Gayani Jayathilake

In our garden lives a miraculous tree. A very old pear tree. When we first came here the tree was sick. It had a moan about it and sent all it’s leaves into a fit of rust coloured splotches. The branches drooped down to touch the ground as though too tired to lift up. It gaped like a drowning fish.
We asked around because frankly where we come from there are no pear trees. This tree was foreign to us. But we did not give up on it. Some said words like cut, chop limbs off, spray nasty things so insects dropped and yadi yadi yada. As most of you know my husband and I are friends of the universe. And so we decided to do things our way. Our way usually works.

We began to hang around the tree alot. We moved our garden bench closer. I began to shift my work station from office to there. As I sat there working on a chapter or illustration or sipping tea, poorly leaves fell my way as though to show presence. I knew the tree had alot of tales to tell. Had seen much over generations standing there, I could tell.
My husband made some soil beds near it and hung around there often. I planted a ring of tulip onions around it. When it was spring, up sprung bright red cups filled with pollen.

Bees began to lounge around. In the process we had built a garden around it. Colourful butterflies visited the flowers, birds and insects began to frequent our garden. Ant lines mazed around the trees. Birds began to rest and make nests for their hatchlings on pear tree branches. And slowly the branches lifted themselves.

We had done nothing really except for touching the bark every now and then, hanging around it, talking to it. That was all.
Lo and behold the tree burst out into a slew of flowers. According to our neighbours this was the first time they were seeing such splendour on this tree. Slowly our tree set itself apart from the other young pear trees about in the neighbourhood. It was as though it was reversing in age. It began to do what it pleased. Not the norm.
Under scintillating auras blossomed a torrent of fruit that splayed the area. Abundance is not the word. Superabundance. Plethora. Myriad. Take your pick.

We picked the fruit right off the branches and ate every day. We shared, bottled, sundried to make chips, and even made chutney for friends. It was still too much. And so we piled up pears in a basket with a little note in german saying zum Mitnehmen, which meant take away, and left it outside for villagers. It was a joy to see the basket come back empty. It reminded me of the dansal culture in Sri Lanka.
The tree gave too much still that half of it went onto the compost dump. But I accepted it. That too was a part of the journey of the tree that went from sickly to fruitful. Animals, insects nibbled on them. The rest we gave up for composting.

One month after that we had no pears to eat. We had thrown away almost one third of the tree that touching a pear in the supermarket felt shameful. A few more weeks in and the choice of fruits like in summer times became limited.
On a dubious day I made my way to the little supermarket. The pears did not look fresh. Perhaps other people had gone through the same and knew better than to buy pears. I picked up one and thought I saw a nail mark stamped on one. On several others too. Someone had poked in to see if they were ripe maybe? Reminded me of okra in vegetable shops. Where people snapped off the tips of okra, while checking to see if they were fresh.
But I needed pears. So I bought two and walked home thinking about the load of pears I had given up for this.
Now for the pictures.