A tree stood at an edge of our farm land
As a landmark; firm though not too grand
For a flash of memories of relationship love-hate
And a splash, that was, of bittersweet fate!
The tree is called gante, a local name
And there was another one with the species same
At a water source where I bathed and washed
At dawns, joyfully, with hopes high but soon smashed!
Flowers yellow, attractive and bright;
Big little wild bees searching nectar in dizzy light!
I was wrong to assume that the bees would die;
Poison filled, I suppose, and yet the bees could fly!
Then, as the flower fruited to coconut size,
A langur white dashed in for nature’s prize;
I again assumed that he would die
And, again, I was wrong and I knew not why!
Later, my cattle fed on fallen young leaves;
The poison then did not deceive!
And, yet again, I knew not why the hell broke loose
Till I understood gante and its use and misuse!
For ages, the seeds have been a source of edible oil;
Poison evaporates as we put the raw oil to boil;
As for the landmark, it is indeed a memorable one
With bittersweet taste of love-hate relations bygone!
