New Delhi, Aug. 22 -- A tree isn't just a tree.

For years, the bael tree grew upwards and outwards, a thicket that defied everything around it like a thorny prickle that had become a tree and continued ever after to reach for the sky. In the summer it produced a round fruit as hard as my head. At the end of summer, each year, my mother would ask me to fetch the three leaves that grew like a triumvirate at the end of each branch, to offer to the Gods. The bael did not part with its foliage easily. Its inch-long thorns seemed to be in conversation with each other, seemingly deciding which one would split my skin. One always did, sometimes two, and the bael tree extracted its blood toll. I had a grudging respect for this prickly, aloof tree...