It was a merry day in my family's life- March of 2001, when I was born. My parents decided to plant a Christmas tree which didn’t make much sense. March wasn’t near winter, and no one else in the neighbourhood had a Christmas tree- seeing as we resided in Gurgaon. But for reasons unknown to me, my parents decided that planting this tree was the best way to express the enormity of their joy. I like romanticising the idea and think they might want something to grow alongside me. In actuality, they probably just loved the idea of having some new plants in our garden and they happened to get delivered the same day I came into the world.
Before the arrival of this behemoth, our garden looked most ordinary. My dadi-maa tended keenly to her beloved and fragrant gulaabs, marigolds, hibiscus and raat ki raani. The bees and butterflies were frequent guests to the petals of these florals. The boundary wall fences of sharp black metal were entwined with delicate branches of white and magenta bougainvillaeas. On the farther edge, we had a lime tree that impressively bore limes the size of oranges. On either side, we had two firmly rooted palm trees.
After a decent amount of time spent deliberating on the perfect spot for it, the Christmas tree was planted in the centre. It had frosty pine needles in place of soft, plump leaves like those of peperomia. Its bark was dark chocolate with a rough, jagged texture with straight and diagonal lines running throughout. It was different, it held a lot of character. Though it initially looked a bit out of place it quickly adapted to the new surroundings and made its mighty place in the soil of its new home. Maybe somewhere, it already knew it would outgrow the limits anyone had set.
Twenty-three years have passed since that day. I grew to be 5’8”. My Christmas tree grew five storeys tall in its first five years. I named him Percy. It felt suitable. —dauntless, tenacious and mighty — like the son of Poseidon. Another meaning of the name is of French origin, Percy: Piercer of the Valley. The way he stretched skyward — Percy was perfect.
In my early teens, my mornings began with quiet moments on the balcony, sipping Bournvita milk, with Percy’s silhouette beside me. On days when I had more time, I’d take a brief walk in the garden, barefoot, letting the cool morning dew and soft grass graze the soles of my feet. My father always believed that this simple activity had a remarkable effect on one’s well-being. As I walked, I admired the new flowers in bloom, inhaling their sweet fragrance. Fallen leaves, tiny insects, and freshly sprouted weeds lay scattered around, waiting for Maali Bhaiya to tend to them by the end of the week. Yet, I always felt a knot of unease when it came to Percy.
Maali Bhaiya often mentioned trimming some of the drooping branches, and I couldn’t help but feel anxious.
One day, as I stood there, fists clenched, I watched him approach Percy with his shears. Sensing my hesitation, he’d pause and reassure me, explaining that the pruning was for Percy’s own good—that a little trimming here and there would help him thrive. His words always eased my nerves, and I’d watch as the garden slowly transformed, knowing everything was being done with care.
When we had guests over, it was my job to greet them at the main gate. And almost every time, their eyes would be drawn to Percy, his towering presence impossible to ignore. “He’s the same age as me,” I’d say with quiet pride as if that single fact could explain everything about him. It felt like a bond between us, unspoken but deeply understood.
Each Christmas, I would decorate him with ornaments. I loved hanging silver bells on his branches, and adorning him with red and white socks. He always looked a little funny, though—most of the decorations ended up clustered on the lower branches, the ones I could reach. But to me, Percy was beautiful, no matter how uneven the adornments seemed. The tree didn’t mind; it was just happy to be part of the celebration, even in its way.
Percy changed with the seasons. In summer, his branches stretched wide, casting shadows that cooled the garden under the sun's relentless gaze. Winter made him quieter, the needles turning brittle— like pages of a very old book, their rustling softer — as though bidding a quiet farewell.
But it was the monsoon storms that always made me nervous. The winds would howl, a wild, almost frightening force that seemed to threaten everything in its path. Percy’s branches would sway violently, and I would stand on the balcony, clutching the edge of the sill, my heart racing with worry. Would he fall? Would the storm be too much for him? Yet, every time, despite the storm’s fury, Percy stood firm, unyielding. He was a quiet giant, resilient in ways I had yet to fully understand, his strength a silent reassurance against the howling winds.
Every March, on my birthday, I would wish him a happy birthday too. It became a quiet ritual between us, something that belonged only to us, a secret I kept close. I’d stand before him, place my hand on his bark, and whisper my wish—not just for me, but for him, too.
By this point, Percy had become a home to many. The garden buzzed with the chatter of mynas flitting in and out of its branches, along with pigeons and the occasional laughing dove. Pleasant chirrupings filled the air. But things hadn’t always been so harmonious. Our neighbourhood tomcat, Ginger, liked to climb Percy’s branches. Quietly and stealthily, he’d perch on inconspicuous spots, trying to prey on the little birds for a meal. Afterwards, the garden would erupt into a cacophony of alarmed noises from the terrified creatures. My mother would become slightly aggravated, but it was just Ginger’s nature.
The tree saw life. And the tree saw death.
During the quiet days of the Covid lockdown, I spent more time with Percy. Each evening, I paced the terrace, tracing the same path. At the end of every walk, I would stop to look at Percy. He was the only one tall enough to meet me at eye level from the terrace, his topmost branches stretching into the sky.
One evening, I noticed two birds perched at the very top. They sat in silence, facing each other, as if deep in conversation. The next evening, they were there again. And the evening after that. They came at the same time every day as if the tree had become their meeting place. I wondered what they spoke about. Maybe they shared secrets. Perhaps they were watching the world below. Or maybe, they simply sat there, allowing the tree to hold their silence.
I’ve watched Percy grow through the seasons over the years. I’ve seen him be merry each Christmas when he received special attention, and I’ve watched him rejoice in the life around him. But I’ve also seen him lose things—dry needles, branches, parts of himself that he no longer needed. He leans to one side now, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. And that, too, has become part of his charm.
As Christmas draws nearer, I settle into my chair, the warmth of hot cocoa seeping through my fingers. My gaze drifts to Percy, standing tall in the corner of the room. I like to imagine that he, too, is waiting—quietly, patiently—brimming with anticipation for his special day. I picture him yearning for the silver ornaments that will glimmer on his branches, catching the light of the twinkling stars outside. I imagine him eager for carols, the jingle of bells, and the soft rustle of wrapping paper as gifts are piled beneath him the night before.
Under Percy’s towering presence, Christmas feels whole. He mirrors the season’s promise of hope and new beginnings. Time and again serving a reminder that no matter how cold the winter or the season of life, light and love always find their way home.
Realy heartwarming story to read on christmas, thank you for sharing this