Kalpavriksha: While My Mother, the Avid Gardener, Has Left This Abode, Her Shade Still Protects Me

This morning, a conversation with my yoga teacher—a mosaic of Mumbai’s sweltering heat, Nashik’s April showers, and the delayed boor (blossoms) on the amba (mango) trees prompted a fierce yearning for home. Amchi Mumbai… my heartland. I pictured the fading Pink Trumpet trees, the Indian version of Sakura, and the Laburnum’s golden festoons by mother’s garden gate. I remembered walking from the Vashi Gaon bus stop, down the hill, crossing the Jagruteshwar Shiva temple, by the children’ s school, toward my mother’s bungalow by the sea. In my mind, I hugged the seraphic mango tree, and every inch of our happy home; before bursting through the veranda to spill the events of  my day into my mother’s patient ears.

That life feels like a distant dream now. My mother possessed an esteemed green thumb; she could grow anything from herbs, to vegetables, to towering coconut trees, and mango trees from mere saplings. Her able fingers crafted a nurturing, restful sanctuary with effortless grace. Since her passing, my returns to Mumbai have shifted from restorative homecomings to nostalgic pilgrimages. Often marred by distressing situations, and unexpected events. Without her, the welcoming environment feels contrived. I now spend small fortunes on luxury hotels and spa treatments, trying to mechanically simulate the peace my mom once provided for just a smile, and a hug. 

At the Kaya Kalp spa, that I have come to frequent, I am thankful let Pui’s exuberant hands knead the travel, and blocked lymph from my sinews, and tissues but no amount of stretching, aromatic oils, and sandalwood soap or fluffy comforters can melt the weariness that only mother’s embrace reached. After several cups of filter coffee, when I gather the energy to take another drive to Sector 8 from Andheri East, the home that embodied joy, now sits in silence. Our Lakshmi is no longer at the picture window in her pink kaftan, her dewy gaze awaiting the “girls”—me and my daughter. Light shining through the hundreds of leaves on our mango tree.

But I can still see her, sitting on her velvet settee, reading a book that I wrote. She has transformed into the mango tree she planted forty-five years ago. Rising three stories into the light and plunging three stories deep into the loamy reclaimed soil, that tree is her persona. It stands as our Green Ganesha. Her wisdom. Her grace, her gleaming branches provide the wood for havans; Her leaves form torans for our festivals. She is my Kalpavriksha, the wish-fulfilling tree. My tree of life.  Guarding me even when I walk the misty Pacific coast, thousands of miles away from the Good Bay( Bombay) where my mother once strolled.

Now, back in the Bay Area in California, spring has come to my window. Mount Diablo is greening. Wild mustard is blooming. Golden poppies are sprouting and the aroma of orange blossoms fills the air. But the distance feels heavy amidst global turmoil. We are not free to travel at whim. I try to grasp the still unbroken connections of childhood. The mere mention of emergent “boor” on “amba” trees acts as a visceral call. My mother’s vibrations reach across the realms to soothe me.

The loss of her—and the daily shade of our mango tree—remains profound. A rush of love turned inside out. Yet, as I walk through my California neighborhood, the cherry blossoms, oaks, and cedars seem to sense my grief. They stretch their limbs to become the shade that the mango tree once cast on my childhood home. I hold hands with poet Mary Oliver, who reminds me in the gentle words of her celebrated poem: 

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

As sunlight filters through the new canopy of laurels, beeches, willows, and maples, they whisper, “Stay awhile.”

I recognize my purpose: to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine despite the shadows.

I realize the “simple truth” conveyed in Mary Oliver’s poem that while my mother, the avid gardener, has left this abode, her shade still protects me…when i am among the trees. 

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With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home, India, and a heart steeped in humanity, Monita Soni writes as a contemplative practice. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays, and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are “My Light Reflections” and “Flow Through My Heart.” You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner, WLRH 89.3 FM.