Nimai Forever: Story of a Boy and Neem tree

Nimai Forever: Shyamal was looking affectionately at Nimai from his bed. He had been in bed with typhoid for a month and Nimai had been his best companion all the time. He could hardly think of a more enchanting scene than handsome and elegant Nimai standing erect, holding his head high against the background of the shining blue sky. He could almost hear his grandfather’s voice in the murmur of the small green leaves and the long, spreading branches of Nimai, telling how Hindus believe that a few drops of heavenly nectar fell on the neem tree, and that is why it makes people free from diseases.

Yes, Nimai was the name of a free. Possibly their house was the only one in the world where a tree had a name of its own and what name could a neem tree have in a Bengali house but Nimai?

Nimai Forever: Story of a Boy and Neem tree

Shyamal’s grandfather planted the tree on the day of their ‘griha pravesh’ when the family first entered the new-built house. Although Shyamal was not born at that time, he felt he could see the afternoon most vividly. He could see the then younger grandpa entering the house with a triumphant smile, the neem plant in his hand, which he had collected from the old gardener of his office. He had to take a lot of trouble to find out the old man’s house, but he didn’t mind it at all. Shyamal could see his grandpa planting it near the gate, his hands full of mud, and grandma standing near him blowing the conch-shell to extend auspicious welcome to the new life.

Since then Nimai had been an indispensable part of their family life. Shyamal had seen his grandpa sitting under his favourite tree from early morning till almost midday in every season. It was the place for his morning ‘upasana’ (prayer). The neighbourhood remembered his gentle, rhythmic voice in ‘surya pranam’ (salutation to sun). He used to take his morning tea and breakfast there. In summer, that was his place as the afternoon breeze started. How he loved to see neem flowers appearing from March-April, the air carrying its light fragrance, and greenish yellow fruits ripening during June to August. For hours, he sat there reading, writing, thinking or just gazing at the numerous thin young leaves playing in the gentle air; birds coming and leaving; squirrels going up and down.

After retiring as the Director of a multinational company, he found the greatest pleasure of life in reading books on India’s culture, literature, and mostly India’s vast wealth of trees and plants, and nobody could stop him when the subject was neem tree. He could talk endlessly on the applications of each and every part of the tree in Indian Medicine. The seed oil and soap made there from can be used very effectively in various skin diseases like indolent ulcers, ringworms, and in rheumatism. The bark is used as tincture. People say it is beneficial in malaria as well. Grandpa always used the fresh tender twigs to clean his teeth, and the children of the house learnt to do so. Grandma and mother always kept dried neem leaves in books, paper and clothes to protect them. ‘Neem-begun’, or leaves of neem fried with small pieces of brinjal, was a favourite dish of the whole family which was eaten as a prevention for pox.

In his childhood, once grandpa had smallpox and his mother used to comfort the burning with neem leaves. He often told Shyamal, his most obedient listener, that the neem leaves still reminded him of his mother’s affectionate touch.

The tree shade was the place where the old man enjoyed happiness and bore sorrows. When the grandsons and daughters were born, their naming (‘namakarana’) ceremonies and all birthday parties were celebrated here. His love for nature was reflected in the names of grandchildren Banani, Banashree, and Shyamal.

When uncles were married, the new brides were welcomed under the tree.

On Diwali, the first lamp had always been lit there.

Shyamal remembered the day forever when the news came that his grandma had died for heart attack at his uncle’s place, Mysore. The old man didn’t utter a word, but resorted to his Nimai. He sat there the whole day like a statue, perhaps trying to get the strength to beat the heart-breaking loss from his age-old companion, while the other had departed forever.

And his end also came so suddenly and silently. He was sitting outside even after it was dark and Shyamal’s mother sent him to call grandpa. At first Shyamal thought that grandpa was dozing and he tried to wake him up. “Grandpa, your time of chatting with Nimai is up.” His head bent down on the chest by Shyamal’s touch, and suddenly the child realized that the time has been over indeed, while one or two leaves were still falling in the old man’s lap.

So far, Shyamal was completely lost in his thoughts, looking at the slim and shiny leaves, which had been always his favourite pastime. He was a sentimental and thoughtful boy, very much after his grandfather, but his materialistic engineer father never liked this.

Shyamal’s mother came in with the news of the day. “Well, son, I have a surprise for you. Do you know our new Maruti car is coming today?”