Purba Bardhaman, West Bengal
"...Oh Grandpa, you know, even today, that crazy man is standing there, staring at the garden! Almost every day, he brushes his hands gently over the trees near the fence with such affection—it’s truly the act of a complete madman!" said Bhombol, the grandson, laughing cheekily.
Batuk Babu, known in the area as Grandpa Tree, was meticulously pruning the dry leaves of the plants with a pair of shears. Raising his head with a tone of reproach, he said,
"Why call someone a madman? Don’t you know you should call him uncle instead?" he scolded sternly.
"Never mind that, I’ve prepared the saplings here for sale. Make sure to water them lightly, alright dear."
At one edge of the village, near the stream known as Dingla Khal, Tree-Loving Batuk Babu, in his later years, had set up a small nursery of saplings to his liking. The area was already rich with trees and wilderness. Every year, the influx of various migratory birds made the place even more beautiful. Of the cultivable land available there, he dedicated half to rice farming and the other half to fulfilling his dream of creating a garden he could be proud of. This is how the elderly man spent his retired life in joy.
Within just a few years of relentless effort, Batuk Babu’s cherished garden blossomed with saplings, seeds, various fruit trees, improved flower varieties, and rare ornamental plants.
He had married off his only daughter, Chameli, into a good family in the city after finding a suitable match. But who could have imagined that misfortune would strike so hard? When his daughter suffered from severe respiratory distress, the doctors couldn’t save her. The ever-growing pollution in Kolkata and other large cities, along with the relentless spread of diseases, weighed heavily on the heart of a father who lost his daughter too soon.
Who knows what terrifying days await us in the future, where even the basic availability of oxygen becomes so scarce that everyone must carry oxygen cylinders on their backs to survive! Struggling to overcome his sorrow, Grandpa Tree found solace in planting more and more trees, feeling a deep urge to live and help the next generation thrive.
When just a year had passed since the loss of his daughter, Batuk Babu’s son-in-law remarried and brought a new bride into the household. Batuk Babu then brought his beloved grandson, Bhombol, to the village to live with him. "There’s no need to stay in that city," he thought—a place where survival is under threat and the environment that claimed his only daughter could never sustain the tender sapling of his young grandson. From then on, Bhombol became his doting assistant.
"Oh Grandpa, you’re upset by what I said, but that uncle really is a madman, you know! Whenever you tend to your plants, he stands there gaping at you," Bhombol teased. One day, under Grandpa’s orders, Bhombol called out to the man, but the “madman” bolted away in fear. On another day, Batuk Babu caught him off-guard from behind, startling him. The man, terrified and tearful, was calmed when Batuk Babu handed him two fruit saplings. This made him immensely happy. He kept visiting occasionally, and whenever he received a plant, his eyes sparkled with joy.
Batuk Babu often urged him, “Stay here with me. Help grow these trees and make them your friends.” But who knows if the man understood? He would stare blankly, then leave again. This was his routine—coming, sitting, and leaving, always in his own whimsical way.
Bhombol’s mother, Manju Devi, often remarked, "Oh, look at our madman’s antics! He’s bringing one plant after another from who-knows-where and has already planted so many fruit trees all over the courtyard!" She knew her mute, "mad" son’s love for plants was nothing new. Even as a child, when others played games, he would be busy nurturing any tree he came across. As he grew, his affection for trees only deepened. Every year, he brought plants from the Block Development Office to line the village roads with greenery. If a plant withered or died for any reason, he would be deeply distraught.
Over three consecutive years, the lush village won the "Clean-Green Award," largely due to this mute “madman’s” tireless efforts—a fact known to everyone.
Years have passed since Grandpa Tree died. His cherished garden is no more, lost to an expansion project that cut through the stream. Bhombol, now married, lives here with his struggling family, battling poverty. Their only source of income—the nursery run by Grandpa and Grandma—is long gone. The once-motherless boy now finds himself destitute, reduced to begging for survival.
One day, the mute man recognized a familiar face on the street—Bhombol, the little boy from years ago, now a ragged beggar. Seeing his misfortune brought tears to his eyes. Yet, the trees given by Grandpa Tree still flourish in the mute man’s courtyard, bearing fruit. With a wave and a silent gesture, he stopped Bhombol and handed him a bag filled with ripe mangoes, jackfruits, and guavas.
In this selfish world, where people avoid acknowledging others' suffering, Bhombol stood stunned, clutching the bag of fruits. The mute man’s innocent gaze conveyed a profound truth: people may be mere instruments, but trees are the ultimate true friends and the most beautiful connection to humanity.