Thorn Tree Gossip

This thorn tree escaped the builder’s axe,
graces the landscaped garden,
with fountains, that sold many flats.
Women sit below it at sunset,
Free from dull daily routines,
Shooing children off to play
On the green velvet lawns.
The thorn tree gently sways
And listens to daily details:

“The family that fights all the time;
He broke her arm, you know.”
Untrue, sighs the tree, she fell
But nobody hears what it has to tell.
“My maid is chatting up my driver;
Both are married but her husband
Drinks and beats her every day.
The driver has a family.
They are in Madhya Pradesh
And he lives here alone.”
Not true, whispers the tree
He comes from the same village as she;
Their families know each other so they talk.

“My neighbour thinks no end of herself
She looked through me the other day.
But at times for no reason
She is very sugary sweet,
even asks shall we meet
for a cup of tea soon?”
Sighs the tree, your neighbour is depressed,
With many problems, sadness suppressed.
She wants to but can’t make friends with you
Because your angry eyes keep her at bay.
“I slept very late the other day
And was on my balcony
Enjoying darkness and cool breeze.
Saw this man climb over the wall
and sneak to my neighbour down the hall.
Called the security guard on the intercom.
I think the man was her boyfriend
Visiting her when the husband,
Poor man, had gone away on tour.”
The tree says, no, no it was her son
Late out with friends and high spirited fun,
Hoping his mother will not hear him.
“Who cares, at least it was not a thief,” says one.
“But we don’t want such people
Living here and spreading immorality,”
Trills the sanctimonious gossip-gang leader.
The “who cares” one leaves and the others
Bid affectionate bye-byes.
“Goodness, how can she be so easy
About a thing like this?
Maybe she is also seeing somebody
Behind her husband’s back.”
They fall on the new gossip-meat
Like a ravening hyena pack,
tearing their “close” friend
To rotten pieces behind her back.
She, back home, wonders when her husband
Will get that promised transfer, and
Provide escape from those silly women.

The thorn tree is silent, nobody hears it anyway.
It grows on, continuing to sigh and sway,
Presenting its puff-ball flowers’ yellowish glow
And patiently prepares to listen again tomorrow.