Love Under The Palash Tree.

LOVE UNDER THE PALASH TREE

“You are a gainda”.The elder of the two boys sneered at the younger one as his efforts of climbing up the Palash tree came to naught.

“Mom, he is calling me a GAINDA.”The younger one complained, picking his bulky frame from the ground and looking ominously at his elder brother.

“PHOOL, stupid.”

“Dad, he is calling me a fool!”

“Gainda is a flower, beta; he is calling you a phool- a flower.” The father tried to mediate, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

“Yes, I am calling you a gaindey ka phool.”He said pointing towards the marigold flowers which had almost wilted under the onslaught of the punishing heat and had a dirty yellow hue.

“No, he was laughing maliciously when he said it; he is calling me a rhinoceros – A GAINDA.”He remarked, again trying to slither up the tree, and again falling down to the accompaniment of cruel guffaws of his elder brother.

I was on my third round of the Joggers’ park, and the antics of these two brothers were amusing me no end.

People were heading towards the FRESH FRUIT JUICE ZONE, while the BEST BOMBAY BHELPURI VALA, AGRA CHAATVALA, MUMBAI PAVBHAJI VALA waited like dormant ideas whose time was yet to come. It would certainly come in the evening, when people with hungry stomachs would head towards these kiosks, and satisfy the hunger pangs, while the musical fountains serenaded the hungry hoggers with their musicality.

But right now there was no musicality, only bellicosity -a crass cacophony which erupted from under the Palash tree, while the neighbouring Gulmohar tree looked on with a cool detachment, but not the tiny, fluffy squirrel, which stopped midway on its descent from the Gulmohar tree, ears pricked to these unattractive sounds coming from the direction of the Palash tree which was a riot of yellow flowers.

“Yellow, yellow, dirty fellow”, the elder boy shouted this indignity at his sibling who was scintillating in a yellow tee shirt .At this insult, he suddenly mutated into a ball of fire and hurled himself at his brother.

“How dare you call me a dirty fellow? “

“I did not say that to YOU!”He retorted, flinging away the ball of fire with incredible strength and pointed towards the Palash tree trying to hide a smile.

Did the palash flowers suddenly shrivel up trying to hide their yellow hues? I do not know for sure, but the yellow fellow up there in the sky really did. Its light dimmed, as a mammoth cloud raced towards it and covered it.

A little distance away, on a bench, sat a shabby,   figure wearing a jacket and a pair of tattered trousers, looking around with a listless air. His unkempt beard almost reached his stomach. A hen skittered around his feet, but he was lost in his own thoughts.

Was he waiting for the hen to lay the golden egg? No, but he definitely was waiting for something- something which was eluding him.

A couple of partridges hopping around in the circular flower bed craned their tiny necks, this way and that and gave vent to a string of chirps, suddenly a string of baby partridges emerged on the scene from the copse fringing the bed, a tiny squirrel picked up a tiny morsel of food from the ground, stood on its hind legs, put the morsel into its mouth and started nibbling, wondering what the hullabaloo was all about.

An elegant lapwing strode past-slowly, silently, stealthily and pounced on its prey, while behind me swelled a relentless chorus of sparrows, absolutely bewildered. A belligerent looking crow saw this from a little distance and in one cruel swoop, pounced at the worm hanging from the lapwing’s beak, and in one triumphant sweep, leapt up to the Palash tree, under which the two boys appeared on the verge of a full fledged war.

Exhausted by the three rounds, I decided to rest for some time near a tree. An extremely old woman, not less than eighty headed towards me, two water bottles under each arm. What did she plan to do with the bottles? As she headed in my direction, she almost stumbled with the weight of the bottles, one of the bottles fell down and she looked beseechingly in my direction, an awry smile clinging to her parched lips.

“I will gauge your eyes.”

“I will claw you to death.”

“I will punch you till you ..........”As this scorn was being unleashed; the wind started buffeting the trees, lashing and thrashing them. The boys had no intention of calling a cease fire, the mediation efforts of the parents had proved to be a miserable failure, and they were trying to forget their failure by going on one extra round of the park, their heads shaking dolefully.

But suddenly things changed.

The belligerence of the wind and also of the boys was suddenly held at bay. Two pairs of eyes turned in the direction of the old woman, two pairs of legs ran in her direction, and two pairs of hands fell on the bottle.

“Yeh  lijiye aapki bottle”. The younger brother picked up the bottle and handed it to her, while I stood around feeling absolutely useless.

The elder one elbowed her towards the bench under the Palash tree and made her sit there.

“Thoda paani  pi lijiye.” He said, trying to put the bottle to her lips.

“No, what will the birds drink then?”

She almost hissed, snatching the bottle from him, and getting up on tottering legs, hobbled towards the bird perches which were hanging from the trees.

And then with love oozing from every pore of her shrivelled skin she replenished at least two of them.  The younger one, watched her with a keen inquisitiveness, and then with an expansive smile stretched out a tiny hand for a bottle, which the woman willingly gave him.

The boy stood on his toes, replenished another absolutely dry bird perch with a pursed lipped concentration and smiled in the direction of the woman. No sooner had he done this, than a thirsty   sunbird couple flew from the neighbouring Gulmohar tree, landed on the perch and slurped up the water .Thirst slaked, they flew away, flapping their gratitude in the boy’s direction.

The heat under the yellow Palash tree, under my very eyes mellowed into a soothing warmth which drove away the blues which the bellicosity had generated. There was love in the air.  

Now all the birds of the park suddenly took a flight in choreographic unison and perched themselves on the replenished bird perches.

With every bird sip, I felt replenished. Satiated.

The man on the bench suddenly thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out something.

 It was a flute.

He was definitely not a replica of George Romney’s young man with a flute, but was an old bedraggled man, but the moment his eyes fell on the flute, his expression changed to one of pure bliss and at least twenty years fell from his visage.

The moment his lips touched the flute, another ten years fell, and now he was almost as old or as young as the youngsters romping around.

He had found his golden egg-the something which had so long eluded him.

 I looked around for the hen, it seemed to have disappeared, but golden hues were reflected all over his face.

The musical notes that wafted across from him to everyone around, removed all traces of bellicosity, smoothened away the frowns. The quarrelling boys slowly found their feet heading towards the flautist.

The old woman hobbled away on arthritic legs, the empty bottles safely under her shrivelled up arms. I noticed her sunken cheeks no longer looked sunken, her parched lips no longer parched and her face glowed.  She turned back to smile at us, but stopped in her tracks.

 She waddled on towards the flautist, and stood transfixed.

 My eyes were fixed on a beetle skittering helplessly on its back, near the circular flower bed .Before I could think of bending down and straightening it, it miraculously straightened on its own accord, and started buzzing with a new life. Was it the power of its sheer will or the power of music?

I noticed the marigold flowers twisting themselves on the fence post almost as though trying to observe and imbibe, looking almost like bursts of still fire. The boys stood around for some time, absolutely enchanted by the soothing notes of the music, and then headed towards their parents, hands tightly clasped.

Yellow was no longer dirty.