The Hollow Tree, Bombay Shola

Breakfast service at the Club’s Dining Hall is about to end. Here the Imperial sun still shines and post-meridian, arcing over to the Gentlemen Only bar next door, never sets.

“That’s sus’,” Vaani says pointing to the greasy grey liquid that has pooled beneath her scrambled eggs. She’s in a black hoodie, are the unicorns are gone.

“Fry egg gooey, sausage white, Appa’s beans sweet, my uppama yucky,” says her mother, frustration inflating her volume.

“Like Master only. Kutty want thosai,” says Selvaraj, the ancient yet unwrinkled bearer. “No dosa,” says Kaveri, too loudly for the Dining Hall of the English Club.

A sambhar deer on the wall, with glassy eyes looks down disapprovingly. A harridan in a starched sari at the next table concurs.

A plethora of gazes bore into Kaveri as the skin on her face hardens to steel. T minus god- knows.

“Let her have a dosa, she’s going tomorrow,” says Vaani’s father. “Paper dosa,” pipes in Vaani.

“Butter thosai, crips,” promises Selvaraj hopefully. “No, finish the eggs,” says Kaveri sternly.

“No, it’s disgusting,” says Vaani in her outdoor voice.

The diners are as still as the Leopard, Gaurs and Deer on the wall.

Kaveri’s foot shoots out striking Vaani on the shin.

Vaani pulls her sleeves down over her fingers and runs out of the Dining Hall as a lone tear, as chubby as the cheek it will run down, wells in an eye.

The father nods a general apology to the diners and rushes after his daughter. The steel in Kaveri’s face has spread to her veins.

Vaani has raced down the cloisters by the Tennis Courts. Their room is to the left and the exit onto Bendover Road to the right. He calls to her. He can’t find her near the rooms. He runs out towards Bendy Field and up towards Seven Roads and then turns and runs in the opposite direction. His heart is thumping.
Vaani is on the road ahead walking down to the lake. Her feet dither as he catches up to her. “Come on Vaanu.” School begins tomorrow and he is distraught.

“Amma kicked me,” she says, cross. Tomorrow, her parents leave. Suddenly, a mob of fog pass by them, the giants amongst them blotting out the sun.

“You are just missing her, it happens when you go to boarding,” he says with experience.

“You promised to show me the tree and you’ll are leaving tomorrow and we have lunch with Greta’s parents today,” Vaani says in dismay.

“Let’s go now, we’ll work up an appetite though we might get soaked,” he says.
They walk down to the lake hand in hand as raindrops begin to appear in the clouds and smack them on the face. At the stalls outside Bryant Park they buy coarse black blankets with red and white stripes at the edges. He teaches her how to wrap herself up against the rain. They walk along the lake till they get to the bottom of the Lower Shola Road.

Kaveri calls to check where they are and reminds them of their lunch date.
They head up the road and turn right at Amherst Cottage. He prays he hasn’t forgotten – his gulping the thick opaque fog is a testament to a quarter century having passed. The sahebs called it Pea Soup but it’s rather more milky – a fine spray of white surf; or marble dust rising from an Olympian quarry.

A new fence protects the Shola on the left. Gnarly branches of rhododendron and magnolia reach out while jamun trees disappear into the clouds above.

“How will they get in?”

A hundred yards up the road, he finds a section of fence rusted through. Too soon to enter the Shola, but there is no other option. He pushes against the orange and brown patch and Vaani climbs in, she pulls at it as he follows her in.
It is suddenly warmer, more humid. A laughing thrush welcomes them: who-are-you- come-in-come-in-come-in. Vaani is now following her father’s lead which is unsure: his memory is hazy and fainter than the fog.

“It’s closer to the upper road,” he assures himself as he begins to climb up the slope over roots littered with leaves.

An invisible owl hoots, and a pair of flycatchers with rusted wings flitter into the dark canopy. “Appa, wait,” Vaani says and her father, hearing the fear in her voice, stops.

Though it is dark, things shine, move, glisten, stare back. She grabs his hand.
“Is this what the Black Forest looks like?” Vaani asks.

“Naah, This is blacker,” replies her father as he searches for his favourite tree.
He spots a Bishop’s Wood tree that could very well be it, but he can’t tell from the south. They climb up, slipping on the decomposing leaves.

“Thar she blows,” he says ecstatically as they reach the tree. In his memory it was larger, darker and with fewer roots. But he has found it. It’s a good omen to him. She will be fine.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. Her eyes are like twin moons.

In it are reflected a stout 200 year old bishofica Javanica. There is a cavity in its trunk, the opening twisted on the top like a candle flame. A foyer of conjoined roots have formed at the entrance. He peers in. It’s dusty and full of cobwebs. He whips his blanket off and gives its innards a good rubdown. He dusts and folds his blanket and places it as a mat in the hollow of the tree.
She gets in excitedly and sits crossed legged facing the entrance.

“This is so cool,” she says, her mood lifting. She is ensconced in the tree like an ancient rishi in meditation. They stop speaking and soon even their thoughts dissipate.

“Did you bring Amma here?” “It’s where I first kissed Amma.”

“Ew, Appa. I don’t want to hear that,” she says laughing. “I wish Amma was here,” she adds – regret dawning.

She feels the walls of her elven cottage, or is it a gnome-home? Then she arches her head up to look at the rotting roof.

“Spider,” she screams and jumps out.

“Well, it is their home. Hope it won’t deter you?,” her father asks.

“It’s marvellous and I’ll clean it up. It’ll be my secret place. I think Greta can fit too. Can you get me a few mats for the Fairy Tree? And a small curtain?”

“Sure, sweetheart. Talking of Greta, let’s head. We have lunch with her parents.” “Appa, I’m starving,” Vaani says as they precariously make their way down the slippery forest floor.

“Dosa?” he teases her.

“No,” she says, punching her father.

“Tava’s has Aloo parantha, chana batura. But you really need to start trying new things. You don’t eat a single vegetable.”

“Potatoes are vegetables,” she shoots back.

“You know they aren’t,” he says as he slips on a stack of slick rhododendron leaves and slides down the hill on his rear.

Vaani rushes down to her father. He is unharmed but the seat of his pants are wet and covered with humous and soil.

“Ew, it looks like you pooped your pants,” she says laughing.

They head back towards the Club as the fog squanders itself on the warm Shola.