Down the hill, by the river the old tree grows. I have not seen it fruit in my life but I hear it was laden in its hay days. It has wrinkled and bent a little but the shade is here to stay. I sit beneath it for a while, I look around trying to identify with it. There is something so familiar, but I am sure I have never been here earlier. Yes I grew up in this rustic town. I witnessed a lot of changes; but I never hung around the old tree by the river. Yet it seems so familiar – so one with me. I pick the dried leaf fallen off its branch, the netted lines are starting to show. There is the river flowing in front of me but even the flowing water is silent as if it knows the tree is not to be disturbed. I am amused to feel the serenity as if I am the tree. I am at peace. My feet are here on the ground. I comfortably fix my self between its spread roots. The soil feels damp and pleasantly cool. The breeze caresses the leaves with a slight rustle. Here I am sitting in the very arms of an unknown tree as if I am perched up on a throne. A thought comes to my mind. I realise what is familiar about the tree – It is alone.
Alone like me. There are a thousand things going around its universe. The tree remains like a mute spectator observing, breathing, acknowledging but alone. I too am living in a crowded world but alone.
Not lonely, not left out … Just Alone.