Asiem Sanyal
“I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree,” Atlas hummed softly, as xe did the dishes, glancing over xir shoulder to where xir mother, Mrs Adhikari, sat nursing an after-dinner drink and eyeing her child with an appraising eye. These dinners, a monthly affair instated at Mrs Adhikari’s suggestion, were an opportunity for the two of them to “bond and re-connect,” as Mrs A put it. Each month, she brought along a different family recipe, painstakingly written on recycled parchment paper, to which Atlas would add footnotes and minute scribbles. Xe would then prepare an unplant-based version of this recipe for their next dinner meeting. Mrs. A almost always had something to say about this.
“But Atlas, bete,” she would beseech. “The recipe calls for spinach. Spinach! To use anything else as a substitute would be blasphemous!” On such occasions Atlas would always count to ten before responding. “Mum! It isn’t hard to be mindful of what we eat. Plus, you know that eating anything vegetarian would only upset my Dendrite landlords! This was one of their conditions to have me as a tenant. Besides, perhaps adding this to the diner menu will increase Dendrite clientele?” Xir mother would roll her eyes, muttering how everyone would be better off without those space invaders.
In the 1980s, Atlas’ parents had emigrated from India to the United Kingdom, in search of a better life for themselves and their to-be child. The UK had not exactly been welcoming, and Mrs and Mr Adhikari had laboriously set up a small takeaway kitchen to make ends meet. Atlas A was born at exactly twenty-six minutes past 2 p.m. on a dreary British afternoon. Well, xe were biologically born, to be precise. Mrs A, despite her myriad complaints about a difficult labour, would go on to birth two other children.
Mr A, in true Indian parent fashion, entertained exceedingly lofty ideals for his first-born. When Atlas began topping xir class, Mr A would proudly proclaim to anyone who would listen that his child was destined to become an engineer. To Atlas, however, this could not be farther from the truth. When xe were not helping at the diner, xe could often be found observing the different varieties of tree in the public parks in their township. A passing squirrel, chittering nineteen to the dozen, would pause, bemused, upon encountering Atlas A with a hand to a tree trunk, standing still in quiet contemplation. Xe had a field notebook with them, in which xe would meticulously record flowering times, growth rate, leaf size and form, floral structure, and many other aspects of different trees.
One of Atlas’ favourite childhood memories was a visit to the Kew Gardens. Mrs and Mr A had been reluctant to spend an exorbitant amount to enter the Gardens, but Atlas had been unusually insistent, having heard about the wonders of the Gardens from a classmate. Upon setting foot into the Princess of Wales Conservatory, Atlas stood for a moment, stricken dumb by the sheer floral variety in that space. Xe resolved (secretly) then and there to find a way to keep coming back to the Gardens.
One unusually hot and sweltering (sweltering!) night, Atlas was out looking for bioluminescent mushrooms, when a gradually brightening glow in the night sky caught xir attention. Squinting into the inky blackness at what appeared to be plate-sized discs of light, xe needed to eventually look away as the light enveloped the sky, resolving into steel-coloured cylindrical pods that were about the height of a fully grown Atlas cedar (Cedrus atlantica)—around 35 metres— one of Atlas’ favourite trees in the world (and housed in the Conservatory at Kew), and which xe would later adopt as xir name. Astonished, Atlas watched as the pods found purchase on the earth, and hissed open in a flurry of sparks. A gangly, bark-like limb extended from the nearest pod, and a tree-like being emerged from the pod nearest to xem.
The coming of the Dendrites changed the course of Earth’s history. A sentient, plant-like species from a dying planet several thousand light years away, the first wave of Dendrites to Earth had been an exploratory mission. A pacifist species, they had only sought to integrate into Earth’s societies, expanding their understanding of the universe’s sentient beings, and locating an ideal atmosphere to propagate the last of their kind. What Atlas saw in the UK, others observed in the Seychelles, in Honduras, in Kazakhstan, in India, in Vanuatu, and even in Antarctica. News channels were in a tizzy over their arrival, and for the first half-decade after their arrival, every second news item was about them. Over time, world governments agreed to establish refugia for the Dendrites, and now pocket colonies existed not just all over the UK, but over the world. The Dendrites were attempting to learn the human language, and in return, they were introducing humans to the concept of space travel.
Every once in a while, Mrs and Mr A’s diner would receive Dendrite visitors. In halting English, they would request food, always without any plant-based components, and Mrs A, glad to be rid of them with minimal effort, would explain that they did not have any such options. They were of endless fascination to Atlas, though. Xe would study their Dendritic features, observing the long limbs, the grooved dermal covering (almost bark-like), the deep-set eyes that appeared to observe everything, and the lush foliage that covered their facial region. By this time, Atlas had already disappointed Mr A once, by dropping out of a mechanical engineering degree (“How will I ever face my friends and relatives?” Mr A had bemoaned, before soundly clipping Atlas’ ears. An ugly argument had ensued, which Atlas’ siblings secretly dubbed “The First Strike” and which led to Mr A not speaking to Atlas for two weeks). The Dendrites would leave, with their graceful slow, loping gait, and Atlas would wonder what it was like to be them.
Dendritic studies began to be offered as a specialisation at universities, and research into their dietary needs began to receive a lot of funding. Additionally, in a bid to boost diplomatic relations between Dendrites and humans, research was also conducted into alternatives to vegetarian products, the consumption of which was considered deeply culturally offensive to Dendrites. Eventually, a lab-grown alternative to vegetarian products, called “unplant”, would be developed, trialled, patented, and marketed by a Swiss organisation.
In those days, Atlas used xir free time to volunteer at Kew, spending hours marvelling at the plants in the Conservatory, in particular. Xe would wander, multiple times, around the path in the Conservatory, and over time came to be intimately familiar with the specimens there. Atlas could tell you all you needed to know about Wollemia nobilis, about Welwitschia mirabilis, about the delicate Camellia sinensis. These plants were like friends to xem, comrades of those comfortable slivers in time when Atlas could just be. During this time, xe also befriended a Dendritic employee at Kew, who taught Atlas about the history of the Dendrites. Atlas’ conversations with them opened xir eyes to a different way of being, and from then on there was rarely a day when xe did not wonder about what it would be like to be a Dendrite. Xe would adorn xir hair with leaves, dress up in leafy tones, and practice the slow gait of the Dendrites in the privacy of xir room. This was also when ‘Atlas A’ was born. Atlas proclaimed that xe was transdender, and forbade anyone from using xir dead name (the name xe was born with), adopting “Atlas” as xir name.
Transdender—to consider oneself Dendritic. Human science had evolved substantially for intraspecies transitions. Hormone treatments for puberty suppression and for gender affirmation, as well as gender-affirming surgery, were not only legal in the UK, but were also widely accepted, and transgender individuals were fiercely loved and accepted. However, interspecies transitions were practically unheard of. Mr A had balked, and Mrs A had burst into tears. Atlas’ siblings, though unsure of the implications of this for Atlas, had supported xem. Following this declaration, Atlas’ parents had adopted an uneasy and forced calm whenever their child was around, never quite addressing xir identity, nor attempting to research it.
Not soon after, the “Second Strike,” Atlas’ second time dropping out of a degree (this time, law), happened, when xe was twenty-two. Mr A, apoplectic with rage (and perhaps acting out his latent dendrophobia), had declared that Atlas was removed from his will. To everyone’s subsequent chagrin, Atlas had packed xir bags then and there, and vanished into the night.
Mrs A continued to look at Atlas as xe finished drying the dishes. After a decade or so, Atlas had suddenly reappeared, refusing to talk about what had transpired during those years, but looking more Dendritic than ever. Xir hair had grown out into several curly branch-like tresses, adorned with pale green leaves. Xir skin was now more furrowed, drawing their eyes inwards into xir face. Both parents had decided to not probe, grateful to simply have their child back. Atlas now had a team running logistics for businesses (this would eventually include xir parents’ diner), comprised of both Dendrites and humans. Mr A had apologised profusely, but Atlas had simply hugged xir father. There was talk about restoring the will, but Atlas had firmly opposed this.
Why? Mrs A wondered. She watched now, as Atlas put away the dishes. “What happened during your missing years, Atlas?” she asked, surprising herself in the asking of the question. Something in Atlas seemed to stiffen, as xe turned around to face xir mother. “Mum. I’ve been debating for ten years whether to tell you about what transpired during those years, and I don’t want to get into the specifics of it. But in short, I found a Dendrite who was willing to work with me to assist me in my transition. Initially, it seemed to be going well, but in time, we realised that it wasn’t working. There seemed to be something in the transition process that rendered my genes incompletely transformed.” “Incompletely?” Mrs A whispered faintly. “Yes, Mum. But it isn’t so bad. I’ve enjoyed these years, and have been my truest self,” Atlas said, cupping Mrs A’s face gently in xir elongated finger-branch-hands. “But what does it mean?”
***
Mrs A is silent for a minute after she recounts this to me, her grief getting the better of her. Behind her, in a specially designed nook in the Conservatory at Kew, the world’s only specimen of Homo transitivus atlasianus sways delicately in the British breeze, right next to the Atlas cedar. I glance at a nearby clock, hands indicating 2:26 in the afternoon. “It means,” she interrupts my musing, “I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.”
Asiem Sanyal is a queer marine conservationist, author, and artist. His creative expression is deeply influenced by his professional work with ecosystems and communities at the forefront of the climate crisis. Instagram: @asiemcreates; Facebook/LinkedIn: Asiem Sanyal
