Where the Breadfruit Falls

The sharp voice of his mother cut through the morning air, pulling ten-year-old Ethan away from his daydream. He’d been imagining the giant breadfruit tree at the edge of their kampung, its branches laden with fruit, ready to burst. It was 1978, and the air in Permatang Pauh, Penang, buzzed not just with cicadas, but with the excitement of the rubber boom.

Ethan hurried to pull on his worn shorts. “Yes, Mak! I’m ready.”

“Good. Old Man Koh needs extra hands at the plantation today. And remember, every ringgit counts now.”

Ethan nodded, a small frown creasing his brow. School had been fun, especially learning about faraway lands and the big ships that docked in George Town. But lately, with his father’s old motorcycle needing constant repairs and his younger sister, Lily, needing new shoes, school felt like a luxury their family couldn’t afford. The rubber trees, tall and silent, were calling.

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The sun beat down on the rubber plantation, hot and relentless. Ethan, with a small tin cup strapped to his leg, moved from tree to tree, expertly making a diagonal cut in the bark. Milky white latex slowly dripped into the cup, a precious harvest. The air was thick with the earthy smell of rubber and the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers.

He worked alongside other children, some barely older than him, their faces streaked with sweat and dirt. They spoke in hushed tones, sharing stories of imaginary adventures or the latest gossip from the kampung. Among them was Eddy, a boisterous boy who loved to tell tall tales, and quiet Anna, who always seemed to have a book hidden in her basket. Ethan mostly kept to himself, his mind often drifting.

One afternoon, as he ventured deeper into an older section of the plantation, he stumbled upon it. Not a rubber tree, but a colossal, ancient breadfruit tree, its leaves a vibrant green against the blue sky. Its trunk, wider than three Ethans holding hands, was rough and gnarled. But what truly caught his eye were the carvings. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of names were etched into the bark, some faint with age, others surprisingly clear. Dates accompanied many of them: “Vivian, 1940,” “Hyuga, 1955,” “Pye, 1962.”

Ethan ran his fingers over the grooves, a strange feeling bubbling up inside him. Who were these children? What were their stories? Did they, too, dream of adventures beyond the rubber trees?

He found a smooth, unblemished spot on the trunk and, with a sharpened twig he’d found, carefully carved his own name: “Ethan, 1978.” Beside it, he added “Lily,” thinking of his sister.

An idea sparked in his mind, bright and clear like a firefly in the dusk. He pulled out the small, crumpled piece of paper he always carried—a leftover from his school days—and a stubby pencil. He began to write, his small, careful handwriting forming words:

Dear Vivian,

My name is Ethan. I found your name on this tree. I wonder what you were like in 1940. Was the air as warm then? Did you help your family with the rubber, too? My sister’s name is Lily, like yours. She’s only five and loves to chase butterflies. I hope you had a good life. Maybe our breadfruit tree remembers you.

He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into a small crevice in the tree’s bark, covering it with a large leaf. It felt like a secret message to the past, a whisper across time.

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Every day after that, Ethan made a pilgrimage to the breadfruit tree. He wrote letters, sometimes to Vivian, sometimes to Hyuga, sometimes to Pye, imagining their lives, their hopes, and their dreams. He wrote about the long, hot days, the sweet taste of fresh breadfruit, and the songs the birds sang. He wrote about his dreams of going back to school, of seeing the world beyond Permatang Pauh.

One day, as he was writing a letter to someone named “Alexis, 1970,” Eddy found him.

“What are you doing, Ethan? Talking to a tree?” Eddy guffawed, but his eyes were curious.

Ethan felt a flush creep up his neck. “No! I’m… I’m just looking at the carvings.”

Eddy peered closer. “Wow, so many names! My grandfather used to say this tree was here even before the British came. He said it was a wishing tree for children.”

“A wishing tree?” Ethan’s eyes widened.

“Yeah, you carve your name and make a wish. He said the breadfruit carries the wishes, and when it falls, the wish comes true. But only if it’s a kind wish.” Eddy shrugged. “Just a story, I guess.”

Ethan looked at the tree, then at his hidden letters. Perhaps his letters weren’t just whispers to the past; maybe they were wishes. Wishes for connection, for understanding, for a bridge between generations. He started sharing his thoughts with Eddy, even Anna, who listened intently, her quiet nature making her a perfect confidante. Soon, a few of the other children, curious, began to join them, adding their own names to the tree, their own quiet wishes.

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The monsoon season arrived with a vengeance, the rain lashing down, turning the plantation into a muddy expanse. Work slowed, and Ethan found himself with more time at home. He missed the breadfruit tree, missed his secret letters.

One afternoon, during a lull in the rain, his mother called him. “Ethan, a package arrived for you.”

A package? Who would send him a package? He tore open the brown paper. Inside, nestled among soft cloth, was a brand-new, sturdy pair of school shoes, just his size. And with them, a small, handwritten note:

To Ethan and Lily,

I found your names on the breadfruit tree. My name is Vivian. I hope these shoes help you chase all the butterflies in the world. And may all your kind wishes come true.

Ethan stared at the note, his heart pounding. Vivian. The shoes. He looked at his sister, who was already trying them on, her face alight with joy.

He rushed out, ignoring the mud, running towards the ancient breadfruit tree. The rain had washed away some of the dirt, making the carvings even clearer. And there, near his own carving, was a new one, faintly etched but unmistakable: “Vivian, returned, 1978.”

A warmth spread through Ethan, a feeling deeper than the Penang sun. The breadfruit tree wasn’t just a place for wishes; it was a bridge. A bridge between the past and the present, between whispered dreams and tangible kindness. He looked up at the broad, sturdy leaves, knowing that even after the breadfruit fell, the echoes of their voices, the kindness of their hearts, would forever remain, intertwined in the history of the land. And for Ethan, that was a discovery more precious than any rubber.