A love letter to the flame of the forest

Dear  Palash,

I didn’t pay much attention to you until a friend said we could do a Bhopal Palash trail on bikes to watch you and your sisters bloom.

 I was curious to know what you looked like. And I imagined whole roads being transformed by your vibrant beauty as one by one, all of you opened up your hearts to changes in the season while the wind whispered sweet nothings into your leaves.

But it was not meant to be. With the lockdown, and having to stay indoors, there was no chance that I could meet you. I put all thoughts aside. After all, there were bigger things to think about – such as the collective helplessness my race is feeling, battling an unseen, unknown enemy.  

One day when I managed to wake up from my preoccupation, there you were, right behind me. A burst of orange clawing through the sky.

I have tried in these past three weeks to capture your beauty, and failed miserably. Undaunted, I have tried again, yet again. Every time I failed, I doubted myself. I felt unhappy. 

But with each attempt , my respect for you increased. And I began to look at the nuances of your beauty.

In the bright sunrise, your flowers are shiny, like bright orange plastic,  like those plastic bouquets that are sold on the streets and traffic signals by young urchins making a living.

Another day, when I woke up on a gloomy morning, you looked melancholy in the rain. Your flowers drooped and fell as the sky behind you grew dull grey and angry clouds rumbled. You shed pearls of misery cascading into a pool of orange despair.

 In the warm afternoons, heavy with sleep and quiet breezes that lulls even the most energetic creature to sleep, the lullaby of the wind is rocking you while you doze, your body sinking in the sensuous languor of an afternoon siesta.

In the evenings, when the earth slowly wakes up from it slumber, you revel in the open skies, those cotton clouds in a baby blue quilt bringing out your beautiful colors to life. The setting sun paints you in amber, yellow and red and your orange mystery deepens as it takes on the subdued hues of the coming night. Goodbye, until tomorrow!

And when tomorrow comes, I see that you have visitors. In the morning, two bulbuls sit on the silky carpet of your flowers and feast with noisy abandon, interrupting once in a while to chatter something to each other before flying off elsewhere for dessert. A hummingbird* circles around drinking in your sweet nectar – fluttering here, now there, his wings beating faster than my eye can spot him.  And one early morning when I come to greet you, a beautiful green parrot with a luscious red beak eats the bounty that you so generously provide.

A purple sunbird often visits – its tiny chest pulsating, making its beautiful purple neck glint in the sunlight. The bees are your constant companions. Unlike those birds who only come to you as and when they fancy, they always flutter around you, dizzy with ecstasy to be around their object of adoration.

Thank you for showing me beautiful things. Not in vain are you called the flame of the forest. From my vantage point I can see a sister of yours in the far distance. She doesn’t have to do anything at all to grab attention. She just has to exist and all creatures will naturally gravitate to her. As I gravitate to you.

 “Trust in nature. Whether you’re in or out, it will bloom” ( Wise words from a friend – Shailesh)

*Apparently, India does not have hummingbirds, what I had seen was perhaps a female sunbird.