No Rest

I thought only the wicked get no rest. Apparently, I was wrong.

I was never wicked. You may not know me, but trust me, you have seen my name gracing your streets, and even some of your more prominent buildings. Or maybe an award or two was also named after me; it has been many years, and awards are as ephemeral as those who coin them and so it is easy to just lose count.

I could tell you who I am, but I do not wish to. I do not need additional veneration---I just want to tell you that I was never wicked. Take my word for it.

I died a long time ago, maybe in the nineteenth century, or maybe in the early twentieth century; as before, the exact time is unimportant. They buried me with full honours on the easterly slope of a small hill in a coffin and built a nice traditional Chinese burial mound on top of it, with a nice tablet for me on the front. Many chipped in and used bricks and mortar to build the small enclosure for the mound itself. They even planted an Angsana sapling nearby to keep me company and to provide shade.

Years passed. The Angsana sapling grew up into an Angsana tree, and I had even more neighbours. We laid there among the tall grasses peacefully, watching the sun rise, and the city growing and changing about us. The Angsana tree even tells of things that his tree-brothers have seen that caused us to grin in wonderment. Hardly anyone came to visit us, but it was fine. We enjoyed the rest after a whole life-time of toil.

Then one day, the Angsana tree informed us that he had heard from some of his tree-brothers that there were some exhumations going on in the farther patches. We were shocked---why were they disturbed thus? The Angsana tree said that his tree-brothers did not know why either, but mentioned that shortly after they were exhumed, a large fence was erected around the plot, and the tree-brothers who were within the fence were eventually felled themselves.

The tree-brothers who were spared were terrified and started spreading the news as quickly as possible. Something was changing, and it was about to break our century or so of peace and quiet.

At first, I did not believe it. The Angsana tree was a jolly chap prone to telling us fantastical tales, but as the situation grew dire, he started to sound more and more distressed. Then one day, I saw a gang of men in hard hats walking up our little hill, hacking away at the long grass and low shrubs with parangs. A couple of them were taking notes on their clipboards and nodding at each other periodically. They eventually came up to me and stared a little at my tablet, before writing something down. One of them used a red spray paint to mark a circled `X' on the Angsana tree, which caused him to panic a little and drop a branch that was already hanging a little dead. It fell within close range of the man marking him, and he cursed colourful words as he dived forward.

The reality was starting to hit us. It was our turn to lose our eternal rest. The Angsana tree was terrified---he had heard of tree-brothers who were similarly marked before being felled. I felt sorry for him. He was among my oldest friends there, and soon we were going to part, forever. We had a conference that evening among ourselves, but realised sadly that there was nothing that we could do other than to sacrifice our rest. The Angsana tree even cried.

I just wish they had left us in peace.