The End
Words By Pratyusha P., Art By Hailey Renee Brown
The knife in my inner jacket pocket grounds me.
The excitement of the inauguration started twenty minutes ago, and now the bustle of oohs and ahhs is making my skin crawl.
“Over many, many centuries, we have been attacked, plundered, and maimed.”
I follow the clicks of heels while necks strain to marvel at every nook of the vast garden leading up to the Extinction Museum of Humanity.
She adds, as an afterthought, “Internally and externally,” but continues her upbeat sermon. The group follows the guide up the marble stairs towards the doors that I have memorized every ridge of. I trace the patterns on the hilt, calming myself. A breath in at every curve and one out at every slide.
Grand doors, marble and gold, for a grand opening.A grand opening for a historic erasure.
Patience, I chide myself, they want to celebrate the end, then we give them a worthy one.
“Despite the pains we have faced, we survived,” her voice booming a few steps above me, pulls me out of my head. “People lived and died for causes greater than themselves, and this,” her outstretched arms wildly gesture, “is a humble ode to them.”
On cue, the red ribbons untie themselves, and the doors open. She graciously steps aside to let her gawking entourage in first, but I couldn’t move when I saw it from out here. In the middle of a room full of loot and appropriated histories stood the Kalpavriksham, the last of the trees of life of any tribe. Oceans away from my village of elders and children, who think trees are as mythical as superheroes, our deity is rooted in unsuited soil, with a plaque drilled into it.
That alone boils my blood enough to walk past the painting deemed culturally significant enough for the people here. Our trees were rooted with the birth of every child, both spoiled and cherished the same, or so I hear.
Amma told us in a daze. First, they said we didn’t deserve to name our gods, then they took our lands and sometime later, our votes too. Our forests would be protected, they promised.
What’s in a name if we know who we are?
The ventilation was a cruel imitation of the wind. It carried the falling leaves all over the room, the fragrance of the dying tree stronger as I neared it. My vision blurred, but I needed to read the plaque. A last opportunity to earn forgiveness; to stop me.
A generous donation from the personal collection of the Hawthorn estate.
My Appupan taught me a childhood rhyme on a June evening.
100 years it stood, 100 years it sustained, 100 more the Kalpavriksham will live.
When it falls, it will nurture still. An end worth waiting for.
I bow my head for the first and last time and turn toward the painting with the knife in hand.