The Immortality Of A Leaf

The dragonflies burst into flames. That's how the leaf sensed it. For the dragonflies had materialised out of nowhere, even before the sun's rays had hit the ground around. And as they darted hither-thither, zipping and zapping ahead of each other, the buzz and the orange-yellow reflections of their wings reminded the leaf of the fiery, blazing nights many suns ago. It survived those troublesome times unscathed, but their memory remained etched permanently on its leafy conscience. It was just a leaf-bud then; now a young leaf, just a few suns from full maturity. Its soft, dew-dripped skin had a spring-symbolic sheen: a light-green translucence that suggested youth and newness. The crisp morning air rustled lazily as a soft breeze blew past. The leaf quivered midriff, shedding tiny dew-drops that rained down on a convoy of ants who continued their march unperturbed on the ground below. With a slight twirl at the stem, the leaf got ready to meet the morning sun, which was still behind the large stone that sat a few leaf-lengths yonder. In a moment, the leaf said to itself, I will soak in the warm sun and make my food and grow a little longer and stronger. Oh! what a beautiful ...! It left the sentence incomplete, perhaps fearing an improper noun might smudge the thought and spoil the mood. Life, time, world, day, any of these could have fitted nicely; not to the leaf. The sun rose higher, pouring quantum after tiny quantum of warmth in the chilly air and shrinking the stone's jagged shadow. The dragonflies buzzed with more vigour and merriment, casting swift-moving gossamer shadows on things below. Insects hurried on wet beads of soil and on tree-trunks and stones and any solid thing bound to the ground, and a mosaic of forest smells filled the warming, morning air. Oh! What a lovely start to a new sun! the leaf murmured happily. I'd never ever get tired of such a bliss even if it came every sun for a million, zillion suns. And I'm just a few suns old and I suppose I have many more suns to live. The leaf turned its tip upward to get all the sunshine it could. I wonder, how long one lives, the leaf mused. It decided to put that question to the stone. How long do you live, stone? It asked. But the stone didn't answer. It's not in the nature of stones to answer questions. They may echo your thoughts, if you speak them aloud and if the conditions are right, such as a very large stone sitting far enough for the echo to return as a distinct sound. But they don't answer.

Just then a dragonfly hovered above, its buzzing wings stirring the air over the leaf in sensuous gyrations. The leaf decided to put the question to the dragonfly. How long do you live, dragonfly? The leaf asked. How should I know? Said the dragonfly. I'm not dead yet. Besides, why should I care how long I live? Now is the living. And with that it darted over the stone and was gone. How true! Now is the living! Mused the leaf. But what is now? It's past just as I said it. Isn't the past a living too? It lives in memories. I was living when the stone's shadow was over me a moment ago, and on the fiery nights when I was younger. Won't I live to see another sun and then another and then yet another? How long will that be? Can I store all those memories and revisit them? Oh, how I wished I'd live for a million, zillion suns. I could tell stories of the past to new breeds of dragonflies, new leaves, new flowers and new trees. And they'd say, this leaf has been around a million, zillion suns and knows all about the past. Now, that would be a feat! To tell about a past so long gone that they'd think it's a fairy tale or a legend. Hmm, a million, zillion suns. A long time indeed. Will the sky be different then? What about the stone? And the sun itself? The musing of the leaf continued, and as the sun rose and began its westward fall, it gathered pace and reached a crescendo, escalating to more and more ambitious, wishful thinking. Ambitious, but wishful anyway. The simple wish of living long had morphed into a more egoistic dream of being noted and held in awe. The war had stopped, at least for a while. After an uneasy truce, a semblance of peace had settled on this no-man's land. Under the cover of long shadows of the sparse trees, a small, shrivelled figure ventured in that patch of the forest. It was a woman, searching for firewood. A woman in a no-man's land. To her it didn't matter whose land it was or whose it wasn't. Nor would she care to answer the leaf's question about how long she lived. Hers was a rather down-to-earth quest for something to cook that evening the only meal of the day. Stooping low, she looked cautiously and nervously for anything that would burn and that she could carry. Her intrusion was acknowledged soon enough. A shot rang out. Not knowing whence it came, the woman took cover behind the stone. Another came from the opposite direction, shattering the stone and the flimsy peace. In the sun-lit chamber of what could be a museum of natural history, a stone fragment sits in a diamond-shaped cusp. The inscription next to it saysif one could 'read' that strange languagethat the fragment is estimated to be about 40 million years old. In another diamond cusp nearby there is a small, metal objecta hollow, badly dented cylinder. The beings that run the place, and who found this 'peculiar' stone fragment and the

cylinder, wonder about the connection between the two. Yet, they hold the stone tablet in awe. That's because carved on the stone is a pattern that resembles some of their own body parts. Even if they don't yet know in what circumstance some 40 million years ago the destiny of these two objects became entangled, they can sense it to have been a sad affair. For in the stone fragment there is a hole, the size of the metal cylinder, passing right through the pattern. In their strange, resinous language filled with aromatic nuances, they call it, The Immortal Leaf.