The pull is inexorable. The connect is eternal. And the delight childlike.
Just the other day while I walked over to the neighbourhood grocery store I experienced all of these once again in equal measure.
On the ground below my feet, strewn all over the place were the delicate blossoms of the purple Jacaranda. I looked up to see the tree mostly devoid of leaves, its bare dark brown branches reached heavenwards bearing small clusters of flowers. This year the flowers were sparse, I was disappointed to note.
But just a few paces ahead was a treat in store for me as there stood another Jacaranda adorned in those pretty amethyst like jewels in shades of mauve, lilac and purple with sprays of green leaves thrown in for good measure.
I stood there going back in time that found me cruising through the streets of Kathmandu almost forty years ago. Those were the days when Nepal was a monarchy and the posters of their king and the queen adorned most of the shops that we visited.
A kaleidoscope of images that flash through my mind include -
The silvery thread of the Bagmati river flowing in the distance, the Pashupatinath temple with its black glistening shivalinga and the panchamrut abhishek, the wooden houses with the typically large windows, women walking around with babes in their arms, their necks adorned with pretty , colourful strands of tiny shiny beads,the supermarket boasting of beautiful delicate crockery, cosmetics and electronic goods and the many different Japanese and Italian cars that whizzed past us. The exotic cars were a constant source of excitement to someone like me who had till date seen just an Impala in the neighbourhood.
But the image that has left its indelible imprint on my consciousness is that of an avenue lined with trees adorned with purple blue bunches of flowers. It was a captivating sight and I naturally wanted to know its name. But to my disappointment none of the people we asked, knew anything about it. So it was years later that I learnt about the Jacaranda.
The Laburnum was a different story altogether.
Growing up in Nagpur in the environs of a fragrant garden with large shady trees, vines and shrubs, we were familiar with a large number of them.
Our neighbouring house had a few Millingtonia or cork trees ,the star gooseberry among others in their huge courtyard.
But strangely enough we never saw a laburnum anywhere. Neither on excursions nor on picnics and not on any of the road trips. So it was only after I came to Pune that I saw my first ever laburnum far away in the distance one summer afternoon.
My love affair with the laburnum as a friend called it, started a few years later when I was entranced by the beauty of its vibrantly warm yellow flowers.
They grew right outside my kitchen window filling the entire space with light. I called them " prakash fule" meaning flowers of light. They literally brightened my day.
The parijatak is another family favourite, its distinctive fragrance easily discernible anytime anywhere. And so it was on a long ago visit to the temple of the family deity. The temple is situated on the top of a hill with a long winding road leading up to it. The bends were steep and scary.
It was while we were on the bends that I suddenly breathed in a familiar fragrance. I wondered where it came from and looked out of the window of the tourist vehicle. And to my surprise the entire stretch had the parijatak blooming on the roadside among the shrubbery. This was highly unusual as one is used to seeing nothing more than small plants and grass and maybe some wildflowers in the monsoon. I said a silent prayer of gratitude for the person who had so thoughtfully albeit unknowingly provided these moments of sensory delight for people like me.
I remember another time of more than twenty five years ago when we had recently shifted to a new residence. There was just one access road to the entrance of our society. On the other side was a narrow bridge that needed widening. One morning as I walked past the bridge I looked down to see a carpet of green grass dotted with tiny blue flowers with tinier white stamens. They looked so pretty. It looked like a runner to me but short of bringing in a botanist I had no way of knowing its name.
Then one morning during the Ganesh festival a newspaper article mentioned the twenty one different plants whose leaves were offered to the deity. And lo behold !! my blue flowers named Vishnukrant were right there in the list. By then of course we had the internet at our disposal and the information at our fingertips.
But when I think of it today it saddens me to realise that the entire patch of Vishnukrant was destroyed so ruthlessly during road widening, that it didn't have the chance to regenerate.
But nature did bounce back in a different way with three shrubs of snowy white Tagar or the Pinwheel flower that now bloom with unrestricted ardour on the roadside , resembling stars in the gathering gloom of winter evenings.
The brightly coloured bougainvillea shrubs have been close to my heart right since childhood. We had the red, white, magenta and orange variety in our garden. I learnt it in school that the three, colourful, soft textured things are the bracts that protect the three tiny white flowers that nestle inside. Also that the bright colours attract the bees and insects to help the process of pollination.
I loved every shade, every colour of the bougainvillea. But those that I saw in the camp area of Pune made me love it even more. The beautiful old bungalows there had long running compound walls or fences all around. The reds and pinks adorning them looked like a cascade of tiny flowers with hardly any leaves to speak of. So all one could see was splashes of colour stretched out before the eyes as one drove past.
Our personal nickname for it being the"bogun", we still call it the orange or the red bogun.
The summer months of April and May bring forth the beauty of the pink and purple crepe myrtle. Soothing to the eyes and enriching to the soul.
Last year while traveling to Nagpur in late February, I woke up early in the morning. The train compartment was still dark as people slept peacefully. I looked out of the window taking in the passing stations, some parts of it in darkness while some bathed in the milky white light of the tubelights, a single truck passing by on the road adjacent to the track, a stray dog barking away at something while the train rumbled on towards its destination.
As time wore on and the world outside lightened to welcome the day, I could make out trees in the distance. After a while I realised that they all were almost of the same height and looked alike with the same bunches of flowers. I tried in vain to see through the windowpane but it was still too dark to make out anything.
In a few minutes the train tracks were running parallel to the fields and there were rows and clusters of the same trees.
As the sun's rosy light spread over the silent landscape, the clusters of flowers turned out to be the richly hued reddish orange blossoms of the Palash tree or the Flame of the forest. I gazed in wonder at those trees and those beautiful flowers as they dotted the surroundings. So familiar yet forgotten in the passage of time.
I became aware of the lady on the opposite berth who was now sitting up. Impulsively I said to her, "Look how the Palash is blooming". She said matter of factly, " Naturally now that Holi is round the corner". It was a common sight for her. But for me being away from my birthplace for a long stretch of time, it was like a homecoming. A going back to the sights, sounds and smells that are so integral a part of one, a part that though relegated to the recessess of the subconscious, glides up to the surface telling one - this is where you come from, this is where your roots are and this is what you always will be.
With the world around us changing so fast, values getting projected in a different garb, relationships hitherto thought of as steadfast losing their charm, the only thing that is reassuring is the place you belong to, the place you call your own, rooted, grounded and inherently strong.
Just like the Jacaranda, the Laburnum, the Bougainvillea, the Parijatak and of course the Palash.
I often ask myself
What makes a person -
Not the height
Not the weight
Not the skin tone
Not the gait
Not the hair
Not the eyes
It's not theirs
To call their own
But
The inner core
That stands apart
In the teeming million
Souls and hearts
Fed by tales and hues
That colour their perceptions
And their views
And also what they
Make of it
A good bad or an ugly fit
A unique blend of
This and that
A pinch of salt
A fistful of flavour
That lasts for a lifetime
For them to savour.....
My not so perfect rangoli
