It is already mid-autumn and the old tree is still loaded with fruit. Alas, there are not any fruit pickers around!
Winter is looming. The old tree may not survive the winter; it may be destined to wither away. It can do nothing but wait and hope its fruit is picked — the fruit that it bore when it was scorched by sun, soaked by rain and tested by winds. Patience was its only fortitude during all its past summers and winters that it endured.
The fruit will wilt and rot away if not picked before winter sets in. Will its fruit be picked before the onset of cold and frost? No one knows, no one can tell. What a loss, if that does not happen! Or, perhaps not! Whose loss, who cares? Who knows the tree?
The very essence of the world is mysterious. It sees flood somewhere and drought elsewhere – abundance somewhere, dearth elsewhere – affluence somewhere, poverty elsewhere. Where it rains, it craves for sun. Where it is scorched by the hot sun, it yearns for rains. Where it has abundance, it has thanklessness. It has scanty appreciation or gratitude for things that come to it easily.
Here is an old tree loaded with fruit, with no fruit pickers. Elsewhere, all its fruit would have been picked a long time ago. Even children would have thrown stones at it to catch its fruit. The tree may be likened to a mother whose breasts can’t stop milk from flowing out incessantly, with no children to suckle. Can the mother be sorrowful? Is Nature sorrowful?
… Bill K Koul (26 July 2021 – Perth, Western Australia)