The stories that have come down from my grandparents have left me with vivid impressions of Bengal…the rich dark earth, the lily pools, the sparkling streams and leaping fish. To the picture my young mind added a clear blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds and a cool breeze that blew all year round. A countryside that never lay bare and boasted of either ripe golden grain waving in the breeze or young green shoots standing in flooded fields. My picture is perfect. I really do not wish to test its authenticity.
But Delhi is real and amidst the heat and dust and the negligence of the MCD lies a pretty picture that can occasionally push itself through the apathy into the consciousness. All of a sudden one day in May I was forced to notice that the red gulmohar and the dangling yellow lanterns of the amaltas had set the streets on fire. Does my grandparent’s homeland come alive like this? Quietly? Unobtrusively?
Hot and sweaty from my walk, I stumbled as I entered the gates. The paved tiles, once a lovely shade of mauve and blue, have been long reduced to a dull uniform grey. But scattered amongst them were tiny white flowers. In all these twelve years that I had lived here I was seeing them for the very first time. I picked up a few.
The chowkidar came rushing. ‘Kuch kho gaya?’
I nodded taking a deep whiff of the powerful perfume that lay in my palm. The tree? Where did it come from? I couldn’t recognize it. It didn’t seem to look like the one that stood outside my grandfather’s house, the one that he planted when he first built his home in Delhi. But there was no mistaking the fragrance. It was the bokul. I had strung them into little garlands many many years ago.
But more than thirty years have passed since then and a new thought came into my mind. This perfume is strong enough to trigger a migraine. I made my way home with my precious little handful leaving a bemused chowkidar behind and marvelled at the emotions that played across my mother’s face as I handed them to her.
But Delhi is real and amidst the heat and dust and the negligence of the MCD lies a pretty picture that can occasionally push itself through the apathy into the consciousness. All of a sudden one day in May I was forced to notice that the red gulmohar and the dangling yellow lanterns of the amaltas had set the streets on fire. Does my grandparent’s homeland come alive like this? Quietly? Unobtrusively?
Hot and sweaty from my walk, I stumbled as I entered the gates. The paved tiles, once a lovely shade of mauve and blue, have been long reduced to a dull uniform grey. But scattered amongst them were tiny white flowers. In all these twelve years that I had lived here I was seeing them for the very first time. I picked up a few.
The chowkidar came rushing. ‘Kuch kho gaya?’
I nodded taking a deep whiff of the powerful perfume that lay in my palm. The tree? Where did it come from? I couldn’t recognize it. It didn’t seem to look like the one that stood outside my grandfather’s house, the one that he planted when he first built his home in Delhi. But there was no mistaking the fragrance. It was the bokul. I had strung them into little garlands many many years ago.
But more than thirty years have passed since then and a new thought came into my mind. This perfume is strong enough to trigger a migraine. I made my way home with my precious little handful leaving a bemused chowkidar behind and marvelled at the emotions that played across my mother’s face as I handed them to her.
Does the bokul flower in Bengal at this time? I wonder?
Wasn’t there a whiff of the powder puff like yellowy-green shirish last night as I shut the windows before switching on the air conditioner?
It made me look at Delhi anew. The years are past when my mother pointed out the flowers to me. But they are all still there. The champa or the temple flower – the creamy scented frangipani – is all around nestling in clusters amongst the thick dark glossy leaves, and the madhavilata has pushed its bunches of flowers rather aggressively through the grills along the railings. There was a time when I would break the flowers and suck at the nectar not caring whether it drew little ants into my mouth.
MadhavilataNow that I have begun remembering, did I not spot all of Shiv Thakur's favourites amongst the weeds...the large bells of the pristine dhutra (datura), the white and mauve akanda (calotropis) bunched up amongst the thick leaves almost turgid with poisonous milky sap? Is it just coincidence that Shiv's flowers come into season before Durga's little shewli?
The tough bougainvillea adorns Delhi all year long, and the brightly coloured lantana – one whose infamous past has long been forgotten – has invaded the mehendi hedges. Their uncomplaining abundance has driven them from popular notice.
The Oleander...The Bengali Karabi...comes in shades of white, pink and yellow.But this year I must remember the flowers that had been a part of the old stories and keep a lookout for them as the seasons turn.
3 comments:
This piece of writing is brilliant. But why at 4:30 am? Didn't you sleep all night?
Beautifully written. You brought back the scent of Bokul into my life - Thanks.
Hi Mum didi...I do read your blog regularly but don't generally leave comments. This is a lovely piece - makes me miss home and the flowers in our garden.
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