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Nurturing the present for a leafy tomorrow

Shobha Menon is the tireless spirit behind Nizhal (Shade), an NGO which transformed a rubbish dump by Chennai’s Adyar river into an arboretum.

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The other day I watched a gnarled old grandpa tree, drizzling delicate hyacinth blooms, only to be crushed underfoot in the city’s industrial hub. Did the tree remember its companions, mowed down to make way for merciless concrete structures? Sometimes you come across a few ancient rain trees, or their stumps, which had once lined avenues. Your grandmother and great grandmother had walked under the canopy of their interlaced branches. I love to stroll in Mumbai’s Kala Ghoda area to say hello to the bearded trees, as much a part of our heritage as are the priceless buildings in that area! Or see a titanic tree looming over the graves in a cemetery in Kolkata. How long before “progress” eliminates them?

Indian metros house many lone trees wedged between condominiums today. They were once a part of green parks and playgrounds. A few peepal giants survive on the main roads, their branches indiscriminately slashed to make way for huge lorries or metal posts. In any Indian town you will also see doughty saplings forcing themselves to grow in streets and lanes, under bridges and in parking lots. And I do see that new trees are planted on highways or in new suburban colonies. But the choice tends to be random, sometimes not even environment friendly, as those saplings are mostly not indigenous species with affinity to the soil and climate. Who cares?

Amidst this general apathy and ignorance, it is heartening to meet Shobha Menon, the tireless spirit behind Nizhal (Shade), an NGO which transformed a rubbish dump by Chennai’s Adyar river into an arboretum.

When Chennai’s PWD invited Nizhal to plant trees on this stench-suffocated wasteland in 2006, Nizhal knew that the grandiose suggestion “Let citizens maintain this strip” was not a practical plan. The work had to be done by volunteers, they didn’t have a single employee. No fundraising or foreign donations either.

However, not systematically, but miraculously, pits were dug whenever sporadic volunteers appeared (no, never from the elite class), and trees planted. In the initial years without electricity, watering posed a herculean task. Watching Shobha carrying buckets across the long strip, an old tailor with a limp began to come regularly, to create a “relay race”. Only in 2013 did the Corporation take charge of maintenance.

To Shobha each tree in the tree park is a friend with an identity of its own, a child she has nursed from infancy. “Among the 600 trees here, a 100 belong to indigenous species. Many have medicinal properties,” says Shobha pointing to a navakonji bush shining with crimson berries, with anti-venom properties. “Look at this tree! For four years it was determined not to grow. We watered it in despair. Now it is a dancing beauty!” she laughs.

Open to the public in the morning and evening, through the day this living environmental laboratory provides opportunities for study and internship to school and college students. Special children make little packets of seeds for distribution. Others gather dry leaves for compost. Workshops are held. The residents of the area now claim ownership, as they come to walk or watch birds. You can see a Grandpa on a park bench carefully popping pods to collect seeds.

I sit under a flowering Nochi tree, watching a water bird on the river. “Yes,” I say when Shobha asks me to conduct a folksong session about trees, under the trees. I feel good because the Nizhal initiative quietly proves that when individuals act with passion, they can trigger collective responsibility in the community. Can I change things? Not I, but yes, we can!

The author is a playwright, theatre director, musician and journalist writing on the performing arts, cinema and literature.

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