Sometimes serious

When I miss a place I mainly miss its trees. The प्राजक्त or पारिजात at our neighbors orange stems on tiny white flowers fallen on the entire road. तगर and other pretty white flowers with dark green leaves False Ashok, whose leaves were the colour of chillies (I made fake भाजी with them as a child) My mother showed me how to make the flowers of the Cork tree (बूच), into a braid. My grandmother taught me to love the wash of an orange Gulmohur the brightness of tea leaves against it, a purple jacaranda And the crooked strange orange of the पळस, पलाश The bright shamelessness of Ghaneri the elusive toxicity of pink weeds that we used to call ice cream flowers My brother showed me the canopies of Bangalore and infinite shade. The giant delicate Neem, its flowers वटवृक्श, its own ecosystem of sorts I would casually meet some बाभूळ or बबूल with its selection of thorns The most important summer tree was अमलतास Its yellow flowers signifying an unrestraine...