In front of it was a cement road that ran twelve miles to the south before vanishing into Cape Comorin, eager for a dip in the ocean. The second road, to the north, stretched past Thiruvananthapuram and Mumbai, perhaps all the way to the Himalayas, perhaps beyond that as well—after all, any place where mankind leaves a trail of footprints is a path, yes? The third road came from the west and split into two around the tamarind tree, before merging with the cement road. Who knows where this western path originated? In fact, isn’t it simply the case that all roads begin at one coast and end at another? Then, in the middle, how can we talk of beginnings and ends? In truth, there were no roads that did not eventually lead to the tamarind tree.

It was quite an old tree and certainly looked it. From a distance, it looked like a hunched old woman with puffs of cotton for hair, her vision clouded over, and who, having transcended her desires, was now immersed in the hidden depths of her own bliss. When I first arrived in this town as a boy, the bus dropped me off at this tamarind tree. At the time, the junction was a busy market, full of rows of shops with every marvel. From salt to camphor, from the proverbial tiger’s milk to elephant tusk, there was nothing that was not available! You could hold an engagement ceremony in the evening and conduct the wedding the very next morning, fully relying on these shops to supply everything you need in time. And in the center of it all was the tamarind tree—tall, proud, stately. How beautiful it looked that day, its canopy like hundreds of floating green umbrellas pulled together and held in place by a single rope. The whole scene had a glorious sense of harmony to it, of perfection, as if creation was pleased with its work.

Now the tree is gone. I firmly believe—and you may disagree—that no matter what we replace the tree with, no matter what wonderful new human invention we put in that spot, our town has lost its allure. Perhaps if we had left the tree alone, it would still be alive today, living in quiet dignity. But man, with his greed and chest-thumping bravado, killed it. How it happened is a story that is still fresh in our minds and will stay forever in our hearts. Some tales are impossible to forget.

Today—even though the tree no longer stands at the junction—cars, carts, and people still circle around the spot. They move around an absence. They must keep this up, if only in the interest of their own safety; otherwise, they’ll collide with one another and create disaster. This is the tree’s lesson for our town. But even those who have learned the lesson might feel embarrassed to admit it . . .