The Time Machine
With time, I began to realize that the old tree was a time machine. Why else would I be transported into the past every time I sit under its cool shadow? The incidents and events of the distant past would appear before me with fantastic clarity as if I were witnessing them.
Initially, the sightings were a little mixed up. With some practice, I learned to control the sequences and the themes. If I wanted to be happy, I could call me some events of childhood, simple things that delighted me in those times of my innocence. I could skip past the sad events when they suddenly flashed before my eyes. The remote control was always in my mind.
I knew that the tree enjoyed these travels as much as I did. Any time I stepped into the garden, it would beckon me with its branches swinging in the wind to come and sit under the cool shade and take a trip. It was true that I could recall only events that I had directly witnessed, or events, which made a profound impact in my mind by someone describing them to me in great detail. Occasionally, I could also recall things I had read in a book and had made a strong impression. But these secondary sightings, as they were, were never as clear as the primary experiences.
There was nothing special about the tree. It was one of those nondescript trees common in these parts of the world. It was the oldest in our garden, planted even before I built my house. Shedding leaves all the while, it spread a light-yellow carpet on the lawn every morning, much to the irritation of my wife and the grumbling of the gardener. They preferred the emerald green of the yard to the mottled yellow that the wind and the tree had conspired to dress the lawn.
I tried to see whether the other trees in my garden possessed the same power as the older tree. To my relief, they were not blessed. They were much younger and had impressive botanical names. The limber limbs would sway towards each other in the wind and murmur disparaging things about the old tree. I do not think the old tree minded this very much, as it always appeared lost in some deep thought.
As the tree grew old, the recollections became less coherent. Sometimes there would be long silences, broken only by the murmur of the leaves, like an impatient crowd willing a singer to start performing. In the winter mornings, I would sit under the tree, a thick blanket covering me and waiting for the tree to transport me into some good point of time. With time, the waiting grew longer and longer.
Then one day, I sensed that the tree was no longer my companion. It was mute, unresponsive to the probing tendrils of my mind. Not even the leaves murmured.
The younger trees in the garden were also silent.
