Some are skinning off its bark and boiling it.
Some are tearing away leaves for grinding.
Yet others are frying them in oil.
To apply on ringworm afflicted skin.
A panacea for a variety of skin ailments.
Many eat the tender leaves.
Raw, uncooked.
Or, sautéed with eggplant.
Helps the liver.
Endlessly many chew the young twigs … to keep their teeth healthy.
Practitioners of traditional medicine praise it to the skies.
The wise are pleased to see it grow next to one’s dwelling.
“Breeze filtered through Margosa leaves is good for health. Don’t chop it down,” they say.
No one chops it, but they don’t care for it either.
Garbage collects on every side.
Some build a paved platform around its stem. That’s yet another piece of junk.
Suddenly one day a maverick arrives.
He stares at the Margosa tree with rapt attention. He doesn’t tear any part of the bark, nor the leaves. He does not snap a single twig. He simply keeps gazing.
Spellbound.
And then he says, “Oh, how exquisite the leaves … magnificent! How pretty the flower bunches … as though a flock of stars has descended from the blue sky on to the green lake below … Lovely …”
He stands staring for a while and then goes about his way.
He was not one for diseases to cure, but a poet pure.
The Margosa wished it could leave with the man. But it failed. Its roots had penetrated deep inside the earth. It remained standing in the middle of the garbage heap behind the house.
The condition of the docile young girl married off in the crammed household next door, brimming though she is with housewifely virtues, is no different.
[Translation of a classic Bengali story by Banaphool. It was published in a collection called Adrishyalok, 1946.]
