Coconut Tree

The day I was born, my grandpa planted a coconut tree. Taller and taller the tree becomes, and I would watch Grandpa climb its trunk, while in my head, I wondered, would Grandpa ever fall?

The day I was born, my grandpa planted a coconut tree. 

When the tree was small and I came to visit him in the summer, Grandpa would take me to see the lush spherical green bunch in the back garden. Then on his toes, he would cut the fruits using a thick rusted cleaver — one, two, three strikes, the coconut rotating in his hand like it was performing a folk dance, then the top of its head would come open, revealing the translucent liquid that gushes out like rain. Squatting there chuckling down juice straight from the fresh fruit, Grandpa would explain to me how our Mother, the benignant Mekong River, has blessed us with the land to grow coconut, how Her silt has sweetened not only the fruits but also the life of the country people like us. The coconut tree is Her most favourite, Grandpa had said, for its growth is immense, its capacity is unlimited. 

Taller and taller the tree becomes, and I would watch Grandpa throw himself up its trunk with a loop weaved from dried banana midriffs. Standing under the shades, the little me was always in awe, wondering if he would ever fall when climbing so high. Of course he never does - my grandpa always knew how to come back down, safe and sound. (Though, one time when I asked him for coconut oil, he climbed the then-7-meters-tall tree and did get hit by a falling coconut. Grandpa was still fine and all, and days later when I was at home in the city, I received a fat jar of thick yellowish gel, its smell so sweet and delicious that I almost licked. Sometimes when I massaged my scalp, I wondered what I was putting on my head was also my grandpa’s sweat, and how, seriously how, an 82-year-old skull could ever survive a guerrilla attack from a 2-kilo coconut falling from above like that.)

Then I was 14, and a terrible storm shook our trees, forcing my coconut leaves and its lanky trunk to wiggle back and forth so aggressively that I, looking out from the kitchen window, was not sure if it would survive at all. I imagined it uproot and fall back on our roof, splitting our wooden stilt house into two and crushing our family into wet, hot brown pieces of flesh. But grandpa came to me and said that coconut trees were one of the steadiest, that their roots branched far and wide, that the soil and silt underneath will always keep them grounded. 

I had wondered then, how did grandpa know all these secrets? How could he climb trees so tall and never fall, how could he know to extract the yellow oil from the hard white meat, or be so sure that my coconut tree would survive the storm? Was it because his belief was so steadfast that the tree bent to his will, or was it that in all the years Grandpa has been alive, Mother had told him that no matter the weather, coconut trees will always survive, tall and upright? 

That night when we slept in the blue mosquito net, Grandpa told me that coconut trees are who we are when we were bred onto this land. Never should I be afraid, he said, for no matter the storm or how high I climb, I would always weather through and find my way back home. Underneath my feet is the soil and silt that had nurtured generations before me, and so always, they will keep me steady. Know, he said, that no matter how tall you grow, you will always be the Mother’s daughter, grounded in the soil of the Mekong River.

The following morning we walked to the back of the house, and there it was, my coconut tree shooting up at the sky, its green fruits dangling high on the neck of the trunk, inviting us to come relish. So under the shades we sat, me and my old wise guardian, with our legs crossed on the soft ground and our mouth gulping down coconut juice right from the fruit. That day I had chosen to believe, that no matter the storms or uncertainties, I am the Mother’s daughter, the daughter of the Mekong River.