade, when you are allotted a new house and new trees. And much like Humpty Dumpty who couldn’t be put together again, falling into a tree often marks one for life perhaps. Growing up in Bungalow 96 in small town Digboi, in upper Assam meant growing with two rather huge Thuja trees standing just beyond the green wooden gates. In retrospect, reading books or peeling oranges wasn’t the only thing I did atop the Thuja. Amply stocked with Amar Chitra Kathas, there were days when I became Sita under the Ashoka tree or imitated poet Arun Chakraborty eating Mahua flowers while composing “Lal Paharer deshe ja.”
Childhood apart, all my adult life has been strewn through cities and towns, a wanderer, always on the move. Geographical boundaries meant less each day, when the people I met mattered more. Places I lived in, mattered even lesser than the presence of those trees I had befriended. It was the summer of 2011, days when Bangalore is resplendent with my favourite Gulmohur. I had been away from the city for a while, when I received a hand written note from a friend, ‘the Gulmohur’s are fast vanishing, come home soon’. Trees have a way of chasing you; I had thought then and returned to Bangalore before the last flower had fallen. I met the same friend over a musical soirée, soon after. Drunk in music, by the end of the night, she had placed in my hand a book, ‘You will find yourself here’, she had said. My introduction to Baulsphere seemed to be less dramatic than the effect the book had on me. Among many other things, it was a tree that fell off this book, like a leaf in autumn, when lines such as these poured forth, ‘Suddenly the crowds evaporated. We were in an immense vault created by Banyans, almost a secret foyer. We had arrived at Tamalatala: In the space of a few minutes, we had moved into another age.’
‘Tamalatala’, is where dreams reside, where the Bauls sing, where lovers look into each other’s eyes, where every wanderer comes home. Shrouded in the mystery of beautiful Banyans, my association with the place began with wonder, a perception that the place was almost mythical, even metaphorical, and the summation of a poignant author’s imaginative mind. Terribly boring estimates offer statistics that prove that a 20 year old tree, approximately produces an estimated 2 crores worth oxygen for free, and if one thought that was a staggering piece of information to grasp, what is even more staggering but not often reported is the effect such a tree has on a person. I somehow had to see the Tamalatala.
To see Tamalatala, in Kenduli, where the Bauls gather every year is an experience in itself. Deep rooted within us is the inherent capacity of most men and women to be drawn to that which we later know as, the call of the soul. The dark lure of Tamalatala, metaphor for all things sacred and pure, that which I felt a deep connect with, even without seeing, drove me to Kenduli. This was an unplanned and whimsical journey with nothing in the distant horizon worth understanding, but the joy of witnessing a tree.
Kenduli, a small village in interior Bengal is the seat of the Joydeb Mela (a fair) every year. The fair is a celebration of the poet Joydeb, his poetry and the love of Radha and Krishna. Bauls, Sanyasis and lovers of song and verse collect in this village every year, to find a bit of themselves and be a part of the great spectacle that is this fair. While the lure of the singer and his song is tempting, the silent spectator, a tree in this case, witness to numerous songs, was the bigger attraction for me. Tamalatala, seated within this village, is a reclusive seat of songs and home to the wanderer, it is also the centre of the Tamala tree. Green wet lands, with paddy fields, small huts, uneven roads and the pristine waters of the river Ajoy greet you as you enter this part of the Bengal heartland. A few birds suddenly screech and while you begin to understand the stillness that you are now a part of, you become one with it, like a Heron in the paddy fields, still and sublime.
A thin-legged heron standing
On legs yellow as millet stems
And looking
For lampreys
In the running water
-( The Interior Landscape-Kapilar –Karuntokai 25)
As you approach Tamalatala, you see the roots of trees spread over terracotta temple tops, prop roots hanging around, forming a lovely private canopy for soul searchers. The Tamalatala Ashram is built around the main Tamala tree, with its huge over powering, yet serene presence overwhelming every traveler. Glossy leaves and embracing wide branches greet you, and somehow you seem to be encapsulated in the magic love of Radha and Krishna as narrated in the Geet Govind by Jaidev. Religion, songs and poetry may or may not be a part of what one seeks when in the presence of the tree and its surroundings. But then one cannot miss the reverberating presence of Jaidev or the intrinsic mythological connect describing the Tamala tree in the colour of Krishna. And so I was reminded of Om Tamala Shyamala Kritaye Namaha(To the Lord who is a beautiful as the dark Tamala tree) and Jaidev’s verses of the love of Radha and Krishna in the presence of the Tamala.
Writ in history and muse to the epic love of the celestials, you are transported in time eternal. I understood then, why the Bauls came here with their songs. Their essential curiosity in seeking the divine knowledge or the ‘unknown bird’ finds culmination here. Seeking here is not necessarily religious, Tamala in its ancient wisdom is secular and it is then that you realize that it is somehow not enough to stand and stare at the tree. There is this insane desire to hug, to sit in its shade and be a part of that simplistic bliss. Here I instinctively felt the immensity and an innate understanding of why, by nature we have forever been kissed.
It was close to summer and the famous Bengal Kal Boishaki on its way. Thunderous and sudden, they come without warning. And even as I sat under the beautiful envelope of trees, I felt the sudden bliss of the rains. The distant rumble of thunder and lightning lit up the river, while I watched from a distance the waters of Ajoy dance in anticipatory glee-
‘Clouds thicken the sky.
Tamala trees darken the forest.
The night frightens him.
Radha, you take him home!”
They leave at Nanda’s order,
Passing trees in thickets on the way,
Until secret passions of Radha and Madhava
Triumph on the Jamuna bank.’
- (Geet Govind, opening verses)
Once out of the shade of the Tamala tree, I walked towards the waters of Ajoy. They seemed muddy and heavy now. I walked along a little further and as if from nowhere came the distant song of a Baul, a Khamak and Dotara (Stringed instruments used in folk music) playing along. I turned around to see the Tamala for one last time and it seemed to me that the waters paused for a bit, the tremor in the leaves too, only the song continued. Lines from Oliver Wendell crossed my mind, ‘And if I should live to be/The last leaf upon the tree/In the spring,/Let them smile, as I do now,/At the old forsaken bough/Where I cling.’ I left, somehow carrying a bit of that eternity in me.