Muthanna waved back to the little girl in the big car. There was quite a bit of traffic on the highway that sunny day, and everyone on the road was being forced to go slow. A lot of travellers slowed down at his tree anyway, to ask him for directions.

Muthanna sat at the foot of the tree everyday from noon till sunset, basking in the magnificent shade that the tree generously offered. An old banyan tree it was, rock solid, friend for life. It had watched him shoot up from a little runt into a big young lad and then shrink into a wiry, gnarled old man. Of late, he observed that he resembled the tree, especially around the face and limbs. It’s only natural, it’s part of my family, is what he felt about it.

After his repast every noon, he’d walk up to the tree, a small plastic bottle of water in his hand, humming some tune he’d made up. He lived in the village a few metres from the tree, with his two sons and their family of nine, and was fortunate for their care and love. His tree did not interest anybody else in his village. They had a bigger banyan tree inside, and that was where the village came together. It was a beautiful one, but not as old as his tree. And it might have been bigger, but it was certainly not as large-hearted as his tree, he felt. He'd sat at the tree, noon to sunset, everyday (except in the monsoons, which he did not mind, because he felt it was God's way of taking care of his tree), unfailingly, for over six years now.

His wife had died fifteen years ago, and he did not miss her anymore. He’d worked hard all his life, and old age had finally given his feet the chance to catch up on some rest. It was the turn of his sons to tame the soil now, and provide for their families.

His feet rested at the tree everyday, though his eyes buzzed with activity, taking in the happenings on the highway. Everyday, a few vehicles stopped by, and their inhabitants motioned to him to ask for directions. Muthanna was fascinated by the different vehicles and the people that they carried. They were people with a purpose. They were on their way somewhere, and he was always curious to know where exactly. He felt satisfied when people asked him if they had to go straight or take a left up ahead, or where the nearest petrol bunk was or where the nearby Punjabi dhaba was, because that gave him some clue about their destination. He wanted to ask all of them to step out and stretch and enjoy the shade of the tree, but it seemed like they were in too much of a hurry, and he was a bit shy, so he said nothing. There were big cars, small cars, jeeps, fast bikes, slow bikes, trucks, matadors, buses, cycles, autorickshaws. He observed that the vehicles got bigger and dustier as the years went by.

That afternoon, after the traffic had settled into the smooth occasional flow that it usually was, a couple of young men on a bike stopped by at the tree. Muthanna looked at them, expecting to be asked for directions. But the pillion rider alighted from the bike, and took off his helmet. The rider followed suit. It was a majestic black and steel bike, Muthanna observed. He had learnt from his younger son that it was called the Bullet (the one without which a gun ceases to be a weapon, the one that protects, demands fear and respect, his son had said.) He could see why.

The two men parked the bike a few feet away from Muthanna and walked towards him. They asked him if they could get water somewhere nearby. Muthanna instantly presented them with his battered old water bottle. The water is clean he said. They smiled gratefully, took the water and gulped it down. It’s about an hour to sundown, thought Muthanna, looking at the sky. I won’t need it, you can drink it all, he said to them. They did. Then the rider took out a small golden coloured packet, opened it and pulled out a cigarette from it. He offered the pack to his friend, who took a cigarette out too. They lit the cigarettes and started smoking, inhaling and exhaling deeply, looking satisfied with their journey so far. The rider suddenly turned to Muthanna, and presented him with the open packet. There were three cigarette sticks in it. Muthanna was taken aback and did not know how to react. Don’t you smoke, asked the man. Yes, stammered Muthanna, sometimes. Then go on, said the pillion rider. Muthanna lifted his hand to take out a cigarette. Actually, keep the whole pack, said the rider. A stunned Muthanna did not know what to do next. No, no, he began. The rider grasped Muthanna’s open palm, and put the pack in it. He then put his hand on Muthanna’s bony shoulder, gave a little squeeze and said, Enjoy. A slow smile appeared on Muthanna’s face, revealing some of his missing teeth. He opened the pack, took out one cigarette, tucked the pack away into his brown lungi, put the cigarette tip into his mouth, cupped his hands around the stem, and bent forward. The pillion rider lit it for him. The three of them smoked quietly under the tree, without a word.

After they had finished smoking, the two riders nodded to Muthanna, put on their helmets, got on the bike and left. Muthanna looked at the tree and smiled. He sat there till sundown, with his empty water bottle, his royal golden cigarette pack and the memory of his new adventure for company.