One morning in Saket, a crane rolled into a quiet lane and wrapped its metal belt around a 30-year-old jamun tree. Within minutes, the tree rose shakily off the ground, its canopy collapsing against the air. Children who had spent summers beneath it watched silently; some cried. The fruiting season was weeks away. This was the tree that stained palms purple and gave the colony a place to gather. Then, as quickly as it was lifted, it disappeared.
“I felt like someone was taking away a family member,” says Anantmala Potdar, a long-time resident. “We celebrated birthdays under it, read books there, escaped the heat. Now the spot is bare.”
Today, the corner where the jamun stood is an anonymous patch of ground. For residents, the loss is more than physical. It is emotional, communal, a quiet erasure of a shared past.
In a city under constant construction, trees are among the first to make way. Road widening, new towers, parking spaces, developments are inevitable and trees are expected to move. Tree transplantation is presented as a compromise: let infrastructure grow, but keep the tree alive. In theory. In practice, fragile.
“Transplantation is a scientific process,” says Ramachandra Appari of SASA Technologies, which has relocated nearly 1,000 trees across Delhi-NCR. First, roots are pruned to stimulate finer ones. The trunk is trimmed. The root ball is wrapped in burlap and lifted by crane, then lowered into a new trench prepared with chemicals to aid regrowth.
“The whole process takes about 25-30 days,” he says. “Often we work with 20 to 50 trees at a time.” Species like Gulmohar, Ficus and fur adapt best, with survival rates around 80%. Others such as neem and jackfruit, barely touch 50%. And even survival isn’t success. “Whether they thrive depends on aftercare.”
The Saket jamun didn’t make it. Residents never saw it again or heard whether it survived. As far as they are concerned, it died the moment the crane arrived. In its place, the RWA planted a few saplings in their houses and nearby parks. They grow slowly; no one knows if they will ever matter the same way. “We try to take care of them, but it isn’t the same,” says Anantmala. “You can’t transplant memories.”
Delhi’s rules on tree cutting are strict on paper. The Horticulture Department handles pruning; anything over five metres needs permission. Transplantation must be cleared by the Forest Department. But enforcement is weak. “People rarely take permission,” says another resident. He recalls storms that brought down 15–20 trees because they weren’t pruned properly. “No one is held accountable. Citizens aren’t united. Transplantation is allowed, but people don’t follow the process.”
Restoration efforts
Some efforts to restore are more grassroots. In Delhi-NCR, Think Good Foundation tries to bring memory back to wounded neighbourhoods. Led by Rajeev Kumar, they plant saplings where trees have been cut or moved. “Out group aim is to make sure every citizen plant at least one sapling and also revive the spirit of the neighbourhoods” he says. The group has planted 7,000–8,000 trees in the region and nearly 40,000 across India, partnering with 15 CSIR institutions for funding.
Their work is practical and emotional. They often collect residents’ stories of trees lost, sometimes archiving them online. A digital memory in place of a physical one.
Still, even when transplanted trees survive, they rarely return to full strength. Their roots may enter new soil, but their relationship with the land remains tentative. Some trees take years to rebuild root networks. In the meantime, they provide little shade and absorb less carbon. For a city battling heat and pollution, those years matter.
Neighbourhood wounds
Ask Delhiites what they remember of childhood and trees often feature prominently, the Ficus outside school, the Neem dropping fruit on their doorstep, the Jamun that provided shade after a long day in the sun . Trees add texture to neighbourhoods; they hold people in place. When they disappear, something subtle loosens. The city feels newer, but emptier.
“It’s strange,” says Anantmala, “but even now, when I walk past the empty patch, I still look up, expecting shade.”
Tree transplantation raises a larger question: what do we really want to save-the tree, or the idea of saving?
The science exists. The machinery exists. The intent, sometimes sincere, is visible. But without aftercare and community participation, transplantation becomes symbolic- easier than fighting to keep a tree where it belongs.
Delhi’s trees have long adjusted to development. Perhaps it is time the city adjusts to them. Until then, ghost trees will appear across NCR, growing uncertainly, while old stumps continue to hold memories. And in lanes like Saket, the summer sun falls a little too sharply, waiting for a canopy that will never return.