By Raisa Anan

In a quaint little village of sunshine and greenery, there was a one-storeyed house with mud walls and tin roofs. The house was big but its square-shaped courtyard was even bigger, nestled right in the middle and surrounded by seven rooms and a large kitchen. A tall tree stood in the middle of the courtyard, overlooking the entire space and its residents. There lived a family with six sons and one daughter who were often visited by relatives near and distant for an overnight stay that would be prolonged in most cases. Something about the house and its people made them stay longer than they intended. So, the house was always bustling with people and even some poultry animals, everyone moving about from dawn to dusk, a cacophony of noises in the air ever present.  

The dad would go to work early in the morning and the mom would cook and clean while the sons took turns going to the bazaar for fresh produce before spending their time playing and messing around with each other. Some of them liked to study and the others didn’t. The ones who didn’t like studying would skip classes and stay out all day, running around the locality and setting off on a random adventure every day. They would come home to get an earful from their mom but that didn’t stop them from doing it all over again the next day.

Seasons changed, and along with it, the large tree shed and regrew its leaves as it saw the children grow up one by one and leave their nest. The oldest son was the first to go, followed by others as they moved to bigger cities for studies and work. The house gradually grew vacant but it was never deserted, as the dad had retired by then and spent his days gardening, helping the mother with chores, reading newspapers, or entertaining various guests who never seemed to run out.

Years passed and some of the sons returned to the village, now married and expecting kids. The house once again regained its color as the family grew, welcoming many new faces. It shone the brightest and was the liveliest when the mom and dad became grandparents, surrounded by their grandkids who demanded their constant attention. During Eid, the air would be filled with extra festivities as the sons living in the city would come back and enjoy their vacation together. Filled with the largest number of people, squeals of children of different ages playing around with their cousins as all their parents would sit with a cup of tea and talk late into the night, the house sparkled continuously like a bright beacon, emitting light and joy into the darkest of nights.

Some more years later, the grandfather passed away, leaving the family with a period of grief. The house began to lose its joy and color as the children returned to their hustling lives in the city. Still, once or twice a year, during Eid, the house would be transported back in time as it would be filled with the children and grandchildren who were eager to spend their Eid with the grandmother. Many of the grandchildren had stepped into their adolescence by then and some of the older ones had entered the workforce. Even though they were not children anymore, they still had the same spirit and energy as their childhood, creating chaos around the house with their cousins and gathering around the courtyard for a late-night ‘adda’ time where they would listen to tales both real and fictional, narrated by their uncles. 

Soon after, the grandmother passed. The once lively and youthful house started entering a perpetual state of darkness. The children stopped visiting, all too busy with their lives or too tired of them. Even Eid could not bring them together. The grandchildren had also grown up and they themselves were too busy facing the problems of adulthood and creating an identity of their own.

The tree remained in its place, unshaken. It endured one adversary after another, year after year but none of the harsh weather could uproot it. It stood tall and proud, still overlooking the now almost empty house and casting it in a shade that was still as cool as fifty years ago. The paint was now peeling, the walls had mold, and the furniture was covered in dust. The abode that was once full of life had turned grey and barren, so aloof that it was hard to believe it had such a joyous past. The tree, however, had witnessed it all. It had seen days when the grandfather and grandmother were still newlywed, it had seen days long after their demise, and everything in between. 

The tree did not have many years left. After all, it was the beholder of events of a lifetime, both sad and jubilant. It had run its course and served its purpose, and now, it was time to make room for new things. Perhaps the despondency in the house was temporary, a small period of gloom before a new story began with a new generation. That was life after all, no? An ever-changing road, so quick to pass by when we are distracted, where nothing lasts forever, not even the sorrow.