Memories of a place and time

Memories of a place and time from once upon a time

Home as I remember it, begins with the memory of the fragrance of gulmohar flowers. ‘Gul’ meaning flower, ‘Mor’ meaning peacock.  A befitting name for the beauty whose five bright reddish orange rounded petals with streaks of yellow, that preened outward proudly from the long and slender stem handles that looked like arrows flying out of a quiver, guarding the powdery yellow pollen heads, delicately clustered calmly inside. The flowers, each in the abundant company of festive siblings were a bright complement to the freshest of the spring greens on the leaves. Each leaf frond majestically glistening and sashaying in the air, was made of elegantly perfect rows upon rows of ovalish leaflets, each at once miniscule and lending to the grand wholesomeness of the  ubiquitous tree, a tropical beauty. The muskish fragrance of the edible petals contrasted with a sweet-sourish taste, savored even more by gently digging into the tenderness with the tiniest of bites, so the tip of the petal, just about touched the tip of the tongue.

The gulmohar enjoyed and flourished in the warmth of the land, which was ever willing to let colors sprout from its arid beige skin, when transformed into tenderness at the collision with the not so gentle pounding by the monsoons that burst forth every mid-year. Each droplet of the monsoon rain raced towards the earth growing, rushing with an unquenchable  thirst as if wanting to be consumed by a lover. And the lover obliged willingly and responded with an aphrodisiac aroma that was as relaxing as it was energizing, bringing us little kids, urchins all, into that spell, running, taking in the aroma, pealing with laughter armed with paper-boats to let go merrily down the streams that sprung up in the rush of the rain. Each stream sped away fast as if being chased by hungry wolves, clinking sounds made with each encounter with a stone or a  rock in the path.

Drenched and soaked to the skin in the thunderous rapture of the monsoon downpour, brown feet thomped in and clapped with the puddles of water as we jumped up and down. Exhilaration turned slowly into exhaustion, and we dragged the heavy brown legs into the living room, muddied foot imprints following us everywhere faithfully. The prints stopped dead in their tracks upon the sight of mother, and magically reappeared on the gray stone gridded surface of the bathroom floor, the cement ridges between the stones looking like the mini-streams I just left outside. The imprints got washed away, with a pail of water, and were replaced by iridescent half-bubbles of soap gently moving along like sailboats on a placid sea. I took in all the colors of the bubbles, peering through the streams of warm water that now started at the top of my head and ran down the black curtain segments of my hair strands and formed perfectly rounded beads dropping down ceremoniously  into crystal fireworks on the floor before melting and blending into the color of the stone surface.  

Cocooned soon enough inside the embrace of a warm towel, I drifted off dreamily chasing butterflies also reaching for the Gulmohars.