I was born in Panjim and we lived on the first floor, and all that we had in terms of a garden was about two square metres at the entrance. I left the house at ten years or so. Interesting house with a sort of a terrace, but there was no space as such to plant things. We had lots of vases and plants but no trees except that one tree. The house is now a restaurant, and although we don’t live far, I have never gone back. I don’t want to see it now. So, there we had the one tree and that was a guava tree where my two brothers would climb and I wasn’t allowed to climb but what I remember about that tree is that whenever we got fruit, even if it was one guava, it had to be divided into three. We couldn’t fight; that was my mother’s law: Everything that comes into the house has to be equally and fairly divided.

Then we moved…here, there, elsewhere. I had an uncle, my father’s brother, who was a priest in Carambolim. He had this idea of working with the boys. He had a field that they all used to cultivate together. When they went cashew plucking, we were all invited. I remember my father would say to us, ‘Come! These are things you won’t see elsewhere. Let’s all go.’ So, cashew picking was such a feast because the trees, were lit with these lamps: red! yellow! the whole hill! And the boys used to sit somewhere and remove the cashew nuts, and in another place they used to make the neero (juice of the cashew apple) with their feet, and somewhere else they used to roast the cashew nut…what a feast it was! It was really beautiful to the eye. Big trees full of fruit! I’ve not seen that again, ever. Because I haven’t gone looking for it, maybe. It’s probably happening…but not in my life, not anymore.

My mother’s family is from Margao. The house in Margao had quite a big garden, but to tell you the truth, I never noticed that garden much because we never stayed there very long. But what I noticed was a smell. Every evening, there was a smell coming from a tree, which I never found anywhere else. Years, decades later, I found that same smell one evening while coming back from Cortalim from the Zuari bridge. So, I call it a ghost tree. I still don’t know what tree it is! And very strangely, my eldest brother, Luis, he also says, ‘Do you notice, that when you come from Cortalim you get that smell that we used to get in Margao?’ I don’t know what it is, you know. A very pleasant smell, and very subdued. So, for me, it is an invisible tree, reaching out to me and saying something to me. I don’t even really want to know which tree it is.

My ancestral village is in Aldona. We always lived in Panjim but every May we would go to Aldona for the chapel feast. Most times, when my parents were sort of free, they would take us there and we would stay there for nine days of the novena. Then later, we started going only for the feast, and my father would drive. From Panjim to Aldona it was a journey of Gulmohurs. All shades— orange to deep red and a brighter red. My father would sort of alert us to things, but I don’t think my brothers saw a leaf! My father was a mechanical engineer, but he was interested in writing and painting, so, he is the one who used to alert me, ‘Look at that, look at the fields, how green they are!’ But those Gulmohurs were the feast for me. And the last Gulmohur was right in front of the chapel, a little to the side. The chapel used to belong in our house in centuries past. So, the Gulmohur is a very important journey for our family. Even today, we’ve never, never, never missed that feast. Every May, even though the old people have all gone, we never miss the feast, and the trees are all still there.

In Aldona proper, ours is a big house. In those days it used to be a huge property. It was full of fruit trees. One massive Chiku tree right in front of the house, which is still there but much reduced in size, very old now. Behind the house there were a whole lot of mango trees, and other things that were used in the house like Bimbli and other things. But the tree that caught my love was a palm tree. It was a wild one with red sort of nuts on it. I don’t know if anybody looked t it with half an eye, but it was there, inside our compound. It was straight and so stately, like my grandfather. He was also so straight and beautiful! Very aristocratic looking. Anyway, this tree was there for a long, long time and recently my brother said we had to break it because it was eaten up half-way and it was going to collapse. So, it had to come down.

Now, we live in Dona Paula. The main reason why we live in a place like that… you know, my father said, ‘I will not live in a flat. If I get some small plot somewhere, I will build a house.’ That was his dream. And wherever we went, even if we went to Miramar beach, we used to collect bricks! And we used to say, ‘This is for when we build a house!’ We were little, but that dream, see how intense it was! Even the children lived it. So, we bought a plot in Dona Paula because we could have a little compound and grow a few trees. We said it was ours and we could do whatever, plant whatever we wanted to plant. So, my garden is actually like me…it’s a mess! But I just love it! I enjoy it. There was a time when I had sixteen papaya trees, all giving fruit at the same time. Sixteen trees, full of huge papayas. What we did to deserve those papayas, I don’t know. Then there’s a Chiku tree which for twenty-five years would have one Chiku a year. But the point is, we have other visitors. We have squirrels, bats, parrots… popot, the big one. They come for the custard apple and for the Chiku. Then we have a Bora tree. We didn’t plant it; it grew wild. The fruit is delicious…really very sweet. It’s completely adjoining the compound wall. When we first entered this house, on top of the hill, there was nothing but our house. Then came a road, and eventually, over the years, came the neighbours. This gentleman, who is now my next-door neighbour, when he started building his house, he said, ‘This horrible tree! I hate the smell of those flowers!’ So, I said, ‘We will cut it.’ That took the wind from his sails. The topic never came up again! And then, one day, years later, I said to him, ‘Those branches that are going into your compound…you tell me…I’ll cut some of them, if they’re bothering you, huh?’ He says, ‘No, the fruit is very nice; I have sold many of them in Mapuca!’

What I like about the story is that we would have been at loggerheads if I had said ‘No, we can’t cut the tree.’ We would have fought for generations and forgotten what we were fighting about. But we became good friends. There was enough bora for us and for them also.

Then there is this custard apple tree. I never planted it. I think the crows brought the seeds. They are probably a freak, because I have never seen red ones anywhere else, nor anyone I know ever talks about red ones. It is very sweet. It’s also a gift to me. Now, people stand outside and say, ‘You have a nice garden.’ I say, ‘Despite me!’

I also remember at one point, the government was preparing for IFFI, or something like that. The municipality announced that they were going to cut 37 trees along the Miramar road, from the Kala Academy to Miramar. There is too much traffic and the road is narrow, they said. Somebody came up with this idea that we are going to have a festival on the road, so all kinds of things happened one day. People came with measuring tape and they started measuring the trees and having a guess, you know, whoever guesses right, gets a token prize. Children came with balloons. We staged a little play, and we called it ‘Cut the Tree for the Good of the City.’ It was like a little narration and people on stilts doing things. It was a happy moment. It made some noise, that atmosphere of happy protest without any violence, Even the cops were sort of enthused with this. They didn’t cut the trees!

Isabel de Santa Rita Vás is an author, playwright, theatre director and teacher. She is the founder of the Mustard Seed Art Company (an amateur theatre group from Goa) and has been associated from its inception with the Positive People (an NGO that spreads awareness on HIV/AIDS and provides support to its victims).