If you think about it, what crime did the tamarind tree commit? It only stood there, bearing witness to mankind’s endless games. Did it actively participate in any? Did it care to? What did it do besides bear witness to man’s laughter and tears and see how tears sometimes expressed themselves in laughter; or watch his selfishness or sacrifice and see how selfishness was mixed up with his sacrifice; or observe his jealousies and resentments and see how both of these were born out of love? In what way did it wrong humankind? Did it point fingers at anyone? Did it ingratiate itself to anyone? Did it conspire with anybody against anybody? It came to life on its own and was self-reliant in its growth. Leaves unfurled, then flowers blossomed, and then fruits appeared in such abundance that they hid the leaves from view. Old leaves fell to carpet the ground and merge with it, nourishing the tree that gave birth to them, becoming one with it. The tree’s arms reached for the sky. Its roots wandered deep into the earth. It lived a simple life of contentment.

But when man is willing to gamble his country, money, women, power, and fame in his many games, why would he leave a mere tamarind tree alone? So he bet on it too and played one hell of a game.

This is the story of the tamarind tree’s life and death.

Damodara Asan was at least eighty years old, but he claimed he was sixty-three. He did not want anyone to think, Oh! He looks strong for an eighty-year-old. Sixty-three, however, was believable. This man was immaculate. Even at his age, he could see well enough to thread a needle. Husking a hundred coconuts at a stretch posed him no challenge. Completing his daily five-mile walk was a breeze. His shoulders bulged out like palmyra fruits. Curly dark hair spread across the ridges of his wide back and chest and on the arm muscles that tapered toward his wrists.

He would often hold out his arm and say: “Here, try bending it. I challenge you. Any of you, come on, any of you old enough to have sprouted a mustache!” One by one, we’d hang from it, hoping to bend it. When it was my turn, he’d tease, “Oh, here comes the Brahmin boy, all resolved to bend my arm. Oh! He is going to crush it for sure. Aaaahhh! Sir, this is not a piece of spinach stem you are trying to bend!” I’d try and try, but I would always give up in the end, exhausted.