The Coconut Tree

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As the packed Boeing 787 flew in the Dhaka sky, hovering over patches of dense white clouds that only allowed occasional glimpses of the sprawling green fields and meandering sparkling rivers under the bright tropical sun, looking out through the window Rita felt a jolt of immense emotions flowing through her veins, a strange tickling sensation–that makes you feel both good and restless. Bubbles of joy and anticipation rose into her throat, almost making it hurt. She could feel her heart beating faster. Just a little longer, girl. Could there be any place dearer than your birthplace, she wondered. Especially when you leave behind people dearest to you, people who are an integral part of you. Mita–her twelve-year-old daughter, sitting next to her was occupied with the entertainment system that the flight offered, and shared none of what Rita was going through. Rita’s husband, a Software Engineer working full-time in Toronto, did not accompany them. His vacation didn’t get sanctioned, he told her. Things were supposedly very busy at work.  She knew the truth. He had escaped Bangladesh, possibly like many others who ran away from their developing countries. He had little to no taste for crowds, noise, dust, rampant corruption, political chaos, and overall feeling of too much in too little of a space. Rita loved it. She grew up in Dhaka, one of the most congested cities in the world; crowds and noise had always been there right with her, around her. Through the years, as she traveled across North America with her husband before settling down in a small suburb of Toronto, from smaller cities to quiet towns, one contract job to another, her habit of it remained, tucked somewhere deep inside her. Since the airplane entered Dhaka sky Rita had not been able to look away from the window as the top elevation of the city captured her view. It was time to land. The slow descent through the dense clouds was rewarded when almost magically the city below, like a hidden fortress deep in the forest abruptly revealed itself to an explorer.  The bright mist of green and dirt grey was dotted in patches after patches of concrete structures, innumerable, chocking the ground out of space, declaring the desperate need to expand. Her city! Her people! Abundance of memories. She could smell the humid odor of the tropical soil around her old house in Mirpur–a suburb of Dhaka; the memory of the aroma of the mango blossoms in the gigantic tree that grew right next to their house and spread like an umbrella over the bungalow style house sent bursts of forgotten emotions through her mind, bringing back all the childhood memories. She could hardly wait to see the behemoth, touch its rough bark, and breathe air that bore the wonderful smell of those blossoms. Feeling a desperate urge to share this sudden rush of emotions, she called out for her daughter, “Look, Mita, Dhaka!” Mita glanced outside and twisted her face in disgust, “So dirty!” Rita smiled. She was obsessed with cleaning. No wonder her daughter picked up some of that. But strangely enough, in this city, in Dhaka, Rita felt differently. It was her playground, her real home–it could only be beautiful and nothing less! The landing was smooth and quick, like a well-crafted paper plane it touched the ground softly, gently. There was a little bit of waiting before the mobile stairway arrived. Sitting inside, Rita, restless and excited, looked out through the window and watched the synchronized movements in the airport, arrivals and departures, the people, the staff, the vehicles – bustling into its own little world. She remembered the first time she had flown away, from here. Seemed like just the other day but twenty years had passed, in a blink of an eye. When Rita completed her bachelor's degree with honors, keeping with the social tradition, her father decided to choose a suitor for her.  An adoring father the last thing he wanted was to marry her off to a non-resident, who was high in demand as many wished to move to the west, to the developed countries – USA, Canada, and likes. Many offers from suitable non-residents were instantly rejected. He wouldn’t be able to live with her dearest daughter somewhere in the other hemisphere. It was decided. Well, like all things there’s an exception to every rule, seemingly. When a matchmaker fearfully brought the details of a young IT consultant employed in the USA, what clicked was not as much the boy himself, but his father – a pious man, a physician who was loved and respected, who himself called her dad up and gently, humbly asked for just one meeting, to give them a chance. A short meeting turned into hours, perceptions changed, decisions remade, and boy and girl were allowed to see each other, and weigh each other out, in a few restrictive dates two young hearts knew there was sparkle between them, there was potential, a marriage had taken shape.  Things just moved at a shockingly fast speed, the boy had to return after his four weeks vacation, and with his work visa, his wife could accompany him. Just in two weeks, the two were married, on the third she had boarded a flight with her husband, flying to the West. Things had been so hectic, like a flash time had gone past her, barely had a chance to say goodbye to her dear father - a man who sheltered her from every storm that came toward her, a man who never gave her any grievances. The goodbye wasn’t what she wanted. It was too short, too quick, and contained only a few drops of tears that she had shed. Her father held his childlike smile, inside he was hurting, she knew.                 The moving stairs arrived. Rita climbed down with her daughter closely flanking her. Mita had been to Dhaka before but this was still a new country to her, an unknown place. Rita could feel her anxiousness. She held her close to her body, giving her the warmth of confidence, wanting to make her comfortable, to be happy and excited. There was a line in the departure booths, but the wait wasn’t exorbitant. She wouldn’t have cared either way. She was in her land. Her brothers were waiting outside. She could see them. Both mother and daughter had Canadian passports with a No visa required permission acquired from the Bangladesh High Commission in Ottawa. Her Bangladeshi passport had long been invalid, lying somewhere back in Toronto home, not needed anymore.  Done with airport formalities, she walked into the open lobby with her daughter and found her two brothers – the oldest and the second youngest – smiling widely with affection and love. She gave them long quiet hugs, the smell of family filled every bit of air in her lungs, the sense of belonging. And then she remembered the inevitable, the unforgettable. It was eighteen years ago, she had come home to bid farewell to her father on his journey to the unknown. In the airport, she hugged her brothers and broke down into tears. Just a year after her marriage, after her flight to the West, to the land of the desirables, her father had died in a sudden heart attack. He was healthy and generally happy, perhaps worried and anxious about Rita, light of his eyes. Only if she knew she would never see him again, only if…             Her mother lived in their old house along with her older sister Anita and her family. The two brothers had both moved out and had their own houses in newer parts of Dhaka.  The youngest brother still lived in the house. He was a 40-year-old bachelor with no jobs and no money. Rita heard he was also into drugs. Disgusting! Rita felt burning anger when she first heard about it. How could such a worthless good-for-nothing be born in their otherwise very honorable family?             Her oldest brother had a driver, who carried all her luggage into the trunk of the car.  He wanted Rita to stay in his new house. She wanted to see her mother. She wanted to be in the house where all her memories had been waiting for her to embrace, dip in, and just take it all in slowly, the way one would watch a slow-motion movie clip.  He insisted, but she resisted. The car moved through the usual heavy traffic, slowly and laboriously, weaving its way through the streets of Dhaka entangled in busses, cars, rikshaws, three-wheelers, motorbikes, cycles, and people, all in a thick, noisy soup. That’s the Dhaka she knew, the very familiarity of it hit her with a sense of pleasure, despite the ubiquitous presence of dusty grayness, intolerable crowd, and general perception of chaos with ineffective street signals, stalled traffic, inconsiderate vendors blocking sidewalks – the list could go on and on if anybody was up to the task. Rita saw none of it. She only felt these waves of feelings that quickly overwhelmed her with so many nostalgic memories of this city, so many layers of joy and happiness planted so deep within.  She remembered the brother who was a year older than her – second among four brothers. They resembled each other so much that people always mistook them as twins. He was big, handsome, and very loving and protective of Rita, his only kid sister. He would charge at anybody who might have said anything remotely insulting to her or even looked at her in a way that he didn’t approve of. Anything she wanted he would rush to get. When she graduated from high school and was admitted to college, he would unfailingly accompany her to and from college, no matter how early or late it was. To him, the city was filled with thugs and criminals who were scheming to hurt her, in whatever way they could. At her marriage he worked like a one-man army, taking care of every tidbit, from food to decorations, from security to finance. It was such an event of great importance to him that he simply could not risk anything being less than perfect.  A year later when she visited home from the USA, he was so excited! The two of them explored the city the way they had done so many times before. During that time, he had opened up to her. He was getting older but was still a long way from being successful, in materializing his dreams of being a businessman. Rita wanted to see him settle down with a wonderful girl and have a family. She had planned to have an extravagant party at his marriage ceremony, a long-time dream of hers. Several years back, one evening in Toronto, a call came to her husband’s cellphone. She knew nothing about it at that time. Two days later he gave her the news, fearfully. It was a heart attack. Her brother had a heart problem, something he did his best to hide knowing he would never be able to bear the cost to operate. Her best friend was gone, quietly, untimely.               In Toronto, many nights Rita would have very realistic dreams – some days it was her father, some days it was her brother, sometimes both of them. They would talk to her, would smile.             Once the car stopped in front of their bungalow house in Mirpur surrounded by 4-foot tall brick walls and she had stepped out of the car, she took one look in the yard and immediately knew something was missing. Five years had passed since she visited the last time, but every part of this house and the yards were so deeply engraved into her memories that five or fifty wouldn’t have made any difference. Her older sister along with her family and her mother was waiting on the porch for her to arrive. Once Rita had a chance to address all of them her eyes inevitably found their way to the east side of the house, just to confirm the worst of her fears. Last time, five years ago, when she visited, in that corner bordering the road and the neighbor’s house stood proudly a thirty-foot-tall coconut tree with its large green wing-like leaves arranged in neat layers, a pleasure to watch. The tree was gone, and the spot where it once existed was flat with weeds threatening to take over. Her older sister looked apologetic. “The tree was rotting at the roots. It bore no fruits for several years. We were afraid it would fall in a storm and cause damage to the house. We had no choice but to cut it down.”             Rita’s eyes were heavy in tears. She sighed heavily but did not say anything. Her late father and late brother had planted the tree together. She was probably about nine or ten. It was drizzling all day.  Unfazed, the two had dug out a medium-sized hole in that corner, filled it out partially with fertilized soil, planted the tree with the utmost care, and then finished it off by patting in more soil and mulch. Once it was on the ground Rita had taken up the responsibility to nurture it, along with her late brother, spending a considerable amount of her free time around it.  Slowly it had become a very important part of their young lives, immobile but yet so spirited, silent but yet so lively! Their unconditional devotion to the tree made her dad break into adorable giggles - “You kids are nuts… ha…ha…ha…”. She could still hear the soft sound of that laughter… laughter that showed the purity of his spirit right through. Her older sister pulled her inside the house. Mita, clinging closely to her mother in this new environment where most of these people she could barely remember from the photographs or Viber video calls, whispered into her mother’s ears, “Mom, are you okay?” Rita nodded silently. There was a lump of sadness growing deep into her throat and she couldn’t find her voice.    The next morning, Rita woke up very early, when darkness still ruled the sky and everybody was asleep. She had a strange dream. She was walking on an unknown, barren street. Suddenly a boy – maybe ten – who appeared from nowhere, fixed his big, innocent eyes on her and spoke in a loud, clear voice, “Rita! What are you doing here? Go home. Check out the coconut tree. There are so many coconuts. It has a bumper yield. Must drink the water. So sweet!” Rita hugged her sleeping daughter and cried for a little bit. It was time for morning prayer. She left the bed. The worthless youngest brother stayed in a room at the roadside end of the house. As a boy, he was very fond of her. Always tried to flatter her with anything and everything. Once grown up, with relentless failures in everything he did, he had become a different person, detached, often insolent, an obvious side effect of addiction to drugs. There were attempts to rehabilitate him but it didn’t work out. He got stuck in the muck that he created for himself. Slowly people had looked away from him. There were many times when Rita felt this desperate need to help him, anyway she could, to sell whatever little golden ornaments she had and give the money to this worthless brother of hers to start over– a small business or something. But everybody discouraged her. Nobody trusted him anymore. The cute little boy who once was the light of this household had slowly turned into a dark mole that nobody wanted to deal with. He was one of millions of young men who had failed to claim their share in this developing country with tremendous potential. With little to no planned support from the state, many slipped gradually to obscurity.                         She knocked twice on his door, hesitant to wake him up at such an odd hour. She was surprised when the door opened almost immediately, with the worthless flashing all his pearly white teeth. “Choto apu (youngest oldest sister)! I knew you would come. You didn’t even talk to me properly since you came.” “Don’t you sleep?” Rita asked, unable to hide her amazement. “Can’t sleep. My mind has turned numb. I feel lonely and left out. Nobody loves me. Not mom, not my siblings. Nobody.” He giggled loudly, meaninglessly, as if he found it very funny, the sound of it rippled in the quiet hours of the early dawn.   Rita frowned. “Keep it down! Everybody is sleeping. Are you on drugs?” “I don’t take drugs. Who said that? Why do you believe in such lies?” He vehemently protested. Rita sighed heavily, visibly. One look at him and you would know he was into drugs. He simply had that look of drowsy carelessness, as if he wasn’t fully there or nothing truly mattered.   “Do you need anything, choto apu? I have a feeling you came to say something.” “Can you find coconut trees here? Small ones?” “You want to plant another tree? Sure. I’ll find another one. I also miss him very much. He was the only one who cared for me.” Rita knew he was talking about their late brother. “For Dad, I don’t feel much. He was always lecturing me.” Rita was visibly annoyed. How dare he talk ill about Dad? “Please get another plant, if possible.” She had turned and was walking back when he called her. “Choto apu, this time you and I’ll plant it, okay?” Rita nodded, silently. She was afraid to talk to him. Who knew how he would react? She heard addicts could be very unpredictable. After a few days, one afternoon he returned home with a coconut sapling. He got a shovel out from the storage room and dug out a big hole in the same spot where the last tree was. Rita gave him a hand to place the root ball of the plant nicely at the center and gently filled out the hole around it with soil. Rita called her daughter to give them a hand but she refused. She had no desire to have her hands soiled. These kids! Rita thought.             Once planted, Rita took a few steps back and examined the work that they had just completed. The young coconut tree looked like an excited young boy all ready to grow high in the sky with its tiny green leaves expanding into beautiful wings. “Choto apu, can I ask you something?” The worthless mumbled. “What is it?” “Once you are back in Canada, if you suddenly hear I am no more would you cry a little for me?” “What are you talking about?” Rita snapped. “Don’t be stupid. Nothing would happen to you.” He giggled nervously as if this was a real possibility and wasn’t just a joking assertion.  “I know you’ll cry a lot. Later, when you come back home you’ll see this tree and it’ll remind you of me. Won’t it?” Rita felt that lump of sadness again collecting in her throat, blocking her voice. She whispered, “Why are you talking like this?” He suddenly broke down, like a sky that had been dotted with deep black clouds and rumbling thunders, looking all so intimidating before crushing down helplessly as pouring rains. He held his sister with both arms wrapped around her neck like a little helpless boy and sobbed, “Choto apu, I wish I could turn into that little boy again. We used to have so much fun!”