Gulmohar

There is a Gulmohar tree I can see through the window of my room at home. As I look at it now, it is draped in a lush green, no bare branch in sight. I remember a time when it stood stripped of its leaves, branches dancing in the wind. After a while, it blushed in the most fiery crimson I had ever seen. Every time I saw its crimson flowers, I felt an itch to drop whatever I was doing and write about it. I never did, I was often too busy for it.

I always forget when the Gulmohar turns crimson. Is it January, October, December maybe? Year after year has passed. The tree stands at the same place outside my home, where it was when I first saw it. And yet, I never really know.

Now I stare at it through my window. Looking at how green it is, I find myself wishing it was crimson, so I can write about it. Because I know, at least, that whenever it turns crimson again, I won’t be home anymore.