Trees. Sajani and I are probably among the few zany ones who look at trees like other people look at Naseeruddin Shah or Sean Connery. We look at their personalities. Their characters. Their patterns and elements and dances and calm.
I was on the motorbike with Nishant this morning. Quite unusual – we weren’t talking while he rode. Usually I regale him with all my inanities all the way. Today, I was solving the Sudoku [which turned out to be so easy I left it midway]. Useless only men [in true ma-ka-pao style].
Anyway, the trees.
The queers grow around strange things. Electricity poles, concrete homes from a couple of decades ago, stone walls from another era – these trees wrap themselves around whatever’s available. Or rather whatever comes in their way. Almost unobtrusive, they leaf and flower and slant not by the position of the sun, but wherever there’s room. Bombay’s trees aren’t manually prunes into their places. They’re just allowed their space. Like all of us singletons – who are subjected to innocent statements like “I haven’t seen you in a while” implying “where [the fuck] were you????”
And this is true of all parts of Mumbai most sought after - whether it’s the embankment area down the harbour side, the eastern-most vein of urban Bombay, or the busy western suburbs or just the good old South. I’ve realised that these towering oldies add not only add, to an otherwise busy and uninteresting road, shade, but also a sense of prestige therefore. The breeze that sieves through the leaves along with specks of sunlight translates into the romance of an introspective walk – not necessarily a lone one.
Sajani was right. She was right about the trees. They follow no rules. No directions. No regulations. They don’t hinder – neither block nor destruct. Their job is no more the take-in-CO2-fart-out-O2 rigmarole. They’re beyond routines.
Like Paro Anand’s Gulmohar, their innocence is deep rooted. It finds ways to thrive.