The Witness of GD College Road

 

​I have stood at this crossroads for more decades than the humans around me care to count. My roots run deep into the alluvial soil, drinking the same groundwater that flows from the sacred Ganga at Simaria, while my branches stretch out like a wide, green canopy over the evolving registry of this town. For generations, I was an altar. I remember the quiet, mist-heavy mornings of Vat Savitri Puja, when countless women would arrive in their finest sarees to circle my trunk, praying for enhancing nuptial bliss. They would pour holy water over my roots, offering soaked chickpeas, and tie loops of sacred red and yellow threads around my rough bark. They respected me. Those were the days of a slower, more reverent world.

​Since then till now, the city has evolved completely around me.

​Previously, the rhythm of this street was predictable and shy. Schoolgirls passing by on their way to tuitions would self-consciously pull their skirts below their knees and cross the road in quiet pairs. Dust swirled constantly on the road, which was deeply etched with potholes that filled with muddy water every monsoon. Back then, there was only one cyber café at the far end of the road. It was lit by the dim glow of bulky monitors and was considered a shady place by elders, spoken of only in whispers.

​Today, the old silence has been completely shattered by the thumping bass of a modern gym that has come up right on the road to GD College. The building features a massive, transparent glass panel on the first floor, and through it, the entire street can see the space is full of modern equipment and bodybuilding protein whey bottles for sale. The visual landscape of the town has turned upside down; even married women are now seen exercising up there, wearing short kurtis over trackpants, completely confident. Nearby, a costly VLCC parlour displays attractive promotional offers on its glossy walls, entirely replacing the tiny, cramped, one-room ladies' parlour that used to run out of a brick shutter here several years ago. Youngsters today dress in denims, short tops, and modern hairstyles, completely gone are the days where women were shy to lift their ghoonghat.

​The youth ape modern culture and no longer mark fasting days or traditional rituals on their calendars. Even among the married women who still visit, the deep streak of vermillion has changed; they use just a tiny trace of sindoor over their parted hair, which is barely visible. As the old rituals fade, the tree feels neglected.

​Yet, I cannot deny that the city has grown a lot in terms of cultural, social, and economic development. The electricity and road situations have vastly improved. Right across from my branches, a bright, colorful billboard has been displayed on the street. It is studded with a greater number of lights than the total number of streetlamps present on this entire stretch years ago, burning brilliantly into the night. It boasts of housing loans and education loans for the female child, charting a new future.

​At the same time, the medical landscape has exploded. More number of doctors' clinics have flooded the roads, to the point where every alternate building seems to be a doctor's clinic. Interestingly, these clinics perfectly alternate with branches of Gangaram sweetshops. I often observe from my high vantage point that this layout is a stroke of ironic genius—the proximity to the sweetshops, with their trays of rich, syrupy desserts, is probably the very reason for the clinics' flourish and the permanent source of patients suffering from diabetes and high blood pressure.

​Despite this commercial rush, many bakery and confectionery shops have sprawled along the road. These days, it is a grand trend to celebrate each little occasion with a customized cake. Gone were the days of one samosa and a single gulabjamun on birthdays, which used to be the highest form of celebration. Now, youngsters dress up in brand-new clothes and pose for social media, taking endless selfies in public under my shade.

​But because this is a very small town, the pace of life remains much slower compared to the frantic rush of big metropolitan cities, despite all the rapid modernization. The core empathy of the community has not disappeared. At the corner of the street, a Neki ki Deewar (Wall of Kindness) stands where people leave old clothes for the needy to collect. Right beside it, a free drinking water tank is kept on a simple, rusty iron chair, offering relief to any thirsty passerby.

​I stand here holding the past in my rings while the town rushes toward the future. The sacred red threads from past years are buried deep under my growing bark, even as the neon lights of the gym and the clinics illuminate my leaves every night.