I always turn apologetic whenever I think about my humble one acre plot. It is the only refuge for about thirty-five coconut palms that are under threat of destruction at the hands of one- hundred-and-forty rubber trees on one side and the fifty odd mahoganies on the other side. I am the villain of the piece. Why? When I bought that plot ten years ago, those tall trees were brimming with coconuts.
Of course I am haughty enough to assume that I’m a great fan of coconuts. Maybe that was why, first of all, I made that purchase. But yet, why was I tempted by my neighbour to destroy all the lush growth of cashew trees on its upper side so cheaply, and instead plant a hundred odd rubber saplings, that needed so much of care for seven long years, before I could dream of tapping the bountiful milk, and thereby, mint money?
So now, in the anguished present, I find myself in the unenviable position of, first, being deprived of cashew, second, helpless to tap whatever rubber I have, and third, having to watch miserably the malevolent mahogany spreading its roots, all over the ground to suck the life out of my gentle coconut palms.
Ten years ago, I was tempted to buy what looked like the virgin beauty of fertility on an acre abound with perennial coconuts and seasonal cashew nuts.
Like a bridegroom totally swayed by the new-found charms of his spouse, I dutifully maintained its pristine purity, determined to carry on like a typical old fashioned farmer, without even dreaming of innovations. But I’m ashamed to confess that I was felled by the lure of the lucre incited by the owner of the adjacent plot. The price of rubber then, eight years ago, was an alluring two hundred and fifty rupees per kilo.
Parallel to the growth of mahogany, on the upper slopes of the plot, the rubber grew in size and width, though the price of latex was dipping steadily. The tapping season of the eighth year approached, filling me with expectations of rubber sheets as well as the uncertainties of neat tapping, the labour cost involved, and so on. The new rubber wood shouldn’t be allowed to bleed much, they said. So last year, and the year before last, tapping didn’t trickle beyond three months. The bulk of the sale proceeds were meant only to pay the tapper. No profit …no loss.
And this year I didn’t dare to engage a tapper or even dream about touching those lactating trunks for the rest of my life.
Email:drjayarajpv@yahoo.co.in