People often ask me why I wrote The Trees Told Me So (2017). I wish I had a grand, romantic story to tell — something with butterflies in the stomach or a dramatic turning point. But I don’t. What I do have are smaller, quieter truths.
As a child, I remember wondering why my father went to a barber who worked under a tree. I’d sit nearby with my sketchbook, fascinated by the broken barber’s chair. Years later, a friend told me about a paanwallah who had left his village to become an actor. He now lives under a tree in the city, undeterred by harsh summers or bitter winters. He hasn’t given up. I’ve seen mango trees stretch over verandahs in old Indian homes, their shade a sanctuary for readers and dreamers. And I’ve broken down at a funeral, watching a loved one laid to rest on a bed of wood — humbled by the circle of life, roots, and endings. So no, there’s no single moment. But yes, there is an unspoken bond between trees and people, between memory and meaning. Perhaps the book was my way of trying to understand that bond. Maybe I thought that through writing, I’d finally find the answer.
Our lives revolve around trees, often unknowingly, and they impact us more deeply than we realise. They nurture us. They listen. And sometimes, we surrender to each other — us to nature, nature to us. We connect over shared emotions: warmth, greed, passion, sin, faith, hope, anger, disappointment, and pain. Did I fall in love with trees? I don’t know. Perhaps I did — when I saw a little boy use the bark of a tree as wickets while learning to play cricket, or later, as a teenager, carving his name along with someone else’s into the same bark. Maybe, my heart bled a little then. This love I speak of is then less about the fruits and flowers, branches and barks. It’s about the comfort — about the way trees have touched my life and the lives around me. I am merely a listener, holding on to the tales the trees have whispered.
That’s what I tried to do in the stories. Whether it’s A Summer Ritual — a memory rooted in family, forgiveness, and the bonds that hold different generations under one roof, or On the Bed of Wood, where a mother tries to pass on life’s truths to her son in the face of mortality. Or Over a Cup of Chai, which touches on the friendships we form in youth — fleeting or forever — and the longing to return to those golden, reckless, formative years.
Each story may feel different, but together, they belong to the same grove — planted in memory, nurtured by emotion, shaded by experience. Do I have a favourite story? It’s hard to choose. But if I had to, a couple of them would be closest to my heart because they remind me of why I write. And why, sometimes, I stop to listen — when the trees begin to speak again.
Laundry Setting for the story, The Player, was inspired by:
Kamla is the wife of our laundryman, Om Prakash, the press wallah or dhobi. He’s sat under the same tree, near our home in Delhi, for more than two decades now. They’re partners, Kamla-Om Prakash, working hard until sunset and beyond. Today, both their kids are well settled. A young boy, now married. And a young girl, who speaks fluently in English and with more confidence than you and me. She, too, has a good job. Her name is Jyoti, who’s tying the knot in the next couple of weeks. I told them about the book and mentioned how I used the setting of their workplace – their makeshift station with the iron, the bundles of clothes, the bottle of water, the shade of the tree, etc. – as an inspiration to create a scene for the story of a press wallah. They were intrigued. And happily flipped through the book, and posed with it as well. We spoke about trees, “For as long as there are trees, they’ll be opportunities for men and women to make a livelihood for their families.” Send your wishes to the bride-to-be, their lovely daughter.
Cobbler Setting for the story, A Bigger Place With More Feet:
When I started to pen down the story, A Bigger Place With More Feet, a story of a cobbler who left his home in the village to earn not just a living, but to amass a fortune in the city, I wasn’t certain if I was equipped to write one. The readers have loved this tale of love, life, loss, wealth and struggle. It was my urge to know if I’d done justice to the buckles, slippers, scissors, glue, cuts, velcro and straps that led to a recent conversation with a cobbler in New Delhi. Under a tree, as he stitched my broken chappal, I told him about this tale from The Trees Told Me So. He heard with rapt attention. It had rained that morning, and he’d made himself a makeshift roof with a few plastic bags. The smile, the wrinkles; it all melted my heart. I showed him a copy of the book, and he flipped through it – not understanding a word. He and I both knew it’s in English, a language alien to him. When I was leaving, he said, “Click a picture of me with it.” The tale is now as much his as – is mine and yours.
About the author: Purva Grover is an author, journalist, and creative entrepreneur. With a career spanning over 19 years (and counting) in journalism, she has left an indelible mark across genres, platforms, and brands. From podcasts to theatrical productions, talks to art pieces and other disciplines, her creative output knows no bounds, and she continues pushing the envelope as a creative educator and entrepreneur. Her book ‘The Trees Told Me So’ can be found here.
